THE   COMPLETE 

POETICAL  WORKS    OF 

HENRY  WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

Camtm&ge  CfDttton 


k 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  AND    COMPANY 
Ct)e  ftibersfte  press,  Cambridge 


Copyright,  1841,  1843,  1846, 1847,  1849, 1851,  1855,  1858, 1863,  1865,1866,1867, 
1868,  1869,  1871,  1872,  1873,  1874,  1875,  1876,  1877,  1878, 

1879,  1880,  1882,  1883,  1886,  and  1891, 

BY  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW,  AND 

ERNEST  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

Copyright,  1882, 1883, 1886,  and  1893, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   &    CO. 

All  riglds  reserved. 


GIFT 


The  Riverside  TVww,  Cnmbricfrje,  Mass,,  U.  S,  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  and  Company. 


PUBLISHERS'   NOTE 

THE  Riverside  Edition  of  the  writings  of  Mr.  Longfellow  was  published  in 
1886.  It  contained  a  complete  collection  of  the  prose  and  verse,  including  trans 
lations  ;  several  hitherto  uncollected  pieces  were  brought  into  the  various  groups, 
and  the  aim  was  to  make  it  definitive.  The  editor,  H.  E.  Scudder,  relying  largely 
upon  the  biography  by  the  poet's  brother,  the  Reverend  Samuel  Longfellow,  pro 
vided  a  considerable  apparatus  of  introductions  and  notes,  bibliographical  and  il 
lustrative.  Reference  was  had  also  to  the  original  issue  of  the  several  poems, 
and  variations  from  the  text  were  indicated  in  foot-notes.  No  subsequent  publi 
cation  has  added  materially  to  the  history  of  the  writings,  and  no  works  unknown 
at  that  time  have  been  discovered  since.  The  Riverside  Edition,  therefore,  will 
doubtless  remain  as  authoritative  and  complete.  It  is  published  in  eleven  vol 
umes,  two  being  given  to  prose,  six  to  verse,  and  three  to  the  translation  of  Dante. 

The  present  edition  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  poetical  writings  is  based  upon  the 
Riverside.  It  contains  the  entire  text  as  published  in  the  six  volumes  of  verse, 
and  such  condensed  bibliographical  and  other  notes  as  seem  desirable  for  the 
general  reader  and  compatible  with  the  limitations  of  a  one-volume  edition.  A 
biographical  sketch  introduces  the  volume.  The  poems  are  given  as  nearly  as 
may  be  in  their  chronological  order,  but  a  table  at  the  end  of  the  volume  indicates 
this  order  more  precisely. 

BOSTON,  4  PARK  STREET,  October  1,  1893. 


M6S1179 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH        .        .        .  xiii 

VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

PRELUDE      ......  1 

i  HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT    ....  2 

T  A  PSALM  OF  LIFE       ....  2 

THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS  .        .  •  3 

THE  LIGHT  OF  STAKS         ...  4 

FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS  ....  4 

FLOWERS 5 

THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY       ...  5 

MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR  6 

EARLIER  POEMS. 

AN  APRIL  DAY 7 

AUTUMN 8 

WOODS  IN  WINTER  ....  8 
HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS  OF 

BETHLEHEM 9 

SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLS  .  .  .  9 
THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY  .  .  .10 

BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK        .        .  10 

L'KNVOI 11 

BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

THK  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR     .        .  .  '  11 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS         .  '13 

THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH  .        .  .  '  14 

ENDYMION    .                         .        .        .  '  15 

IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY        .        .  .15 

THE  RAINY  DAY         .        .        .        .  '  16 

GOD'S-ACRE 16 

To  THE  RIVER  CHARLES    ...  16 

BLIND  BARTIMEUS          .        .        .  .17 

THE  GOBLET  OF  LIFE         ...  17 

MAIDENHOOD '18 

EXCELSIOR „  -  19 

POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 

To  WILLIAM  E.  CHANNING  .  .  .20 
THE  SLAVE'S  DREAM  ...  20 
THE  GOOD  PART,  THAT  SHALL  NOT  BE 

TAKEN  AWAY 21 

THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP  21 
THE  SLAVE  SIEGING  AT  MIDNIGHT  .  22 

THE  WITNESSES 22 

THE  QUADROON  GIRL  .  .  .  .22 
THE  WARNING 23 

THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  .    23 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  AND  OTHER 
POEMS. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE     .        .        .        , 

CARILLON      ..... 

THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES        .        . 
A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE     ... 
THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD    .        . 
NUREMBERG         ..... 

THE  NORMAN  BARON     .        .        .        . 

RAIN  IN  SUMMER        .... 

To  A  CHILD    ...... 

THE  OCCULTATION  OF  ORION    .        . 
THE  BRIDGE   ...... 

To  THE  DRIVING  CLOUD    ... 
SONGS. 

THE  DAY  is  DONE  .        .        .        . 

AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY  .        . 

To  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG-BOOK    . 

WALTER  VON  DER  VOGELWEID  . 

DRINKING  SONG        .        .        .        . 

THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS 

THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG  .        . 
SONNETS. 

/MEZZO  CAMMIN   .... 
S^  I  THE  EVENING  STAR        .        .        . 

AUTUMN        ...        .        .        . 


CURFEW 


EVANGELINE  :  A  TALE  OF  ACADIE. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE     .        .        .        .70 
EVANGELINE        .....        71 

THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE     .        .        .        .98 

DEDICATION         .....        99 

BY  THE  SEASIDE. 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP  .  .  99 
SEAWEED  .....  103 
CHRYSAOR  .....  104 
THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA  .  .  104 
TWILIGHT  .....  105 
SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT  .  .  105 
THE  LIGHTHOUSE  ....  106 
THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD  .  106 

BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

RESIGNATION  .....  107 
THE  BUILDERS  ....  108 


VI 


CONTENTS 


SAND  OF  THE  DESERT  IN  AN  HOUR 
GLASS         108 

THE  OPEN  WINDOW    .        .        .      109 
KING  WITLAF'S  DRINKING-HORN  .  109 
GASPAR  BECERRA         .        .        .      110 
PEGASUS  IN  POUND.        .        .        .110 
TEGNER'S  DRAPA          .        .        .      Ill 
-  -^  SONNET,  ON  Mas  KEMBLE'S  READ 
INGS  FROM  SHAKESPEARE        .  112  j 
THE  SINGERS        ....      112 

SUSPIKIA 112 

HYMN  FOR  MY  BROTHER'S  ORDI 
NATION    .....      112 

THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE     ....  113 

INTRODUCTION      .....      113 

I.     THE  PEACE-PIPE  .         .        .        .115 

II.  THE  FOUR  WINDS      .        .        .116 

III.  HIAWATHA'S  CHILDHOOD      .        .  119 

IV.  HIAWATHA  AND  MUDJEKEEWIS     121 

V.  HIAWATHA'S  FASTING   .        .        .  124 
VI.     HIAWATHA'S  FRIENDS        .        .       127 

VII.  HIAWATHA'S  SAILING    .        .        .128 
VIII.     HIAWATHA'S   FISHING        .        .      130 

IX.  HIAWATHA     AND     THE     PEARL- 
FEATHER     132 

X.  HIAWATHA'S  WOOING        .        .      135 

XI.  HIAWATHA'S  WEDDING-FEAST      .  137 

XII.  THE  SON  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR    139 

XIII.  BLESSING  THE  CORNFIELDS       .      143 

XIV.  PICTURE-WRITING  .        .        .        .  145 
XV.  HIAWATHA'S  LAMENTATION      .      147 

XVI.  PAU-PUK  KEEWIS  .        .        .        .149 

XVII.  THE     HUNTING     OF     PAU-PUK- 

KKEWIS    .  151 

XVIII.  THE  DEATH  OF  KWASIND    .        .  155 

XIX.  THE  GHOSTS       ....      156 

XX.     THE  FAMINE 158 

XXI.  THE  WHITE  MAN'S  FOOT         .      160 

XXII.  HIAWATHA'S  DEPARTURE     .        .  162 

THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 
INTRODUCTORY  NOTE      .  164 

I.    MILES  STANDISH         .        .        .      165 
II.     LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP          .        .  166 

III.  THE  LOVER'S  ERRAND       .        .      168 

IV.  JOHN  ALDEN  .....  171 
V.     THE  SAILING  OF  THE  MAYFLOWER  174 

VI.  PRISCILLA 177 

VII.     THE  MARCH  OF  MILES  STANDISH  178 

VIII.  THE  SPINNING-WHEEL  .        .        .180 
IX.     THE  WEDDING-DAY  .        .        .182 


BIRDS   OF  PASSAGE. 
FLIGHT  THE  FIRST. 

BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE  . 

V 


.  184 


PAGE 

PROMETHEUS,  OR  THE  POET'S  FORE 
THOUGHT         ....      185 
EPIMETHEUS,  OR  THE  POET'S  AFTER 
THOUGHT    186 

THE  LADDER  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE  186 
THE  PHANTOM  SHIP  .  .  .  187 
THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS  188 
HAUNTED  HOUSES  ....  188 
IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  CAM 
BRIDGE  .....  189 
THE  EMPEROR'S  BIRD'S-NEST  .  189 
THE  Two  ANGELS  .  .  .190 
DAYLIGHT  AND  MOONLIGHT  .  .  191 
THE  JEWISH  CEMETERY  AT  NEW 
PORT  191 

OLIVER  BASSELIN  ....  192 
VICTOR  GALBKAITH  .  .  .  193 
MY  LOST  YOUTH  ....  193 
THE  ROPEWALK  ....  195 
THE  GOLDEN  MILE-STONE  .  .  195 
CATAWBA  WINE  .  .  .  .196 
SANTA  FILOMENA  ....  197 
THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH 

CAPE 198 

DAYBREAK 199 

THE  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  AG- 

ASSIZ 199 

CHILDREN 200 

SANDALPHON 200 

FLIGHT  THE  SECOND. 

THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR       .        .      201 

ENCELADUS 201 

THE  CUMBERLAND        .        .        .      202 

SNOW-FLAKES 202 

A  DAY  OF  SUNSHINE  .  .  .  202 
SOMETHING  LEFT  UNDONE  .  .  203 
WEARINESS 203 

TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE     ....  204 
PART  FIRST. 

Prelude 204 

THE  LANDLORD'S  TALE:  PAUL  RE- 

VERE'S  RIDE 207 

Interlude 209 

THE  STUDENT'S  TALE:  THE  FALCON 

OF  SER  FEDKRIGO    .        .        .  209 
Interlude         .        .         .         .        .213 
THE  SPANISH    JEW'S   TALE:    THE 
LEGEND  OF  RABBI  BEN  LEVI    .  214 

Interlude 214 

THE  SICILIAN'S  TALE:  KING  ROBERT 

OF  SICILY 215 

Interlude 218 

THE  MUSICIAN'S  TALE:  THE  SAGA 
OF  KING  OLAF 
I.  THE  CHALLENGE  OF  THOR  .  218 


CONTENTS 


vn 


PAGE 

II.  KING  OLAF'S  RETURN    .      219 

III.  THOHA  OF  KIMOL        .        .220 

IV.  QUEEN    SIGHID    THE 

HAUGHTY     .        .        .220 

V.  THE  SKERRY  OF  SHRIEKS    221 

VI.  THE  WRAITH  OF  ODIN      .  222 

VII.  IRON-BEARD     .        .        .      223 

VIII.  GUDRUN        .        .        .        .224 

IX.  THANGBRAND  THE  PRIEST    225 

X.  BAUD  THE  STRONG      .        .  226 

XL  BISHOP  SIGURD  OF  SALTEN 

FIORD   .        .        .         .  226 
XII.  KING    OLAF'S    CHRISTMAS  227 

XIII.  THE     BUILDING    OF    THE 

LONG  SERPENT   .         .  228 

XIV.  THE   CREW  OF  THE    LONG 

SERPENT       .        .        .229 
XV.  A    LITTLE    BIRD    IN    THE 

AIR       ....  230 
XVI.  QUEEN     THYRI    AND     THE 

ANGELICA  STALKS       .  230 
XVII.  KING      SVEND      OF     THE 

FORKED  BEARD  .        .  231 
XVIII.  KING     OLAF    AND     EARL 

SIGVALD       .        .         .  232 

XIX.  KING    OLAF'S    WAR-HORNS  233 

XX.  EINAR  TAMBERSKELVER       .  233 

XXI.  KING  OLAF'S  DEATH-DRINK   234 

XXII.  THE  NUN  OF  NIDAROS         .  235 

Interlude 236 

THE  THEOLOGIAN'S  TALE:  TORQUE- 

MADA         .  .  ..  .  .         236 

Interlude  .        .         .  .        .  239 

THE  POET'S  TALE  :  THE  BIRDS  OF 

KlLLINGWORTH  .  .  .    240 

Finale 243 

PART  SECOND. 

Prelude 244 

THE  SICILIAN'S  TALE:  THE  BELL 

OF  ATRI 245 

Interlude 247 

THE  SPANISH  JEW'S  TALE:  KAM- 

BALU 247 

Interlude 248 

THE  STUDENT'S  TALE:   THE  COB 
BLER  OF  HAGENAU  .        .        .  249 
Interlude        .....       251 
THE  MUSICIAN'S  TALE  :  THE  BAL 
LAD  OF  CARMILHAN      .        .      252 

Interlude 254 

THE  POKT'S  TALE:  LADY   WENT- 

WORTH 255 

Interlude        .....       257 
THE    THEOLOGIAN'S    TALE:    THE 

LEGEND  BEAUTIFUL      .        .      257 
Interlude 259 


PAGE 

THE    STUDENT'S    SECOND    TALE: 
THE  BARON  OF  ST.  CASTINE      259 

Finale 262 

PART  THIRD. 

Prelude 263 

THE  SPANISH  JEW'S  TALE  :  AZRAEL  264 
Interlude  ....'.  264 
THE  POET'S  TALE:  CHARLEMAGNE  265 
Interlude  .....  266 
THE  STUDENT'S  TALE:  EMMA  AND 
EGINHARD  ....  266 

Interlude 269 

THE  THEOLOGIAN'S  TALE  :  ELIZA 
BETH  270 

Interlude 275 

THE  SICILIAN'S  TALE:  THE  MONK 
OF  CASAL-MAGGIORE    .        .      275 

Interlude 279 

THE  SPANISH  JEW'S  SECOND  TALE: 
SCANDERBEG  ....      280 

Interlude 281 

THE  MUSICIAN'S  TALE:   THE  MO 
THER'S  GHOST        .        .         .      282 

Interlude 283 

THE    LANDLORD'S    TALE:     THE 

RHYME  OF  SIR  CHRISTOPHER  .  284 

Finale 286 

FLOW  ER-D  E-LUCE. 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE    . 
PALINGENESIS      .... 
THE  BRIDGE  OF  CLOUD 
HAWTHORNE        .... 
CHRISTMAS  BELLS  . 
THE  WIND  OVER  THE  CHIMNEY 
THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN 
KILLED  AT  THE  FORD 
}»>  GIOTTO'S  TOWER    . 


l 

JSTOEL 


287 

287 

288 

289 

289 

290 

290 

291 

291* 

291* 

292  &  $ 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 
FLIGHT  THE  THIRD. 

FATA  MORGANA 294 

THE  HAUNTKD  CHAMBER  .        .        .      294 
THE  MEETING         .        .        .  .  295 

Vox  POPULI 295 

THE  CASTLE-BUILDER    ....  295 

CHANGED 296 

THE  CHALLENGE 296 

THE  BHOOK  AND  THE  WAVE    .        .      296 
AFTERMATH 297 

THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA        .        .      297 
I.    THE   WORKSHOP    OF    HEPHAES 
TUS  .  297 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


II. 
III. 

IV. 
V. 

VI. 
VII. 
VIII. 


OLYMPUS         ..... 
TOWER  OF  PROMETHEUS  ON  MOUNT 

CAUCASUS       .... 
THE  AIR          ..... 


PAGE 

298 

298 
300 


THE  HOUSE  OF  EPIMETHEUS 
IN  THE  GARDEN  .  .  . 
THE  HOUSE  OF  EPIMETHEUS 
IN  THE  GARDEN  .  .  . 


THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE 
MORITURI   SALUTAMUS          . 
A  BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 

THREE  FRIENDS  OF 

CHAUCER      .        .        .        . 

SHAKESPEARE 

MILTON 

KEATS 

THE  GALAXY 

THE  SOUND  OF  THE  SEA       . 

A  SUMMER  DAY  BY  THE  SEA 

THE  TIDES 

A  SHADOW 

A  NAMELESS  GRAVE      .        . 


THE  OLD  BRIDGE  AT  FLORENCE          . 
IL  PONTE  VECCHIO  DI  FIRENZE       . 
NATURE  ....... 

IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  TARRYTOWN 
ELIOT'S  OAK  ...... 

THE  DESCENT  OF  THE  MUSES    ,        . 
VENICE    ....... 

THE  POETS          ..... 

PARKER  CLEAVELAND   .... 

THE  HARVEST  MOON          .        .        . 
To  *HE  RIVER  RHONE  .        .        .        . 

THE  THREE  SILENCES  OF  MO 

THE  Two  RIVERS  . 

BOSTON         ...... 

ST.  JOHN'S,  CAMBRIDGE        .        . 
MOODS  ....... 

WOODSTOCK  PARK         ... 
THE  FOUR  PRINCESSES  AT  WILNA    . 
HOLIDAYS 
WAPENTAKE 

THE  BROKEN  OAR          ... 
THE  CROSS  OF  SNOW         .        .        . 
BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 
FLIGHT  THE  FOURTH. 

CHARLES  SUMNER  .... 

TRAVELS  BY  THE  FIRESIDE       .        . 

CADENABBIA 

MONTE  GASSING          .... 

AMALFI 

THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS  .        . 

BELISARIUS 

SONGO  RIVER      ..... 


301 
.302 

305 
.306 

308 
.310 


315 
315 
315 
316 
316 
316 
316 
317 
317 
317 
317 
318 
318 
318 
318 
318 
319 
319 
319 
319 
320 
320 
320 
320 
321 
321 
322 
322 
322 
322 
323 
323 
323 


324 
324 
325 
325 
326 
327 
328 
328 


KERAMOS     .......  329 

BIRDS   OF  PASSAGE. 
FLIGHT  THE  FIFTH. 

THE  HERONS  OF  ELMWOOD  .  .  333 
A  DUTCH  PICTURE  ....  334 
CASTLES  IN  SPAIN  ....  335 

VlTTORIA   COLONNA  .  .  .  336 

THE  REVENGE  OF  RAIN-IN-THE-FACE     336 
To  THE  RIVER  YVETTE     .        .        .337 
THE  EMPEROR'S  GLOVE         .        .        .  337 
A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FRENCH  FLEET  .      337 
THE  LEAP  OF  ROUSHAN  BEG        .        .  338 
HAROUN  AL  RASCHID          .        .        .      339 
KING  TRISANKU      .....  339 

A  WRAITH  IN  THE  MIST   .        .        .      339 
THE  THREE  KINGS         .        .        .        .339 

SONG:    "STAY,    STAY    AT    HOME,    MY 

HEART,  AND  REST  "  .        .      340 

THE  WHITE  CZAR  .....  341 

DKLIA    .......      341 

ULTIMA  THULE. 

DEDICATION         .....      342 

POEMS. 
BAYARD  TAYLOR    .....  342 

THE  CHAMBER  OVER  THE  GATE        .      342 
FROM  MY  ARM-CHAIR    ....  343 

JUGURTHA    ......      344 

THE  IRON  PEN        .....  344 

ROBERT  BURNS    .....      344 

HELEN  OF  TYRE     .....  345 

ELEGIAC       ......      345 

OLD  ST.  DAVID'S  AT  RADNOR      .        .  346 

FOLK-  SONGS. 

THE  SIFTING  OF  PETER     .        . 
MAIDEN  AND  WEATHERCOCK       . 
THE  WINDMILL 
THE  TIDE  RISES,  THE  TIDE  FALLS 

SONNETS. 
MY  CATHEDRAL 

THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  POET  .        . 
NIGHT  .......      348 

L'ENVOi. 

THE  POET  AND  HIS  SONGS    . 
IN  THE  HARBOR. 
BECALMED 

THE  POET'S  CALENDAR         . 
AUTUMN  WITHIN         .. 
THE  FOUR  LAKES  OF  MADISON 

4,  VICTOR  AND  VANQUISHED 

' 


346 

347 
347 

347 

348  x, 
348 


348 

349 
349 
351 
351 


MOONLIGHT      ... 
THE  CHILDREN'S  CRUSADE 
SUNDOWN 


FOUR  BY  THE  CLOCK 

AlTF    WlEDKRSEHEN 


352 

352 

353 

354* 

354 

354 


ELEGIAC  VERSE      .  354 


CONTENTS 


ix 


PAGE 

PAGE 

THE  CITY  AND  THE  SEA   .        .        .      356 

III.     LORD,  is  IT  I  ?        .        .        .      395 

IV.    THE  GARDEN  OF  GETHSEMANE  .  396 

HERMES  TRISMEGISTUS       .        .        .      356 

V.    THE  PALACE  OF  CAIAPHAS    .      397 

To  THE  ATON         .....  357 

VI.    PONTIUS  PILATE         .        .        .399 

"^PRESIDENT  GARFIELD        .        .        .      357^ 

VII.     BARABBAS  IN  PRISON     .        .      400 

VIII.    ECCE  HOMO         .        .        .        .401 

IX.    ACELDAMA  402 

^POSSIBILITIES  358> 
DECORATION  DAY       ....      359 

X.    THE  THREE  CROSSES  .        .        .403 
XI.    THE  Two  MARIES  .        .        .404 

A  FRAGMENT          359 

XII.     THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE        .        .  404 

EPILOGUE. 

INSCRIPTION  ON  THE  SHANKLIN  FOUN- 

SYMBOLUM  APOSTOLORUM  .        .        .      406 

FIRST  INTERLUDE. 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  BLAS     .        .        .359 

THE  ABBOT  JOACHIM    .        .        .        .407 

FRAGMENTS. 

PART  II.    THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 

"NEGLECTED  RECORD  OF  A  MIND  NEG 

PROLOGUE. 

LECTED"          360 

THE  SPIRE  OF  STRASBURG  CATHEDRAL  408 

"  0   FAITHFUL,  INDEFATIGABLE   TIDES  "   360 

I.    THE  CASTLE  OF  VAUTSBERG  ON 

USOFT   THROUGH    THE    SILENT    AIK  "        .    360 

THE  RHINE       .        .        .      409 

"SO   FROM    THE    BOSOM   OF    DARKNESS"   360 

COURT-YARD  OF  THE  CASTLE    .  413 

CHRISTUS:  A  MYSTERY. 

II.    A  FARM  IN  THE  ODENWALD   .      415 
A  ROOM  IN  THE  FARM-HOUSE     .  418 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE          .        .        .      361 

ELSIE'S  CHAMBER     .        .        .420 

m                  S^l                                                               C*  /-\rnmT    TITO      A  1WTk 

PART  I.     THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 

IHE  CHAMBER  ot  IJOII.IJJ.&K  AJNU 

URSULA         .        .        .        .420 

THE  FIRST  PASSOVER. 
I.    Vox  CLAMANTIS     .        .        .      363 
II.    MOUNT  QUARANTANIA        .        .  364 
III.    THE  MARRIAGE  IN  CANA       .      366 
IV.    IN  THE  CORNFIELDS  .        .        .368 

A  VILLAGE  CHURCH       .        .      422 
A  ROOM  IN  THE  FARM-HOUSE     .  425 
IN  THE  GARDEN      .        •        •      426 
III.     A  STREET  IN  STRASBURG          .  427 
SQUARE  IN  FRONT  OF  THE  CA 

V.    NAZARETH        .        .        .        .      369 
VI.    THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE        .        .  370 
VII.    THE  DEMONIAC  OF  GADARA  .      371 

THEDRAL  ....      429 
IN  THE  CATHEDRAL  .        .        .  430 
THE    NATIVITY  :    A   MIRACLE- 

VIII.    TALITHA  CUMI    .        .        .        .373 

PLAY. 

IX.    THE  TOWER  OF  MAGDALA    .      374 
X.    THE  HOUSE  OF  SIMON  THE  PHAR- 
ISEK       •        •        •        •        *  375 

INTROITUS         ....      431 
I.     HEAVEN  .        .        .        -431 
II.    MAHY  AT  THE  WELL.      432 

THE  SECOND  PASSOVER. 
I.     BEFORE  THE  GATES  OF  MACIT/E- 

III.    THE    ANGELS    OF    THE 
SEVEN  PLANETS  .      432 
IV.     THE  WISE  MEN  OF  THE 

RUS    376 
II.    HEROD'S  BANQUET-HALL  .        .  377 

III.    UNDER  THE  WALLS  OF  MACH^E- 

070 

EAST         .        .        .  433 
V.    THE  FLIGHT  INTO  EGYPT  433 
VI.     THE  SLAUGHTER  OF  THE 

RUS      .            .            .            .            .010 
IV.      NlCODEMUS    AT   NlGHT          .            .    379 

V.     BLIND  BARTIMEUS  .        •        •      381 
VI.    JACOB'S  WELL    .        .        .        .382 
VII.    THE  COASTS  OF  C^SAREA  PHI- 
LIPPI          .                               384 

INNOCENTS    .        .      434 
VII.    JESUS  AT  PLAY  WITH  HIS 
SCHOOLMATES  .        .  435 
VIII.     THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOL      435 
IX.    CROWNED   WITH    FLOW 

VIII.    THE  YOUNG  RULER    .        .        .386 
IX.     AT  BETHANY  ....      387 
X.    BORN  BLIND        .         .        .        -387 
XI.     SIMON  MAGUS  AND  HELEN  OF 
TYRE         .        .        .        .389 

ERS        .        •        •      ^36 
EPILOGUE     437 
IV.    THE  ROAD  TO  HIRSCHAU       .      437 
THE  CONVENT  OF  HIRSCHAU  IN 
THE  BLACK  FOREST    .        •  438 

THE  THIRD  PASSOVER. 

THE  SCRIPTORIUM  .        .        •      439 

I.     THE  ENTRY  INTO  JERUSALEM  .  391 
II.    SOLOMON'S  PORCH  .        .        .393 

THE  CLOISTERS  .                             440 
THE  CHAPEL    .        .        •        .442 

CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  REFECTORY  .  .  .  .443 
THE  NEIGHBORING  NUNNERY  .  446 
V.  A  COVERED  BRIDGE  AT  LUCERNE  449 
THE  DEVIL'S  BRIDGE  .  .  .  450 
THE  ST.  GOTHARD  PASS.  .  .  451 
AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  ALPS  .  452 
THE  INN  AT  GENOA  ....  454 

AT  SEA 455 

VI.     THE  SCHOOL  OF  SALERNO       .        .  455 
THE    FAHM-HOUSE    IN    THE   ODEN- 

WALD 459 

THE  CASTLE  OF  VAUTSBERG  ON  THE 

RHINE 461 

EPILOGUE. 

THE  Two  RECORDING  ANGELS  ASCEND 
ING     462 

SECOND  INTERLUDE. 
MARTIN  LUTHER 463 

TART  III.    THE   NEW    ENGLAND 
TRAGEDIES. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

PROLOGUE 465 

ACT  1 466 

ACT  II .471 

ACT  III 477 

ACT  IV .  484 

ACT  V 491 

GILES  COREY  OF  THE  SALEM  FARMS. 

PROLOGUE 495 

ACT  1 496 

ACT  II 501 

ACT  III 507 

ACT  IV 513 

ACT  V 519 

FINALE. 
ST.  JOHN 522 

JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 

ACT  I.    THE  CITADEL  OF  ANTIOCHUS 

AT  JERUSALEM        .        .      523 
ACT  II.    THE  DUNGEONS  IN  THE  CIT 
ADEL  526 

ACT  III.     THE  BATTLE-FIELD  OF  BETH- 

HORON     ....      529 
ACT  IV.    THE  OUTER  COURTS  OF  THE 

TEMPLE  AT  JERUSALEM     .  532 
ACT  V.     THE    MOUNTAINS  OF    ECBA- 

TANA        .        .        .        .534 

MICHAEL  ANGELO:    A  FRAGMENT. 

TDEDICATION 537; 

PART  FIRST. 

I.    PROLOGUE  AT  ISCHIA       .      537 
MONOLOGUE  :    THE   LAST 

JUDGMENT        .        .        .  540 
II.    SAN  SILVESTRO         .  541 


PAGE 

III.  CARDINAL  IPPOLITO    .        .  543 

IV.  BoHGO    DELLE   VliRGINE   AT 

NAPLES  ....      548 

V.      VlTTORIA    COLONNA        .  .    551 

PART  SECOND. 

I.    MONOLOGUE      .        .        .      555 
II.     VITERBO        ....  556 

III.  MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  BEN- 

VENUTO  CELLINI    .        .      557 

IV.  FRA    SEBASTIANO    DEL 

PIOMBO      .        .        .  .560 

V.     PALAZZO  BELVEDERE  .      565 

VI.    PALAZZO  CESARINI      .  .  567 
PART  THIRD. 

I.    MONOLOGUE      .        .  .      569 

II.     VIGNA  Di  PAPA  GIULIO  .  570 

III.  BIN  DO  ALTOVITI       .  .      574 

IV.  IN  THE  COLISEUM        .  .  575 
V.    MACELLO  DE'  CORVI  .      576 

VI.  MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  STUDIO  581 
VII.  THE  OAKS  OF  MONTE  LUCA  583 
VIII.  THE  DEAD  CHRIST  585 

TRANSLATIONS. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  .        .        .  586 

PRELUDE 537 

FROM  THE  SPANISH. 

COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE         .        .      587 
SONNETS. 

I.  THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD  .  592 
II.  TO-MORROW  .  .  .593 

III.  THE  NATIVE  LAND     .        .  593 

IV.  THE  IMAGE  OF  GOD        .      593 

V.  THE  BROOK  .        .        .        .593 
ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS. 

I.  Rio  VERDE,  Rio  VERDE  594 
II.  DON  NUNO,  COUNT  OF  LARA  594 
III.  THE  PEASANT  LEAVES  HIS 

PLOUGH  AFIELD  .  .  594 
VIDA  DE  SAN  MILKAN  .  .  .  595 
SAN  MIGUEL,  THE  CONVENT  .  596 
SONG:  SHE  is  A  MAID  OF  ARTLESS 

GRACE  .  .  .  .596 
SANTA  TERESA'S  BOOK-MARK  .  597 
FROM  THE  CANCIONEIJOS. 

I.    EYES  so  TRISTFUL,  EYES  so 

TRISTFUL     ....    597 

II.     SOME  DAY,  SOME  DAY     .      597 

III.  COME,  O  DEATH,  so  SILENT 

FLYING         ....    597 

IV.  GLOVE  OF  BLACK  IN  WHITE 

HAND  BARE  .        .        .      597 
FROM  THE  SWEDISH  AND  DANISH. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE      .        .        .593 
PASSAGES  FROM  FRITHIOK'S  SAGA. 
I.     FRITHIOF'S  HOMESTEAD  .      598 
II.    A  SLEDGE-RIDE  ON  THE  ICE  599 


CONTENTS 


XI 


PAGE 

III.  FRITHIOF'S  TEMPTATION     .  599 

IV.  FRITHIOF'S  FAREWKLL     .      600 
THE    CHILDREN   OF    THE    LORD'S 

SUPPER 600 

KING  CHRISTIAN  ....  607 
THE  ELECTED  KNIGHT  .  .  .  608 
CHILDHOOD 608 

FROM  THK  GERMAN. 

THE  HAPPIEST  LAND      .        .        .609 

THE  WAVE 609 

THE  DEAD 610 

THE  BIRD  AND  THE  SHIP  .        .      610 

WHITHER? 610 

BEWARE  ! 611 

SONG  OF  THE  BELL  .  .  .  611 
THK  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA  .  .  611 
THE  BLACK  KNIGHT  .  •  .612 
SONG  OF  THE  SILENT  LAND  .  612 
THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL  .  .  613 
THE  Two  LOCKS  OF  HAIR  .  613 
THE  HEMLOCK  TREE  .  .  .614 
ANNIE  OF  THARAW  .  .  .  614 
THE  STATUE  OVER  THE  CATHE 
DRAL  DOOR  ....  615 
THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSBILL  615 
THE  SEA  HATH  ITS  PEARLS  .  .  6.15 
POETIC  APHORISMS  .  .  .  616 

SILENT  LOVE 616 

BLESSED  ARE  THE  DEAD  .  .  016 
WANDERER'S  NIGHT-SONGS  .  .  617 

REMORSE 617 

FORSAKEN  .  .  .  .  .618 
ALLAH 618 

FROM  THE  ANGLO-SAXON. 

THK  GKAVE 618 

BEOWULF'S  EXPEDITION  TO  HEORT  618 
THE  SOUL'S  COMPLAINT   AGAINST 
THE  BODY         ....  620 

FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

SONG  :  HARK  !  HARK  !  .  .  621 
SONG  :  AND  WHITHER  GOEST  THOU, 

GENTLE   SIGH      ....    621 

THE  RETURN  OF  SPRING     .        .      621 

SPRING 621 

THK  CHILD  ASLEEP  .  .  .  622 
DEATH  OF  ARCHBISHOP  TURPIN  .  622 
THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL 

CUILLE 623 

A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL  .  .  .  628 
CONSOLATION  ....  628 
To  CARDINAL  RICHELIEU  .  .  629 
THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  CHILD  .  629 
ON  THE  TERRACE  OF  THE  AIGA- 

LADES  .    630 


To  MY  BROOKLET 
BAR KEG KS 


630 
.  630 


WlLL  EVER  THE  DEAR  DAYS  COME 

BACK  AGAIN  ? 
AT  LA  CHAUDEAU  .  \  .  .  .  631 
A  QUIET  LIFE  ....  631 
THE  WINE  OF  JURANQON  .  .  632 
FRIAR  LUBIN  .  632 

RONDEL 632 

MY  SECRET 632 

FROM  THE  ITALIAN. 

THE  CELESTIAL  PILOT  .  .  .  633 
THE  TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE  .  633 

BEATRICE 634 

To  ITALY 635  w 

SEVEN  SONNETS  AND  A  CANZONE- 
I.    THE  ARTIST          .        .        -635 
II.     FIRE 635 

III.  YOUTH  AND  AGE          .        .  636 

IV.  OLD  AGE  .        .        .        .636 
V.    To  VITTORIA  COLONNA       .  636 

VI.    To  VITTORIA  COLONNA    .      636    j 

VII.    DANTE 637  y 

VIII.  CANZONE  .  .  .  .637 
THE  NATURE  OF  LOVE  .  .  .  637 

FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE. 

SONG:    IF   THOU    ART    SLEEPING, 
MAIDEN 637 

FROM  EASTERN  SOURCES. 

THE  FUGITIVE  .  .  .  .638 
THE  SIEGE  OF  KAZAN  .  .  639 
THE  BOY  AND  THE  BROOK  .  .  639 
To  THE  STORK  ....  639 

FPOM  THE  LATIN. 

VIRGIL'S  FIRST  ECLOGUE       .        .  640 
OVID  IN  EXILE    ....      641 
APPENDIX. 

I.    JUVENILE  POEMS. 

The  Battle  of  Lovell's  Pond      .        .  645 

Tolanthe 645 

Thanksgiving 645 

Autumnal  Nightfall       .         .         .646 

Italian  Scenery 646 

The  Lunatic  Girl  ....  647 
The  Venetian  Gondolier  .  .  .647 
The  Angler's  Song  .  .  .648 

Lover's  Rock 648 

Dirge  over  a  Nameless  Grave        .      648 
A  Song  of  Savoy       .        .        .  •      .  648 
The  Indian  Hunter        .         .        .649 
Ode  written  for  the  Commemoration 
at  Fryeburg,   Maine,   of   Love- 
well's  Fight        .        .        .        .649 

Jeckoyva 650 

The  Sea-Diver £50 

Musings 650 

Song  ....  o  .  650 
Song  of  the  Birds  .  .  .  .651 


Xll 


CONTENTS 


II.    UNACKNOWLEDGED    AND    UNCOL- 

LECTED  TRANSLATIONS. 
Let  me  go  warm        ....  651 
The  Nativity  of  Christ  .        .        .651 
The  Assumption  of  the  Virgin  .        .  652 
The  Disembodied  Spirit         .        .      652 

Ideal  Beauty 652 

The  Lover's  Complaint .        .        .      652' 
Art  and  Nature          .         .         .         .652 
The  Two  Harvests        .        .        .652 
Clear    Honor    of    the    Liquid    Ele 
ment  652  < 

Praise  of  Little  Women  .  .  653 
Milagros  de  Nuestra  Senora  .  .  653 
Song  of  the  Rhine  .  .  .653 
Elegy  written  in  the  Ruins  of  an  Old 

Castle 654 

The  Stars 654 


Rondel 

The  Banks  of  the  Cher  . 

To  the  Forest  of  Gastine 

Fontenay 

Pray  for  Me      . 

Vire        .... 

A  Florentine  Song     . 

A  Neapolitan  Canzonet 

Christmas  Carol 

A  Soldier's  Song   . 


PAGE 

.  655 

655 
.  655 

656 
.  656 

656 
.  657 

657 
.  657 

657 


Tell  me,  tell  me,  thou  pretty  bee  .  658 
Sicilian  Canzonet  ....  658 
The  Gleaner  of  Sapri  .  .  .658 

III.  NOTES  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS    .        .  658 

IV.  A  CHRONOLOGICAL    LIST  OF    MR. 

LONGFELLOW'S  POEMS  .  .  676 
INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  .  .  .681 
INDEX  OF  TITLES 686 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW,  whose  descent  is  traced  from  William  Longfellow 
of  Byfield,  Massachusetts,  an  English  immigrant  of  the  third  quarter  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  was  the  son  of  Stephen  and  Zilpha  (Wadsworth)  Longfellow.  He  was  born 
in  a  house  still  standing  at  the  corner  of  Fore  and  Hancock  streets,  Portland,  Maine, 
February  27,  1807.  He  was  trained  for  college  at  the  Portland  Academy,  and  in  1821 
entered  Bowdoin  College  (founded  but  twenty  years  before),  was  graduated  in  1825, 
and  immediately  received  an  invitation  to  teach  the  modern  languages  in  his  Alma 
Mater,  with  leave  of  absence  for  travel  and  study  in  Europe. 

He  sailed  for  France  in  May,  1826,  where  he  spent  the  rest  of  that  year.  Early 
in  1827  he  went  to  Spain  for  eight  months.  A  year  followed  in  Italy  ;  and  after  six 
months  in  Germany,  he  returned  to  America  in  the  summer  of  1829.  In  September  of 
that  year  he  entered  upon  his  duties  at  Brunswick  as  Professor  of  Modern  Languages. 
In  September,  1831,  he  was  married  to  Mary  Storer  Potter,  second  daughter  of  Judge 
Barrett  Potter  of  Portland.  His  study  and  his  writing  during  his  residence  at  Bruns 
wick  made  him  at  last  feel  restricted  in  opportunity  ;  and  he  was  casting  about  for 
some  more  congenial  position,  when  he  received,  in  December,  1834,  an  invitation  to 
succeed  Mr.  George  Ticknor  as  Smith  Professor  of  Modern  Languages  in  Harvard  Uni 
versity,  and  at  once  accepted  the  offer  with  enthusiasm. 

The  invitation  gave  an  intimation  that  he  might,  if  he  chose,  spend  a  year  or  eighteen 
months  in  Europe  for  the  purpose  of  perfecting  himself  in  German  ;  and  in  April,  1835, 
he  made  a  second  journey  of  study  and  observation.  He  spent  the  remainder  of  the 
year  in  England,  the  Scandinavian  countries,  and  Holland,  where  he  was  detained  by 
the  illness  of  his  wife,  who  died  at  the  end  of  November  in  Rotterdam.  Thence  he 
passed  to  Germany,  where  he  wintered  in  Heidelberg,  occupying  himself  closely  in 
study.  Near  the  end  of  June,  he  went  to  the  Tyrol,  spent  the  summer  in  Switzer 
land,  and  by  slow  stages  made  his  way  to  Havre,  whence  he  sailed  for  home  in  October, 
1836. 

In  December  of  this  year  he  established  himself  in  Cambridge,  and  took  up  his  col 
lege  duties.  In  the  summer  of  1837  he  found  quarters  in  the  historic  house  which  had 
been  Washington's  headquarters  during  the  siege  of  Boston,  where  he  had  for  a  while 
as  co-tenant  Dr.  Joseph  Worcester,  the  lexicographer.  The  house  at  the  time  was 
owned  and  occupied  by  Mrs.  Andrew  Craigie,  widow  of  a  commissary  officer  in  the 
American  army,  who  bore  the  distinguished  title  Apothecary-general.  Here  Mr.  Long 
fellow  lived  during  the  remainder  of  his  life,  except  that  he  had  also  for  many  years  a 
summer  cottage  at  Nahant.  In  1843  he  became  owner  of  the  estate  through  the  gift  of 
Mr.  Nathan  Appleton  of  Boston,  whose  daughter,  Frances  Elizabeth,  he  married  July 
13  of  that  year. 

Mr.  Longfellow  held  his  professorship  in  Harvard  University  from  1836  to  1854, 
when  he  resigned  the  position.  Once  only,  in  1842,  did  he  take  a  long  vacation  of  six 
months,  which  he  spent  mainly  at  Marienberg  on  the  Rhine,  for  the  sake  of  its  waters. 
In  July,  1861,  he  met  with  a  terrible  loss  in  the  distressing  death,  by  fire,  of  his  wife. 
He  led  after  this  a  somewhat  secluded  life  ;  but  in  May,  1868,  he  went  to  Europe  for 
a  fourth  time,  with  members  of  his  family,  and  remained  abroad,  receiving  academic 
honors  and  everywhere  accorded  such  distinction  as  his  great  fame  won  him  and  his 
sensitive  nature  would  permit  him  to  receive.  He  returned  to  his  home  in  September, 
1869,  and  died  March  24,  1882,  leaving  two  sons  and  three  daughters. 

Besides  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  conferred  on  him  by  his  Alma  Mater,  Bow- 


xiv  HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

doin  College,  Mr.  Longfellow  received  the  same  decoration  from  Harvard  University 
and  from  Cambridge,  England,  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Civil  Law  from  the  University 
of  Oxford,  and  was  member,  among  other  societies,  of  the  Royal  Spanish  Academy. 

In  such  brief  terms  may  be  recorded  the  external  incidents  of  the  life  of  a  man  whose 
name  is  probably  more  widely  known  both  in  America  and  in  Europe  than  that  of  any 
other  American  man  of  letters.  The  more  important  and  distinguishing  record  of  his 
life  lies  in  a  statement  respecting  his  literary  career,  and  especially  the  succession  of 
his  poetical  writings,  for  his  services  to  his  countrymen  were  only  incidentally  through 
his  academic  avocation  ;  his  real  vocation  was  that  of  a  poet,  and  in  that  word  must 
be  included  the  notion  of  an  interpreter. 

Setting  aside  the  boyish  verses  on  the  "  Battle  of  Lovell's  Pond "  with  their  faint 
echo  of  Moore,  the  first  disclosure  of  poetic  gift  was  in  the  period  when  he  was  closing 
his  college  course  and  immediately  after,  in  the  winter  which  intervened  between  his 
appointment  at  Bowdoin  and  his  first  European  visit.  About  twenty-five  poems  were 
published  in  various  journals  at  this  time  ;  and  seven  of  them  the  poet  included  under 
the  heading  "  Earlier  Poems "  in  his  first  collection  of  original  verse,  "  Voices  of  the 
Night,"  a  dozen  years  later.  In  this  group  of  early  poems,  there  are  a  few  touches 
which  indicate  the  spark  of  poetic  fire  ;  but  for  the  most  part  they  are  derivative,  imita 
tive,  and  merely  exercises  upon  a  slender  poetic  reed.  Their  chief  value  is  in  showing 
how  the  author's  mind,  before  he  travelled  or  partook  freely  of  the  larger  literature, 
turned  instinctively  to  subjects  and  to  modes  of  treatment  which  permitted  the  artistic 
use  of  the  reflected  forms  of  nature  and  human  life  ;  he  was  seeking  for  color  and 
richness  and  decorative  grace  rather  than  penetrating  to  the  elemental  significance. 

During  this  brief  period  of  poetic  activity,  Mr.  Longfellow  wrote  and  printed  probably 
as  much  prose  which  has  not  been  preserved.  In  truth,  he  was  seeking  expression  through 
literary  form,  and  was  conscious  rather  of  the  literary  spirit  than  of  a  controlling  poetic 
power.  It  was  during  his  last  year  in  college  that  he  wrote  to  his  father  :  — 

"  I  most  eagerly  aspire  after  future  eminence  in  literature ;  my  whole  soul  burns  ardently 
for  it,  and  every  earthly  thought  centres  in  it.  There  may  be  something1  visionary  in  this,  but 
I  flatter  myself  that  I  have  prudence  enough  to  keep  my  enthusiasm  from  defeating  its  own 
object  by  too  great  haste.  Surely  there  never  was  a  better  opportunity  offered  for  exertion  of 
literary  talent  in  our  own  country  than  is  now  offered.  To  be  sure,  most  of  our  literary  men 
thus  far  have  not  heen  profoundly  so,  until  they  have  studied  and  entered  the  practice  of 
theology,  law,  or  medicine.  I  do  believe  that  we  ought  to  pay  more  attention  to  the  opinion 
of  philosophers,  that  'nothing  hut  nature  can  qualify  a  man  for  knowledge.'  Whether  Nature 
has  given  me  any  capacity  for  knowledge  or  not,  she  has,  at  any  rate,  given  me  a  very  strong 
predilection  for  literary  pursuits ;  and  I  am  almost  confident  in  believing  that  if  I  can  rise  in 
the  world,  it  must  be  by  the  exercise  of  my  talent  in  the  wide  field  of  literature.  With  such 
a  belief,  I  must  say  that  I  am  unwilling  to  engage  in  the  study  of  the  law.  .  .  .  Let  me  reside 
one  year  at  Cambridge ;  let  me  study  belles-lettres,  and  after  that  time  it  will  not  require  a  spirit 
of  prophecy  to  predict  with  some  degree  of  certainty  what  kind  of  a  figure  I  could  make  in  the 
literary  world." 

In  this  interesting  letter  there  is  the  note  of  a  young  man  pleading  with  his  father, 
and  using  the  argument  which  he  thinks  may  prevail ;  but  there  is,  more  distinct  than 
any  assumed  bravado,  an  eagerness  to  try  the  calling  which  answers  most  completely 
the  demands  of  his  nature.  Through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  his  professional  life,  he  seems 
never  to  have  missed  the  road  which  his  intellectual  and  emotional  endowment  pointed 
out.  His  life-long  friend,  Mr.  George  Washington  Greene,  in  the  moving  dedication  to 
the  poet  prefixed  to  his  "  The  Life  of  Nathanael  Greene,"  recalls  a  day  spent  by  the 
two  young  men  in  Naples  in  1828,  when,  under  the  splendor  of  an  Italian  sunset,  and 
with  the  beautiful  bay  of  Naples  spread  out  before  them,  they  reflected  on  the  pageant 
of  history,  and  then  turned  their  thoughts  in  upon  themselves  and  their  own  purposes  in 
life. 

"  We  talked  and  mused  by  turns,"  says  Greene,  "  till  the  twilight  deepened  and  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xv 

stars  came  forth  to  mingle  their  mysterious  influences  with  the  overmastering  magic  of 
the  scene.  It  was  then  that  you  unfolded  to  me  your  plans  of  life,  and  showed  me 
from  what  '  deep  cisterns  '  you  had  already  learned  to  draw.  From  that  day,  the  office 
of  literature  took  a  new  place  in  my  thoughts.  I  felt  its  forming  power  as  I  had  never 
felt  it  before,  and  began  to  look  with  a  calm  resignation  upon  its  trials,  and  with  true 
appreciation  upon  its  rewards." 

There  is  no  corresponding  record  by  the  poet  himself  to  which  we  can  turn  for  the 
expansion  of  these  words  ;  but  there  are  hints  in  his  letters  as  well  as  suggestions  from 
his  studies  at  this  time,  which  make  it  pretty  certain  that  the  entrance  he  then  found 
into  the  literatures  of  Southern  Europe  through  the  medium  of  a  quick  acquaintance 
with  the  several  languages  was  the  disclosure  to  him  of  the  interpreting  power  of  litera 
ture  ;  and  it  is  interesting  to  note  that  one  of  the  indications  at  this  time  of  his  own 
adventures  in  literature  pointed  to  the  use  of  the  native,  familiar  material  of  New  Eng 
land  life.  In  the  midst  of  his  enthusiastic  absorption  of  foreign  art,  literature,  and 
life,  he  wrote  to  Carey  &  Lea,  the  Philadelphia  publishers,  proposing  a  series  of  sketches 
and  tales  of  New  England  life.  He  was  qualifying  himself  for  the  post  of  an  instructor 
in  modern  languages  ;  but  neither  in  his  purpose  then,  nor  in  his  pursuit  of  this  calling 
afterward  at  Brunswick  and  Cambridge,  could  he  be  regarded  as  taking  an  academic 
attitude.  He  taught  by  methods  which  were  designed  to  initiate  the  student  as  early 
as  possible  into  an  apprehension  of  the  interesting  revelation  of  life  which  literature 
held  ;  and  his  choice  of  forms  of  literature  for  translation  into  the  English  tongue  led 
him  straight  to  those  poems  which  embodied  human  experience  in  its  most  sympathetic 
guise. 

There  was  a  period  of  a  little  more  than  ten  years  from  the  time  when  Mr.  Long 
fellow  returned  from  Europe  which  was  marked  by  literary  production  and  the  work 
of  a  teacher,  blended  and  interchanged,  but  expressive  of  a  single  controlling  passion. 
Just  before  his  return  after  a  three  years'  absence,  he  wrote  to  his  father  :  "  My  poetic 
career  is  finished.  Since  I  left  America  I  have  hardly  put  two  lines  together."  Both 
his  note-book  and  his  letters  show  that  his  mind  was  occupied  mainly  with  plans  for 
work  in  prose.  In  fact,  the  new  world  opened  to  him  by  his  introduction  to  historic  and 
contemporaneous  romantic  literature  pressed  for  expression.  There  was  an  outlet  through 
teaching,  and  there  was  an  outlet  through  writing  ;  and  in  his  eagerness  to  give  form 
to  the  impressions  crowding  upon  him,  he  used  his  profession  for  the  opportunities  it 
gave  him,  and  wrote  lectures  and  articles  for  periodicals  in  which  he  sought  to  classify 
and  arrange  the  wealth  which  his  study  and  sojourn  in  foreign  lands  had  heaped  before 
him.  Yet  the  artistic  impulse  native  to  his  genius  impelled  him  to  use  his  material  in 
more  artistic  form.  Shortly  after  his  return  to  America,  he  began  the  publication  in 
Buckingham's  "The  New  England  Magazine"  of  a  series  entitled  "The  Schoolmaster," 
in  which  a  slight  framework  of  fictitious  assumption  of  personality  is  employed  in  which 
to  set  pictures  of  foreign  life.  The  series  continued  for  eighteen  months,  and  then  was 
recast  and  enlarged  to  be  published  in  book  form  in  1833,  under  the  title  of  "  Outre- 
Mer  :  A  Pilgrimage  beyond  the  Sea."  It  was  in  effect  the  harvest  of  his  first  years 
of  travel.  In  1839  appeared  "  Hyperion,"  which  followed  upon  his  second  residence 
abroad,  and  in  its  form  and  treatment  was  more  distinctly  a  work  of  constructive  art. 
The  material  which  he  had  amassed  was  now  more  completely  mastered,  and  in  the 
freedom  of  his  mastery  he  employed  it  for  an  ulterior  artistic  purpose,  interfusing  a 
lyrical  and  romantic  strain  of  human  sentiment.  The  book  marks  the  close  of  what 
may  be  regarded  as  the  poet's  period  of  training  for  his  distinct  vocation. 

Yet,  during  this  entire  period,  he  had  not  failed  to  exercise  himself  in  poetic  form  as 
well  as  in  the  poetical  treatment  of  the  prose  form.  His  function  as  an  interpreter  of 
foreign  literature,  both  as  teacher  and  writer,  drew  him  into  metrical  versions  of  the 
poems  which  formed  for  him  so  essential  a  part  of  that  literature.  His  first  book, 
indeed,  aside  from  school-manuals,  was  his  translation  of  Coplas  de  Manrique  ;  and  his 
two  prose  volumes  were  lighted  by  lyrics  in  which  his  own  poetic  genius  was  a  trans 
parent  medium  for  the  beauty  of  the  originals.  As  his  first  great  discovery  of  himself 


xvi  HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

was  in  the  loss  of  himself  in  large  study  and  observation,  so  his  appropriation  of  Euro 
pean  literary  art  was  the  occasion  for  a  fineness  of  literary  expression  quite  beyond  his 
earlier  independent  poetic  trials.  These  translations  have  a  quality  which  make  them 
distinctively  his,  while  still  faithful  rescripts  of  the  originals. 

The  period  of  this  special  form  of  production  extended  beyond  the  decade  of  which 
we  have  been  writing,  and  culminated  with  the  publication  of  "  The  Poets  and  Poetry 
of  Europe  "  in  1843,  an  anthology  which  contained  a  number  of  his  own  translations. 
From  1830  until  1843  he  wrote  more  than  sixty  such  poems,  and  in  this  last  year  made 
his  first  experiments  in  the  translation  of  Dante.  But  the  most  prolific  years" were,  pre 
cisely,  those  from  1829  to  1839,  when  he  was  most  busily  engaged  in  assimilating  and 
ordering  all  that  material  for  art  which  had  been  put  into  his  possession  by  his  ac 
quaintance  with  foreign  literature  and  life. 

It  was  when  he  had  discharged  his  obligation  to  this  inheritance  by  the  publication 
of  "  Hyperion  "  that  he  began  almost  simultaneously  his  long  and  noble  career  as  a  poet, 
singing  in  his  own  voice  the  songs  which  were  the  overflow  of  his  native  genius,  enriched 
and  expanded  by  the  years  of  study  and  experiment.  In  the  flush  of  his  intellectual 
manhood,  established  in  what  promised  to  be  a  permanent  position  in  Harvard  College, 
and  with  his  days  of  wandering  over,  he  turned  again  to  poetry.  He  was  still  a  student, 
but  the  urgency  of  the  student  mood  was  passed  ;  the  riches  of  human  thought  had  be 
come  in  a  measure  his  possession  ;  his  personal  experience  had  been  enlarged  and  deep 
ened  ;  he  no  longer  saw  principally  the  outside  of  the  world  ;  youth  with  its  surrender 
to  the  moment  had  gone,  and  manhood  with  its  hours  of  reflection  had  come.  So  we 
may  interpret  the  poet's  mood  as  it  discloses  itself  in  the  verses  which  introduce  his 
first  volume  of  original  pcetry. 

The  conclusion  of  one  period  of  his  intellectual  growth,  as  instanced  in  the  writing 
of  "Hyperion,"  melts  into  the  beginning  of  a  new  period,  which  is  indicated  by  the  sev 
eral  Psalms,  so  called  by  himself,  written  and  published  at  the  end  of  1838  and  during 
1839.  In  the  latter  year  Mr.  Longfellow  gathered  these  recent  poems  with  those  belong 
ing  to  earlier  stages  into  a  volume  to  which  he  gave  the  title  "Voices  of  the  Night." 
It  comprised  three  groups  of  poems,  —  those  recently  written  and  published  in  the 
"  Knickerbocker  Magazine  ; "  a  selection  from  his  poems  published  in  periodicals  during 
and  immediately  after  his  college  days  ;  and  translations,  together  with  a  Prelude  and 
an  Envoi.  The  publication  seems  to  have  been  a  sudden  thought  coming  to  him  in  the 
exhilaration  of  his  busy  life.  He  writes  in  his  diary,  under  date  of  September  11,  1839  : 
"  I  have  taken  to  the  Greek  poets  again,  and  mean  to  devote  one  hour  every  morning 
to  them.  Began  to-day  with  Anacreon.  What  exquisite  language  !  Why  did  I  ever 
forget  my  Greek?"  and  the  next  day  he  notes  :  "I  mean  to  publish  a  volume  of 
poems  under  the  title  of  '  Voices  of  the  Night.'  As  old  Michael  Dray  ton  says,  — 

'  I  will ;  yea,  and  I  may ! 
Who  shall  oppose  my  way  ? 
For  what  is  he  alone 
That  of  himself  can  say 
He 's  heire  of  Helicon  ?  ' ' 

It  was,  perhaps,  at  the  suggestion  of  his  renewed  interest  in  Greek  that  he  gave  the 
title  he  did  to  the  volume,  with  a  motto  from  Euripides,  the  lines  in  a  chorus  in 
"  Orestes  "  beginning  irorixa  irSrvia  vvt,. 

The  success  of  the  volume  was  marked  ;  and  the  tone  in  which  the  author  speaks  of 
it  in  his  diary  and  letters,  as  well  as  the  joyousness  which  pervades  his  life  at  this 
period,  indicates  how  sincere  was  this  new  birth  of  song,  and  what  promise  it  gave  of 
endurance.  Nevertheless,  he  was  not  so  conscious  of  his  destiny  that  he  could  not  out 
line,  a  few  days  later,  a  plan  of  literary  work  which  embraced  a  history  of  English 
poetry,  a  novel,  a  series  of  sketches,  and  only  one  poem,  which  may  have  been  a  para 
phrase  of  Scandinavian  verse.  This  efflorescence  of  intellectual  life  was,  however,  only 
a  sign  of  his  activity.  It  serves  to  show  how  natural  and  progressive  was  his  growth  : 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xvii 

he  had  not  broken  with  his  past,  but  he  did  not  distinctly  see  how  almost  entirely  his 
literary  productiveness  was  thereafter  to  be  confined  to  verse.     For  it  is  to  be  noted 
that  after  the  publication  of  "  Voices  of  the  Night "  the  succession  of  volumes  of  poetry- 
was  broken  only  by  "  Kavanagh,"  and  the  collection  of  his  scattered  papers  under  the 
title  of  "Drift  Wood."     "Kavanagh,"  published  in  1849,  at  the  close  of  another  decade,  y 
appears  to  have  been  the  final  form  taken  by  his  art  of  various  fancies  which  had  been  ) 
floating  in  his  mind  since  the  period  of  his  first  beginnings  in  literature.     It  laid  their  ) 
ghost,  we  may  think  ;  and  after  that  the  man  of  letters  ceased  to  be,  and  the  poet  was 
firmly  sealed. 

The  years  immediately  following  the  publication  of  "  Voices  of  the  Night "  may  be 
regarded  as  those  of  the  greatest  spontaneity  in  Mr.  Longfellow's  poetic  work.  The 
title  of  the  next  volume  of  verse,  "  Ballads  and  other  Poems,"  hints  at  the  direction  his 
mind  was  taking.  "  I  have  broken  ground  in  a  new  field,"  he  writes  to  Mr.  Greene, 
January  2,  1840,  "  namely,  ballads  ;  beginning  with  the  '  Wreck  of  the  Schooner  Hes 
perus,'  on  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe,  in  the  great  storm  of  a  fortnight  ago.  I  shall 
send  it  to  some  newspaper.  I  think  I  shall  write  more.  The  national  ballad  is  a  vir 
gin  soil  here  in  New  England  ;  and  there  are  great  materials.  Besides,  I  have  a  great 
notion  of  working  upon  the  people's  feelings.  I  am  going  to  have  it  printed  on  a  sheet 
with  a  coarse  picture  on  it.  I  desire  a  new  sensation  and  a  new  set  of  critics.  Nat. 
Hawthorne  is  tickled  with  the  idea.  Felton  laughs  and  says,  '  I  would  n't.' "  The 
familiar  story  of  his  invention  of  "  Excelsior "  is  most  suggestive  of  the  poetic  glow 
which  his  mind  now  experienced.  "  The  Spanish  Student "  was  another  experiment  in 
literary  art  struck  out  of  his  enthusiasm  for  Spanish  literature,  in  which  his  work  as  a 
teacher  had  been  engaging  him.  The  volume  of  "  Poems  on  Slavery  "  was  the  contribu 
tion  which  his  patriotism,  under  stress  of  indignation,  made  to  the  rising  tide  of  anti- 
slavery  sentiment ;  but  though  he  never  lessened  in  his  strong  hostility  to  slavery,  he 
kept  his  expression  for  letters,  and  conversation,  and  public  acts  ;  in  his  art  he  was 
commanded  by  less  polemic  influences. 

The  first  publication  of  "The  Spanish  Student"  was  in  1842,  during  the  author's  ab 
sence  in  Europe.  The  "  Poems  on  Slavery  "  were  written  on  the  return  voyage.  Mr. 
Longfellow  was  now  thirty-five  years  old  ;  and  as  he  turned  back  after  his  six  months' 
vacation  and  faced  homeward,  he  wrote  the  autobiographical  sonnet,  published  after  his 
death,  entitled  "Mezzo  Cammin."  In  this  he  declares  :  — 

"  Half  of  my  life  has  gone,  and  I  have  let 
The  years  slip  from  me  and  have  not  fulfilled 
The  aspiration  of  my  youth,  to  build 
Some  tower  of  song  with  lofty  parapet. 
Not  indolence,  nor  pleasure,  not  the  fret 
Of  restless  passions  that  would  not  be  stilled, 
But  sorrow,  and  a  care  that  almost  killed, 
Kept  me  from  what  I  may  accomplish  yet." 

With  the  familiarity  which  Mr.  Longfellow  now  had  with  great  art  and  the  conscious 
ness  he  possessed  of  his  own  poetic  power,  he  could  scarcely  have  been  content  with 
brief  swallow-flights  of  song.  Conceptions  of  great  works  often  lie  unwrought  for  many 
years  in  the  mind  of  the  poet  ;  and  Mr.  Longfellow's  habit  of  jotting  down  impulses  and 
momentary  resolutions  in  his  note-book  lets  us  partly  into  the  secret  of  the  magnum  opus 
which  dominated  his  life.  The  possibly  vague  aspiration  of  his  youth  "  to  build  some 
tower  of  song  with  lofty  parapet "  clearly  took  somewhat  positive  shape  at  this  time. 
There  is  an  entry  in  his  journal,  under  date  of  November  8,  1841,  which  indicates  how 
intensely  and  how  comprehensively  the  conception  of  "  Christus  "  possessed  him  at  the 
outset :  — 

"  This  evening-  it  has  come  into  my  mind  to  undertake  a  long-  and  elaborate  poem  by  the 
holy  name  of  Christ ;  the  theme  of  which  would  be  the  various  aspects  of  Christendom  in  the 
Apostolic,  Middle,  and  Modern  Ages." 


xviii  HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

The  summer  following  this  decision  was  that  which  he  spent  at  Marienberg,  and  co- 
incidently  with  the  writing  of  the  sonnet  "  Mezzo  Caimnin  "  was  the  memorandum  in 
his  note-book  :  — 

"  Christus,  a  dramatic  poem,  in  three  parts. 
Part  First.  The  time  of  Christ.  (Hope.) 
Part  Second.  The  Middle  Ages.  (Faith.) 
Part  Third.  The  Present.  (Charity.)" 

"  The  words  in  parenthesis,"  his  biographer  remarks,  "  are  in  pencil,  and  apparently 
added  afterwards." 

It  was  not  till  1873  that  the  work  as  it  now  stands  was  published  ;  and  during  those 
thirty-two  years,  which  represent  almost  the  whole  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  productive  pe 
riod,  the  subject  of  the  trilogy  seems  never  to  have  been  long  absent  from  his  mind. 
The  theme  in  its  majesty  was  a  flame  by  night  and  a  pillar  of  cloud  by  day,  which  led 
his  mind  in  all  its  onward  movement  ;  and  he  esteemed  the  work  which  he  had  under 
taken  as  the  really  great  work  of  his  life.  His  religious  nature  was  profoundly  moved 
by  it,  and  the  degree  of  doubt  which  attended  every  step  of  his  progress  marked  the 
height  of  the  endeavor  which  he  put  forth.  There  was  nothing  violent  or  eccentric  in 
this  sudden  resolution.  The  entry  in  his  journal,  his  biographer  states,  is  the  only  one 
for  that  year  ;  but  his  correspondence  and  the  dates  of  his  poems  indicate  clearly 
enough  that  the  course  of  his  mental  and  spiritual  life  was  flowing  in  a  direction  which 
made  this  resolve  a  most  rational  and  at  the  same  time  inspiring  expression  of  his  per 
sonality.  He  had  been  singing  those  psalms  of  life,  triumphant,  sympathetic,  aspiring, 
which  showed  how  strong  a  hold  the  ethical  principle  had  of  him  ;  he  had  been  steeping 
his  soul  in  Dante  ;  he  had  been  moved  by  the  tender  ecclesiasticism  of  "  The  Children  of 
the  Lord's  Supper,"  and  in  recording  a  passage  in  the  life  of  Christ  had  fancied  himself 
a  monk  of  the  Middle  Ages  ;  while  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life  and  thought  had  shown 
how  strong  a  personal  apprehension  he  had  of  the  divine  in  humanity. 

It  was  nine  years  from  this  resolution  before  he  attacked  the  work  in  earnest,  begin 
ning  then,  as  is  well  known,  with  the  second  part,  and  publishing  it  independently  and 
without  explanation  of  his  full  design,  as  "  The  Golden  Legend  ;  "  but  it  is  fair  to  sup 
pose  that  the  scheme  itself  in  its  entirety  was  one  of  those  spiritual  cinctures  which  bind 
the  days  of  man,  each  to  each.  It  is  not  at  all  improbable  also  that  the  exactions  of 
his  professional  occupation  had  something  to  do  with  breaking  the  continuity  of  his  poet 
ical  labor,  and  making  him  shrink  from  a  task  which  called  for  great  absorption  of 
power.  Certain  it  is  that  when  in  the  winter  of  1845-46  he  was  engaged  upon  his  most 
sustained  flight  of  verse  up  to  this  time,  the  poem  of  "  Evangeline,"  his  diary  bears  wit 
ness  to  the  impatience  of  the  distractions  of  his  daily  life  incident  to  his  position,  which 
constantly  withheld  him  from  a  task  which  gave  him  the  greatest  delight. 

The  three  poems  —  "  Evangeline,"  "  The  Song  of  Hiawatha,"  and  "  The  Courtship  of 
Miles  Standish  "  —  have  superficially  a  more  distinct  place  as  expression  of  the  larger 
sweep  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  poetical  genius,  but  they  bear  no  such  relation  to  his  more 
intimate  life  as  the  "  Christus."  They  serve  well  to  emphasize  that  ardent  interest  in 
American  themes  which  was  early  illustrated  by  his  eagerness  to  write  of  New  England 
life,  when  he  was  in  the  flush  of  his  enthusiasm  for  the  art  which  Europe  opened  to  his 
view.  They  illustrate  also  his  technical  skill  and  his  instinctive  sense  of  fitness  of  form. 
Regarding  his  period  of  poetical  production  as  not  far  from  sixty  years,  these  three 
poems  occupy,  roughly  speaking,  the  midway  decade,  and  they  are  in  the  minds  of  most 
the  central  pieces  about  which  the  poet's  shorter  poems  are  grouped.  Yet  those  shorter 
poems  which  have  become  most  securely  imbedded  in  the  memories  and  affections  of 
readers,  those  songs  which  he  breathed  into  the  air  and  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a 
friend,  were  freely  sent  forth  with  no  long  intervals  up  to  the  very  end  of  his  life.  Per 
haps  the  longest  interval  was  during  that  withdrawal  which  followed  the  tragedy  of  his 
domestic  life. 

When  he  began  to  lift  his  head  after  the  calamity  which  befell  him  in  the  death  of  his 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xix 

wife,  "  lie  felt  the  need,"  says  his  biographer,  "  of  some  continuous  and  tranquil  occupa 
tion  for  his  thoughts  ;  and  after  some  months  he  summoned  the  resolution  to  take  up 
again  the  task  of  translating-  Dante."  This  was  no  new  study  with  him  ;  in  one  form 
or  another  it  had  been  a  familiar  pursuit  since  he  made  his  first  adventure  in  European 
literature,  and  his  first  collection  of  poems,  "  Voices  of  the  Night,"  contained  examples 
of  translation  from  Dante  ;  but  now  he  pushed  the  work  through  to  completion,  and  in 
the  final  publication  in  three  volumes  left  on  record  a  notable  expression  of  an  important 
phase  of  his  intellectual  endowment.  As  translation  was  one  of  the  earliest  signs  of  his 
appropriation  of  the  art  disclosed  to  him  in  foreign  literature,  after  he  had  completed 
the  tale  of  his  greater  works  he  resumed  with  distinct  pleasure  this  form  of  communion 
with  other  poets.  Indeed,  throughout  his  life  he  recognized  the  gracious  part  which  this 
exercise  of  translation  played  in  the  intellectual  life.  He  found  in  such  work  a  gentle 
stimulus  to  his  poetic  faculties,  and  resorted  to  it  when  wishing  to  quicken  his  spirit. 
"I  agree  with  you  entirely,"  he  writes  to  Freiligrath,  November  24,  1843,  "in  what  you 
say  about  translations.  It  is  like  running  a  ploughshare  through  the  soil  of  one's  mind  ; 
a  thousand  germs  of  thought  start  up  (excuse  this  agricultural  figure),  which  otherwise 
might  have  lain  and  rotted  in  the  ground.  Still,  it  sometimes  seems  to  me  like  an  ex 
cuse  for  being  lazy,  —  like  leaning  on  another  man's  shoulder." 

It  is  when  one  enlarges  the  conception  of  the  word  "  translation  "  that  one  perceives 
how  well  it  expresses  a  pervasive  element  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  art.  He  was  a  consum 
mate  translator  because  the  vision  and  faculty  divine  which  he  possessed  was  directed 
toward  the  reflection  of  the  facts  of  nature  and  society  rather  than  toward  the  facts 
themselves.  He  was  like  one  who  sees  a  landscape  in  a  Claude  Lorraine  glass  ;  by  some 
subtle  power  of  the  mirror  everything  has  been  composed  for  him.  Thus,  when  he 
came  to  use  the  rich  material  of  history,  of  poetry,  and  of  other  arts,  he  saw  these  in 
forms  already  existing  ;  and  his  art  was  not  so  much  a  reconstruction  out  of  crude  mate 
rial  as  a  representation,  a  rearrangement  in  his  own  exquisite  language  of  what  he  found 
and  admired.  He  was  first  of  all  a  composer,  and  he  saw  his  subjects  in  their  relations 
rather  than  in  their  essence.  To  tell  over  again  old  tales,  to  reproduce  in  forms  of  deli 
cate  fitness  the  scenes  and  narratives  which  others  had  invented, — this  was  his  delight ; 
for  in  doing  this  he  was  conscious  of  his  power,  and  he  worked  with  ease. 

"  The  Divine  Tragedy  "  was  finished  in  1870.  It  marks  a  characteristic  of  the  poet 
that  he  must  have  always  by  him  some  comprehensive  task  ;  and  on  the  day  when  he 
finished  "  Judas  Maccabeus,"  which  was  in  a  sense  an  offshoot  of  "  The  Divine  Tragedy," 
he  recorded  in  his  diary  :  "  A  new  subject  comes  into  my  mind."  This  was,  no  doubt, 
the  subject  of  "  Michael  Angelo."  Two  months  later  he  wrote  :  "  February  26,  1872. 
I  have  more  definitely  conceived  the  idea  of  a  dramatic  poem  on  Michael  Angelo,  which 
has  been  vaguely  hovering  in  my  thoughts  for  some  time.  Can  I  accomplish  it  ?  "  In 
May  he  finished  his  first  draft,  but  the  poem  never  was  completed.  The  author  kept  it 
by  him,  occasionally  touching  it,  writing  new  scenes,  rejecting  portions,  and  seemingly 
reluctant  to  have  it  leave  his  desk.  He  wrote  upon  the  first  page,  "A  Fragment;" 
and  a  fragment  it  remains,  even  though  it  has  the  smoothness  and  apparent  roundness 
of  a  finished  work.  It  is  possible,  also,  that  in  calling  it  a  fragment  Mr.  Longfellow 
had  in  mind  the  fact  that  the  time  of  the  poem  embraced  but  a  small  fraction  of  the 
artist's  life  ;  and  this  consideration  may  have  led  him  to  throw  aside  the  concluding 
scene  of  Michael  Angelo's  death-bed  as  indicating  too  positive  and  final  a  close.  It  is 
certain  that  there  is  but  slight  attempt  at  the  development  of  a  drama,  with  its  crises 
and  denouement  ;  the  form  adopted  was  that  of  a  dramatic  poem  which  permitted  ex 
pansion  and  contraction  within  the  natural  limits  of  three  major  parts,  and  depended  for 
its  value  in  construction  upon  the  skilful  selection  of  scenes,  chronological  in  their  se 
quence,  and  yet  indicative  of  the  relations  subsisting  between  the  principal  characters 
introduced. 

There  is  an  interest,  however,  attaching  to  this  work  which  grows  out  of  its  place  in 
Mr.  Longfellow's  history.  It  was  found  in  his  desk  and  published  after  his  death,  ten 
years  from  the  time  when  it  was  first  composed,  and  bearing  the  marks  of  his  occasional 


xx  HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

revision.  When  Michael  Angelo  holds  discourse  from  the  vantage-ground  of  age  with 
the  volatile  Benvenuto  Cellini,  his  counsel  to  the  younger  man  is  mingled  with  pathetic 
reflections  upon  his  own  relation  to  art.  He  cannot  leave  Rome  for  Florence  ;  he  is 
under  the  spell  which  affects  one  like  malaria,  — 

"  Malaria  of  the  mind 
Out  of  this  tomb  of  the  majestic  Past ; 
The  fever  to  accomplish  some  great  work 
That  will  not  let  us  sleep.     I  must  sro  on 
Until  I  die." 

So  he  speaks  ;  and  to  Benverfuto's  reminder  of  the  memories  which  cluster  about  the 
pleasant  city  upon  the  Ariio,  he  replies,  musing  :  — 

"  Pleasantly 

Come  back  to  me  the  days  when,  as  a  youth, 
I  walked  with  Gliirlandajo  in  the  gardens 
Of  Medici,  and  saw  the  antique  statues, 
The  forms  august  of  gods  and  godlike  men, 
And  the  great  world  of  art  revealed  itself 
To  my  young  eyes.     Then  all  that  man  hath  done 
Seemed  possible  to  me.     Alas !  how  little 
Of  all  I  dreamed  of  has  my  hand  achieved !  " 

The  caution  against  mistaking  a  poet's  dramatic  assumption  for  his  own  character  and 
expression  is  of  less  force  when  applied  to  one  in  whom  the  dramatic  power  was  but 
slightly  developed  ;  and  the  whole  poem  of  "  Michael  Angelo,"  taken  in  connection  with 
the  time  and  circumstances  of  its  composition,  may  fairly  be  regarded  as  in  some  re 
spects  Longfellow's  apologia.  Michael  Angelo  rehearsing  his  art  is  dramatically  con 
ceived,  and  there  is  no  lapse  into  the  poet's  own  speech  ;  for  all  that,  and  because  of 
that,  the  reader  is  always  aware  of  the  presence  of  Longfellow,  wise,  calm,  reflective, 
musing  over  the  large  thoughts  of  life  and  art.  "  I  want  it,"  the  poet  says  in  his  diary, 
"  for  a  long  and  delightful  occupation  ; "  and  he  treated  himself  to  the  luxury  of  keeping 
the  work  by  him,  brooding  over  it,  shaping  it  anew,  adding,  changing,  discarding. 

"  Quickened  are  they  that  touch  the  Prophet's  bones,"  he  says  in  his  Dedication  ;  and 
it  may  easily  be  believed  that  with  no  great  scheme  of  verse  haunting  him,  with  no 
sense  of  incompleted  plans,  he  would  linger  in  the  twilight  of  his  poetic  life  over  the 
strong  figure  of  the  artist  thus  called  up  before  him,  and  be  kindled  with  a  new  poetic 
glow  as  he  contemplated  the  great  artist.  For  Michael  Angelo  in  the  poem  is  the  virile 
character  of  the  robust  Italian  seen  in  a  softened,  mellow  light.  We  are  not  probably 
far  astray  when  we  say  that  Longfellow,  in  building  this  poem  and  reflecting  upon  its 
theme  during  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life,  was  more  distinctly  declaring  his  artistic 
creed  than  in  any  other  of  his  works,  and  that  the  discussions  which  take  place  in  the 
poem,  more  especially  Michael  Angelo's  utterances  on  plastic  or  graphic  art,  had  a  pecu 
liar  interest  for  him  as  bearing  upon  analogous  doctrines  of  the  art  of  poetry. 

The  great  sculptor  is  made  to  speak  in-  his  old  age  of  — 

"  The  fever  to  accomplish  some  great  work 
That  will  not  let  us  sleep." 

If  there  was  any  such  fever  in  Mr.  Longfellow's  case,  —  and  possibly  the  writing  of 
"  Michael  Angelo  "  is  an  evidence,  —  there  certainly  was  from  the  beginning  of  his 
career  a  most  healthy  and  normal  activity  of  life,  which  stirred  him  to  the  achievement 
of  great  works  in  distinction  from  the  familar,  frequent  exercise  of  the  poetic  faculty. 

"  We  have  but  one  life  here  on  earth,"  he  writes  in  his  diary  ;  "  we  must  make  that 
beautiful.  And  to  do  this  health  and  elasticity  of  mind  are  needful  ;  and  whatever 
endangers  or  impedes  these  must  be  avoided."  This  last  entry  lets  a  little  light  into 
the  poet's  temperament.  That  calm  sweetness  of  spirit,  which  is  so  apparent  in  Long 
fellow,  was  an  acquisition  as  well  as  an  endowment.  He  deliberately  chose  and  refrained 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xxi 

according  to  a  law  in  his  members,  and  took  clear  cognizance  of  his  nature  and  its  ten 
dencies.  In  a  word,  he  was  a  sane  man.  There  was  a  notable  sanity  about  all  his  mode 
of  life,  and  his  attitude  towards  books  and  Nature  and  men.  It  was  the  positive  which 
attracted  him,  the  achievement  in  literature,  the  large,  seasonable  gifts  of  the  outer 
world,  the  men  and  women  themselves  who  were  behind  the  deeds  and  words  which 
made  them  known.  The  books  which  he  read,  as  noted  in  his  journals,  were  the  gen 
erous  books  ;  he  wanted  the  best  wine  of  thought,  and  he  avoided  criticism.  He  basked 
in  sunshine  ;  he  watched  the  sky,  and  was  alive  to  the  great  sights  and  sounds,  and  to 
all  the  tender  influences  of  the  seasons.  In  his  intercourse  with  men,  this  sanity  ap 
peared  in  the  power  which  he  showed  of  preserving  his  own  individuality  in  the  midst  of 
constant  pressure  from  all  sides  ;  he  gave  of  himself  freely  to  his  intimate  friends,  but 
he  dwelt,  nevertheless,  in  a  charmed  circle,  beyond  the  lines  of  which  men  could  not 
penetrate.  Praise  did  not  make  him  arrogant  or  vain  ;  criticism,  though  it  sometimes 
wounded  him,  did  not  turn  him  from  his  course.  It  is  rare  that  one  in  our  time  has 
been  the  centre  of  so  much  admiration,  and  still  rarer  that  one  has  preserved  in  the 
midst  of  it  all  an  integrity  of  nature  which  never  abdicates. 

H.  E.  S. 


VOICES   OF  THE   NIGHT 


'Epe/3d#ei/  I0i'  /xoAe  /aoAe  /caraTrrepos 

"A-yajue/Lti/oj/toi/  evri  SofjiQV' 

VTTO  yap  aAyeooi',  VTTO  re  <7VjU.f|>opas 

EURIPIDES. 


PRELUDE 


The  title  Voices  of  the  Night  originally  was  used  by 
Mr.  Longfellow  for  the  poem  Footsteps  of  Angels  ;  then 
he  gave  it  to  the  first  collected  volume  of  his  poetry  with 
special  application  to  the  group  of  eight  poems  follow 
ing  Prelude.  Here  it  is  confined  to  this  group. 

PLEASANT  it  was,  when  woods  were  green 

And  winds  were  soft  and  low, 
To  lie  amid  some  sylvan  scene, 
Where,  the  long  drooping  boughs  between, 
Shadows  dark  and  sunlight  sheeii 

Alternate  come  and  go  ; 

Or  where  the  denser  grove  receives 

No  sunlight  from  above, 
But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 
In  one  unbroken  roof  of  leaves, 
Underneath  whose  sloping  eaves 

The  shadows  hardly  move. 

Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree 

I  lay  upon  the  ground  ; 
His  hoary  arms  uplifted  he, 
And  all  the  broad  leaves  over  me 
Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee, 

With  one  continuous  sound  ;  — • 

A  slumberous  sound,  a  sound  that  brings 

The  feelings  of  a  dream, 
As  of  innumerable  wings, 
As,  when  a  bell  no  longer  swings, 
Faint  the  hollow  murmur  rings 

O'er  meadow,  lake,  and  stream. 

And  dreams  of  that  which  cannot  die, 

Bright  visions,  came  to  me, 
As  lapped  in  thought  I  used  to  lie, 
And  gaze  into  the  summer  sky, 
Where  the  sailing  clouds  went  by, 

Like  ships  upon  the  sea  ; 


Dreams  that  the  soul  of  youth  engage 

Ere  Fancy  has  been  quelled  ; 
Old  legends  of  the  monkish  page, 
Traditions  of  the  saint  and  sage, 
Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 

And  chronicles  of  eld. 

And,  loving  still  these  quaint  old  themes, 

Even  in  the  city's  throng 
I  feel  the  freshness  of  the  streams, 
That,  crossed  by  shades  and  sunny  gleams, 
Water  the  green  land  of  dreams, 

The  holy  land  of  song. 

Therefore,  at  Pentecost,  which  brings 
The  Spring,  clothed  like  a  bride, 

When  nestling  buds  unfold  their  wings, 

And  bishop's-caps  have  golden  rings, 

Musing  upon  many  things, 
I  sought  the  woodlands  wide. 

The  green  trees  whispered  low  and  mild  ; 

It  was  a  sound  of  joy  ! 
They  were  my  playmates  when  a  child, 
And  rocked  me  in  their  arms  so  wild  1 
Still  they  looked  at  me  and  smiled, 

As  if  I  were  a  boy  ; 

And  ever  whispered,  mild  and  low, 
"  Come,  be  a  child  once  more  !  " 

And  waved  their  long  arms  to  and  fro, 

And  beckoned  solemnly  and  slow  ; 

Oh,  I  could  not  choose  but  go 
Into  the  woodlands  hoar,  — 

Into  the  blithe  and  breathing  air, 

Into  the  solemn  wood, 
Solemn  and  silent  everywhere  ! 
Nature  with  folded  hands  seemed  there, 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer  ! 

Like  one  in  prayer  I  stood. 


VOICES   OF  THE   NIGHT 


Before  me  rose  an  avenue 

Of  tall  and  sombrous  pines  ; 
Abroad  their  fan-like  branches  grew, 
And,  where  the  sunshine  darted  through, 
Spread  a  vapor  soft  and  blue, 

In  long  and  sloping  lines. 

And,  falling  on  my  weary  brain, 

Like  a  fast-falling  shower, 
The  dreams  of  youth  came  back  again,  — 
Low  lispings  of  the  summer  rain, 
Dropping  on  the  ripened  grain, 

As  once  upon  the  flower. 

Visions  of  childhood  !  Stay,  oh,  stay  ! 

Ye  were  so  sweet  and  wild  ! 
And  distant  voices  seemed  to  say, 
"  It  cannot  be  !     They  pass  away  ! 
Other  themes  demand  thy  lay  ; 

Thou  art  no  more  a  child  ! 

"  The  land  of  Song  within  tliee  lies, 

Watered  by  living  springs  ; 
The  lids  of  Fancy's  sleepless  eyes 
Are  gates  unto  that  Paradise  ; 
Holy  thoughts,  like  stars,  arise  ; 

Its  clouds  are  angels'  wings. 

"  Learn,  that  henceforth  thy  song  shall  be, 
Not  mountains  capped  with  snow, 

Nor  forests  sounding  like  the  sea, 

Nor  rivers  flowing  ceaselessly, 

Where  the  woodlands  bend  to  see 
The  bending  heavens  below. 

"  There  is  a  forest  where  the  din 

Of  iron  branches  sounds  ! 
A  mighty  river  roars  between, 
And  whosoever  looks  therein 
Sees  the  heavens  all  black  with  sin, 

Sees  not  its  depths,  nor  bounds. 

"  Athwart  the  swinging  branches  cast, 

Soft  rays  of  sunshine  pour  ; 
Then  comes  the  fearful  wintry  blast  ; 
Our  hopes,  like  withered  leaves,  fall  fast  ; 
Pallid  lips  say,  '  It  is  past  ! 

We  can  return  no  more  ! ' 

"  Look,  then,  into  thine  heart,  and  write  ! 

Yes,  into  Life's  deep  stream  ! 
All  forms  of  sorrow  and  delight, 
All  solemn  Voices  of  the  Night, 
That  can  soothe  thee,  or  affright,  — 

Be  these  henceforth  thy  theme." 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT 
' A  crira.ai'f],  rpt\\i<rros 

Composed  in  the  summer  of  1839,  "  while  sitting  at 
my  chamber  window,  on  one  of  the  balmiest  nights  of 
the  year.  I  endeavored  to  reproduce  the  impression  of 
the  hour  and  scene." 

I    HEARD   the    trailing  garments    of   the 

Night 

Sweep  through  her  marble  halls  ! 
I  saw  her   sable   skirts   all   fringed    with 

light 
From  the  celestial  walls  ! 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above  ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 
That    fill   the   haunted   chambers   of    the 
Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose  ; 
The    fountain    of    perpetual    peace    flows 
there,  — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O  holy  Night  !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before  ! 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace  !  Peace  !   Orestes-like  I  breathe  this 

prayer  ! 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the    thrice-prayed  for,   the 

most  fair, 
The  best-beloved  Night ! 


A   PSALM  OF  LIFE 

WHAT   THE   HEART    OF    THE   YOUNG   MAN 
SAID   TO   THE   PSALMIST 

Mr.  Longfellow  said  of  this  poem :  "I  kept  it  some 
time  in  manuscript,  unwilling  to  show  it  to  any  one,  it 
being  a  voice  from  my  inmost  heart,  at  a  time  when  I 
was  rallying  from  depression."  Before  it  was  pub 
lished  in  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  October,  1838,  it 
was  read  by  the  poet  to  his  college  class  at  the  close 
of  a  lecture  on  Goethe.  Its  title,  though  used  now 


THE   REAPER   AND   THE   FLOWERS 


exclusively  for  thia  poem,  was  originally,  in  the  poet's 
mind,  a  generic  one.  He  notes  from  time  to  time  that 
he  has  written  a  psalm,  a  psalm  of  death,  or  another 
psalm  of  life.  The  "psalmist  "  is  thus  the  poet  himself. 
When  printed  in  the  Knickerbocker  it  bore  as  a  tnotto 
the  lines  from  Crashaw  :  — 

Life  that  shall  send 

A  challenge  to  its  end, 

And  when  it  comes  say,  Welcome,  friend. 

TELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  !  — 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real  !     Life  is  earnest  ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal  ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant  ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present  ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother,        ^ 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE 
FLOWERS 

In  his  diary,  under  date  of  December  G,  1838,  Mr. 
Longfellow  writes  :  "A  beautiful  holy  morning  within 
me.  I  was  softly  excited,  I  knew  not  why,  and  wrote 
with  peace  in  my  heart,  and  not  without  tears  in  my 
eyes,  The  Reaper  and  (he  Flowers,  a  Psalm  of  Death. 
I  have  had  an  idea  of  this  kind  in  my  mind  for  a  long 
time,  without  finding  any  expression  for  it  in  words. 
This  morning  it  seemed  to  crystallize  at  once,  without 
any  effort  of  my  own."  This  psalm  was  printed  in  the 
Knickerbocker  for  January,  1839,  with  the  sub-title 
A  Psalm  of  Death,  and  with  the  familiar  stanza  from 
Henry  Vaughan,  beginning  :  — 

Dear  beauteous  death  ;  the  jewel  of  the  just ! 

THERE  is  a  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death, 

And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

"  Shall  I  have  naught  that  is  fair  ?  "  saith 

he  ; 

"  Have  naught  but  the  bearded  grain  ? 
Though   the    breath   of    these    flowers   is 

sweet  to  me, 
I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 
He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves  ; 

It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 
He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

"  My   Lord   has   need  of    these   flowerets 
gay," 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled  ; 
"  Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 

Where  He  was  once  a  child. 

"  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care, 
And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain. 
The  flowers  she  most  did  love  ; 

She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 
In  the  fields  of  light  above. 

Oh,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 

The  Reaper  came  that  day  ; 
'T  was  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 

And  took  the  flowers  away. 


VOICES   OF   THE   NIGHT 


THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS 

"This  poem  was  written  on  a  beautiful  summer 
night.  The  moon,  a  little  strip  of  silver,  was  just  set 
ting  behind  the  groves  of  Mount  Auburn,  and  the 
planet  Mars  blazing  in  the  southeast.  There  was  a 
singular  light  hi  the  sky."  H.  W.  L.  It  was  pub 
lished  in  the  same  number  of  the  Knickerbocker  as  the 
last,  where  it  was  headed  A  Second  Psalm  of  Life,  and 
prefaced  by  another  stanza  from  the  same  poem  of 
Vaughan  :  — 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  drest 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

THE  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon  ; 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 

Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven 

But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 
And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 

To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 
Oh  no  !  from  that  blue  tent  above 

A  hero's  armor  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 

When  I  behold  afar. 
Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

0  star  of  strength  !     I  see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain  ; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I  am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 

1  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 
Be  resolute  and  calm. 

Oh,  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this, 
And  thou  shalt  know  erelong, 


Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong. 

FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS 

The  poem  in  its  first  form  bore  the  title  Evening 
Shadows.  The  reference  iu  the  fourth  stanza  is  to  the 
poet's  friend  and  brother-in-law  George  W.  Pierce,  of 
whom  he  said  long  after  :  "I  have  never  ceased  to  feel 
that  in  his  death  something  was  taken  from  my  own  life 
which  could  never  be  restored."  News  of  his  friend's 
death  reached  Mr.  Longfellow  in  Heidelberg  on  Christ 
mas  eve,  1835,  less  than  a  month  after  the  death  of  Mrs. 
Longfellow,  who  is  referred  to  in  the  sixth  and  follow 
ing  stanzas. 

WHEN  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 

And  the  voices  of  the  Night 
Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 

To  a  holy,  calm  delight  ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall  ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door  ; 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more  ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 

Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 
By  the  roadside  fell  and  perished, 

Weary  with  the  march  of  life  I 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 

Comes  that  messenger  divine, 
Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 

Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 


THE   BELEAGUERED   CITY 


Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

Oh,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 
All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 

If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died  ! 


FLOWERS 

"  I  wrote  this  poem  on  the  3d  of  October,  1837,  to 
send  with  a  bouquet  of  autumnal  flowers.  I  still  re 
member  the  great  delight  I  took  in  its  composition,  and 
the  bright  sunshine  that  streamed  in  at  the  soutiiern 
windows  as  I  walked  to  and  fro,  pausing  ever  and  anon 
to  note  down  my  thoughts. "  H.  W.  L.  It  was  prob 
ably  the  first  poem  written  by  Mr.  Longfellow  after  his 
establishment  at  Cambridge. 

SPAKE  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and 

olden, 

One  who  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Rhine, 
When  he  called  the  flowers,  so  blue  and 

golden, 
Stars,  that  in  earth's  firmament  do  shine. 

Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  history, 
As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld  ; 

Yet  not  wrapped  about  with  awful  mystery, 
Like  the  burning  stars,  which  they  beheld. 

Wondrous  truths,  and   manifold   as  won 
drous, 

God  hath  written  in  those  stars  above  ; 
But  not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  under 

us 
Stands  the  revelation  of  his  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation, 
Written  all  over  this  great  world  of  ours  ; 

Making  evident  our  own  creation, 

In   these   stars    of   earth,   these   golden 
flowers. 

And  the  Poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 
Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a  part 

Of  the  self-same,  universal  being, 

Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shining, 
Blossoms  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  day, 

Tremulous  leaves,  with  soft  and  silver  lining, 
Buds  that  open  only  to  decay  ; 

Brilliant  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous  tis 
sues, 
Flaunting  gayly  in  the  golden  light  ; 


Large  desires,  with  most  uncertain  issues, 
Tender  wishes,  blossoming  at  night ! 

These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than 

seeming, 
Workings    are   they   of   the   self  -  same 

powers, 

Which  the  Poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 
Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 

Everywhere  about  us  are  they  glowing, 

Some  like  stars,  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born  ; 
Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  o'erflow- 

fog, 

Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  corn  ; 

Not  alone  in  Spring's  armorial  bearing, 
And  in  Summer's  green-emblazoned  lield, 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn's  wearing, 
In  the  centre  of  his  brazen  shield  ; 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys, 
On  the  mountain- top,  and  by  the  brink 

Of  sequestered  pools  in  woodland  valleys, 
Where   the    slaves    of    nature   stoop   to 
drink  ; 

Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 
Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone, 

But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 
On  the  tombs  of  heroes,  carved  in  stoiie  ; 

In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant, 

In    ancestral    homes,    whose   crumbling 
towers, 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 
Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers  ; 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 
Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like 
wings, 

Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 

And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection, 
We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand  ; 

Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection, 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 


THE    BELEAGUERED    CITY 

Mr.  Simuel  Longfellow  states  that  the  suggestion  of 
the  poem  came  from  a  note  in  one  of  the  volumes  of 
Scott's  Border  Minstrelsy :  "  Similar  to  this  was  the 
Nacht  Lager,  or  midnight  camp,  which  seemed  nightly 
to  beleaguer  the  walls  of  Prague,  but  which  disappeared 


VOICES   OF   THE   NIGHT 


upon  the  recitation  of  [certain']  magical  words. "  The 
title  of  the  poem  served  also  as  that  of  a  remarkable 
prose  sketch  by  Mrs.  Oliphant. 

I  HAVE  read,  in  some  old,  marvellous  tale, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 

With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 
There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 

The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 

The  spectral  camp  was  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 

No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace  ; 
The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled  ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's  misty  light, 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave  ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 

And  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 
Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 


The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 
The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 
The  spectral  camp  is  lied  ; 

Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  star, 
Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


MIDNIGHT    MASS    FOR   THE 
DYING    YEAR 

Published  in  the  Knickerbocker  as  Tie  Fifth  Psalm; 
the  author  also  calls  it  in  his  diary  An  Autumnal 
Chant, 

YES,  the  Year  is  growing  old, 
And  his  eye  is  pale  and  bleared  ! 

Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 
Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard, 
Sorely,  sorely  ! 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow  ; 
Caw  !  caw  !  the  rooks  are  calling, 

It  is  a  sound  of  woe, 
A  sound  of  woe  ! 

Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 
The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll ; 

They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 
Singing,  "  Pray  for  this  poor  soul, 
Pray,  pray  !  " 

And  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars, 
Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 

And  patter  their  doleful  prayers  ; 
But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain, 
All  in  vain  ! 

There  he  stands  in  the  foul  weather, 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 
Crowned  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heather, 

Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 
A  king,  a  king  ! 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day, 

Bids  the  old  man  rejoice  ! 
His  joy  !  his  last  !     Oh,  the  old  man  gray 

Loveth  that  ever-soft  voice, 
Gentle  and  low. 

To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith, 

To  the  voice  gentle  and  low 
Of  the  soft  air,  like  a  daughter's  breath, 

"  Pray  do  not  mock  me  so  ! 
Do  not  laugh  at  me  !  " 


AN   APRIL   DAY 


And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead  ; 

Cold  in  his  arras  it  lies  ; 
No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 

Over  the  glassy  skies, 
No  mist  or  stain  ! 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 
And  the  forests  utter  a  moan, 

Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 
In  the  wilderness  alone, 
"  Vex  not  his  ghost !  " 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 

Gathering  and  sounding  on, 
The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 


The  wind  Euroclydon, 
The  storm-wind  ! 

Howl !  howl !  and  from  the  forest 
Sweep  the  red  leaves  away  ! 

Would  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest, 
O  soul  !  could  thus  decay, 
And  be  swept  away  ! 

For  there  shall  come  a  mightier  blast, 

There  shall  be  a  darker  day  ; 
And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down-cast 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away  ! 
Kyrie,  eleyson  ! 
Christe,  eleysoii ! 


EARLIER   POEMS 


"These  poema  were  written  for  the  most  part  during 
my  college  life,  and  all  of  them  before  the  age  of  nine 
teen.  Some  have  found  their  way  into  schools,  and 
seem  to  be  successful.  Others  lead  a  vagabond  and 
precarious  existence  in  the  corners  of  newspapers ;  or 
have  changed  their  names  and  run  away  to  seek  their 
fortunes  beyond  the  sea.  I  say,  with  the  Bishop  of 
A vranches  on  a  similar  occasion :  'I  cannot  be  displeased 
to  see  these  children  of  mine,  which  I  have  neglected, 
and  almost  exposed,  brought  from  their  wanderings  in 


AN  APRIL   DAY 

WHEN  the  warm  sun,  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned  again, 
'T  is  sweet  to  visit  the  still  wood,  where 
springs 

The  first  flower  of  the  plain. 

I  love  the  season  well, 
When  forest  glades  are  teeming  with  bright 

forms, 
Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 

The  coming-oil  of  storms. 

From  the  earth's  loosened  mould 
The    sapling   draws    its     sustenance,     and 

thrives  ; 
Though  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter's 

cold, 
The  drooping  tree  revives. 

The  softly- warbled  song 
Comes  from  the  pleasant  woods,  and  colored 

wings 
Glance  quick  in  the  bright  sun,  that  moves 

along 
The  forest  openings. 


lanes  and  alleys,  and  safely  lodged,  in  order  to  go  forth 
into  the  world  together  in  a  more  decorous  garb.'" 
This  note  was  prefixed  by  Mr.  Longfellow  to  the  fol 
lowing  group  of  poems  when  published  in  Voices  of  the 
Night.  "The  first  five"  of  the  following,  Mr.  Long 
fellow  says  elsewhere  in  a  manuscript  note,  "were 
written  during  my  last  year  in  college,  in  No.  27  Maine 
Hall,  whose  windows  looked  out  upon  the  pine  groves  to 
which  allusion  is  made  in  L'1 'Envoi."  In  the  appendix 
may  be  found  a  fuller  collection  of  poems  of  this  class. 

When  the  bright  sunset  fills 
The  silver  woods  with  light,  the  green  slope 

throws 
Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills, 

And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And  when  the  eve  is  born, 
In   the    blue   lake   the   sky,   o'er-reaching 

far, 
Is  hollowed   out,  and   the  moon  dips  her 

horn, 
And  twinkles  many  a  star. 

Inverted  in  the  tide 

Stand  the  gray  rocks,  and  trembling  shad 
ows  throw, 
And   the    fair   trees    look    over,    side    by 

side, 
And  see  themselves  below. 

Sweet  April  !  many  a  thought 
Is  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed  ; 
Nor   shall   they   fail,    till,    to   its   autumn 
brought, 

Life's  golden  fruit  is  shed. 


EARLIER   POEMS 


AUTUMN 

WITH  what  a  glory  comes  and  goes  the 

year  ! 

The   buds  of  spring,  those  beautiful  har 
bingers 

Of  sunny  skies  and  cloudless  times,  enjoy 
Life's     newness,     and     earth's    garniture 

spread  out ; 

And  when  the  silver  habit  of  the  clouds 
Comes   down  upon  the   autumn  sun,   and 

with 

A  sober  gladness  the  old  year  takes  up 
His  bright  inheritance  of  golden  fruits, 
A   pomp   and    pageant    till   the    splendid 
scene. 

There  is  a  beautiful  spirit  breathing  now 
Its  mellow  richness  on  the  clustered  trees, 
And,  from  a  beaker  full  of  richest  dyes, 
Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  woods, 
And  dipping  in  warm  light   the   pillared 

clouds. 
Morn   on    the    mountain,   like   a   summer 

bird, 

Lifts  up  her  purple  wing,  and  in  the  vales 
The  gentle   wind,  a  sweet  and  passionate 

wooer, 

Kisses  the  blushing  leaf,  and  stirs  up  life 
Within  the  solemn  woods  of  ash  deep-crim 
soned, 

And  silver  beech,  and  maple  yellow-leaved, 
Where  Autumn,  like  a  faint  old  man,  sits 

down 
By  the  wayside   a -weary.     Through   the 

trees 
The    golden    robin    moves.      The    purple 

finch, 

That  on  wild  cherry  and  red  cedar  feeds, 
A  winter  bird,   comes   with   its   plaintive 

whistle, 

And  pecks  by  the  witch-hazel,  whilst  aloud 
From  cottage  roofs  the  warbling  bluebird 

sings, 

And  merrily,  with  oft-repeated  stroke, 
Sounds  from  the  threshing-floor  the  busy 

flail. 

Oh,  what  a  glory  doth  this  world  put 

on 

For  him  who,  with  a  fervent  heart,  goes 
forth 


Under  the  bright  and   glorious   sky,  and 

looks 
On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well 

spent ! 
For   him    the   wind,   ay,   and    the   yellow 

leaves, 
Shall  have  a  voice,  and  give  him  eloquent 

teachings. 
He  shall  so   hear  the   solemn  hymn  that 

Death 

Has  lifted  up  for  all,  that  he  shall  go 
To  his  long  resting-place  without  a  tear. 


WOODS    IN   WINTER 

WHEN  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 
And   through   the    hawthorn   blows  the 
gale, 

With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill, 
That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 

O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 
The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 

And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,     from    their    frozen    urns,    mute 
springs 

Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide, 
Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 

And  voices  till  the  woodland  side. 

Alas  !  how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 

And   winds   were    soft,   and   woods    were 

green, 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day  ! 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods  !  within  your  crowd  ; 
And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 

Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Chill  airs  and  wintry  winds  !  my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song  ; 

I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year, 
I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 


SUNRISE   ON   THE   HILLS 


HYMN    OF  THE    MORAVIAN 
NUNS    OF    BETHLEHEM 

AT  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  PULASKl's 
BANNER 

The  historical  basis  of  the  poem  is  discussed  in  a  note 
at  the  end  of  this  volume. 

WHEN  the  dying  flame  of  day 

Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 

Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 

Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head  ; 

And  the  censer  burning  swung, 

Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 

The  crimson  banner,  that  with  prayer 

Had  been  consecrated  there. 

And  the  nuns'  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the 

while, 
Sung  low,  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 

"  Take  thy  banner  !     May  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave  ; 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  sabbath  of  our  vale, 
When  the  clarion's  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 
When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

"  Take  thy  banner  !  and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud's  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it,  till  our  homes  are  free  ! 
Guard  it !    God  will  prosper  thee  ! 
In  the  dark  and  trying  hour, 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 

"  Take  thy  banner  !     But  when  night 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 
If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 
Spare  him  !     By  our  holy  vow, 
By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 
By  the  mercy  that  endears, 
Spare  him  !  he  our  love  hath  shared  ! 
Spare  him !  as  thou  wouldst  be  spared  ! 

"  Take  thy  banner  !  and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier's  bier, 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 
Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee." 


The  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 
And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud  1 


SUNRISE   ON   THE    HILLS 

I  STOOD  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's 

wide  arch 
Was    glorious   with    the    sun's    returning 

march, 

And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 
Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 
The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me  ;  bathed 

in  light, 
They  gathered  midway  round  the  wooded 

height, 

And,  in  their  fading  glory,  shone 
Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown, 
As  many  a  pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance, 
Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its  shat 
tered  lance, 

And  rocking  on  the  cliff  was  left 
The  dark  pine  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft. 
The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted,  and  below 
Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river's  flow 
Was  darkened  by  the  forest's  shade, 
Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade  ; 
Where  upward,  in  the  mellow  blush  of  day, 
The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 

I  heard  the  distant  waters  dash, 
I  saw  the  current  whirl  and  flash, 
And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake's  silver  beach, 
The   woods   were   bending  with    a    silent 

reach. 

Then  o'er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell, 
The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills  ; 
And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  wood 
land  fills, 

Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout 
That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out, 
Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin 

smoke, 

Through  thick-leaved  branches,  from  the 
dingle  broke. 

If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows,  that  thou  wouldst  forget, 
If   thou  wouldst  read   a  lesson,  that  will 

keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from 

sleep, 

Go  to  the  woods  and  hills  !     No  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears. 


TO 


EARLIER   POEMS 


THE   SPIRIT    OF   POETRY 

This  and  the  following  poem  were  written  in  Port 
land  immediately  after  Mr.  Longfellow  left  college  in 
the  autumn  of  1825. 

THERE  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these  woods, 
That  dwells  where'er  the  gentle  south-wind 

blows  ; 
Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn  in  the 

glade, 
The   wild   flowers   bloom,   or,    kissing   the 

soft  air, 

The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  out 
spread. 

With  what  a  tender  and  impassioned  voice 
It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought, 
When  the  fast  ushering  star  of  morning 

comes 
O'er  -  riding    the    gray   hills    with  golden 

scarf  ; 
Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandalled 

Eve, 
In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western 


Departs    with    silent    pace  !     That    spirit 

moves 

In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook, 
From  its  full  laver,  pours  the  white  cas 
cade  ; 

And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods, 
Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with 

endless  laughter. 

And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills, 
Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 
In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm, 
And  shouts  the  stern,  strong  wind.     And 

here,  amid 

The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods, 
Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from 

earth, 

As  to  the  sunshine  and  the  pure,  bright  air 
Their  tops   the   green    trees   lift.     Hence 

gifted  bards 
Have    ever    loved    the    calm     and    quiet 

shades. 
For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in 

all 

The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  the  golden  sun, 
The  flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river   on   its 

way, 
Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle 

winds, 
The  swelling   upland,  where  the  sidelong 

sun 


Aslant     the    wooded    slope,    at     evening, 

goes, 
Groves,   through    whose   broken   roof  the 

sky  looks  in, 
Mountain,  and  shattered  cliff,  and   sunny 

vale, 
The  distant  lake,    fountains,   and   mighty 

trees, 

In  many  a  lazy  syllable,  repeating 
Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 

And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit,  that  doth 

fill 
The  world  ;  and,  in  these  wayward  days  of 

youth, 

My  busy  fancy  oft  embodies  it, 
As  a  bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty 
That  dwell   in   nature  ;   of   the   heavenly 

forms 
We  worship  in  our  dreams,  and  the  soft 

hues 
That  stain  the  wild  bird's  wing,  and  flush 

the  clouds 
When   the   sun   sets.     Within  her  tender 

eye 
The   heaven   of   April,  with  its   changing 

light, 
And   when  it    wears  the  blue  of  May,  is 

hung, 
And  on  her  lip  the  rich,  red   rose.     Her 

hair 

Is  like  the  summer  tresses  of  the  trees, 
When  twilight  makes  them  brown,  and  on 

her  cheek 

Blushes  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky, 
With    ever  -  shifting    beauty.      Then    her 

breath, 

It  is  so  like  the  gentle  air  of  Spring, 
As,  from  the  morning's  dewy  flowers,    it 

comes 

Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  is  a  joy 
To  have  it  round  us,  and  her  silver  voice 
Is  the  rich  music  of  a  summer  bird, 
Heard  in  the  still  night,  with  its  passionate 

cadence. 


BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK 

ON  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell, 
The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell  ; 
And,  where  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown, 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down, 
The  glor}r,  that  the  wood  receives, 
At  sunset,  in  its  golden  leaves. 


THE   SKELETON    IN   ARMOR 


n 


Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 

Rose  the  blue  hills.     One  cloud  of  white, 

Around  a  far  uplifted  cone, 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone  ; 

An  image  of  the  silver  lakes, 

By  which  the  Indian's  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest  ;  and  a  band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand, 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 
To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers, 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior's  head  ; 
But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 
So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid  ; 
The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds, 
And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads. 

Before,  a  dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death  dirge  of  the  slain  ; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 
With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief, 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress, 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless, 
With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread, 


He  came  ;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 

They  buried  the  dark  chief  ;  they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed  ; 
And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart  !     One  piercing  neigh 
Arose,  and,  on  the  dead  man's  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 


L'ENVOI 

This  poem  was  written  as  a  poetical  summary  of  the 
volume  Voices  of  the  Night,  which  it  closed,  referring 
in  its  three  parts  to  the  three  divisions  of  that  volume. 

YE  voices,  that  arose 

After  the  Evening's  close, 

And  whispered  to  my  restless  heart  repose  ! 

Go,  breathe  it  in  the  ear 

Of  all  who  doubt  and  fear, 

And  say  to  them ,  "  Be  of  good  cheer  !  " 

Ye  sounds,  so  low  and  calm, 

That  in  the  groves  of  balm 

Seemed  to  me  like  an  angel's  psalni ! 

Go,  mingle  yet  once  more 

With  the  perpetual  roar 

Of  the  pine  forest,  dark  and  hoar ! 

Tongues  of  the  dead,  not  lost, 
But  speaking  from  death's  frost, 
Like  fiery  tongues  at  Pentecost  ! 

Glimmer,  as  funeral  lamps, 
Amid  the  chills  and  damps 
Of  the  vast  plain  where  Death  encamps  ! 


BALLADS   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


THE   SKELETON    IN    ARMOR 

The  volume  of  Ballads  and  other  Poems  was  published 
December  19,  1841,  and  contained  all  the  verse  which 
Mr.  Longfellow  had  written  since  the  publication  of 
Voices  of  the  Night,  with  the  important  exception  of 
The  Spanish  Student.  Besides  the  pieces  here  included 
under  this  division,  the  original  volume  contained  two 
ballads  translated  from  the  German,  and  also  The  Chil 
dren  of  the  Lord's  Supper,  which  will  be  found  under 
the  general  division  Translations  near  the  close  of  this 
volume.  The  historical  basis  of  The  Skeleton  in  Armor 
is  discussed  in  the  Notes.  This  ballad,  when  first  pub 
lished  in  the  Knickerbocker  for  January,  1841,  was  fur 
nished  with  marginal  notes  after  the  manner  of  Cole 


ridge's  The  Ancient  Mariner,  but  in  reprinting  it  in  his 
volume  the  poet  wisely  discarded  an  apparatus,  which, 
unlike  Coleridge's,  was  merely  a  running  index  to  the 
poem. 

"  SPEAK  !   speak  !  thou  fearful  guest  ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?  " 


12 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December  ; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"  I  was  a  Viking  old  ! 
My  deeds,  though  manifold, 
No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse  ; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon  ; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow  ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  1  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led  ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"  Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out ; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Drnining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 


"  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender  ; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 
By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory  ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 
To  hear  my  story. 

"  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

"  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 
I  but  a  Viking  wild, 
And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded  ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen  ! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 


THE   WRECK   OF   THE   HESPERUS 


"  Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us  ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
*  Death  ! '  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

*  Death  without  quarter  ! ' 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel  ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water  ! 

"  As  with  his  wing?  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden,  — 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward  ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  seaward. 

"  There  lived  we  many  years  ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears  ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother  ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies  ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 
On  such  another ! 

'•'  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  feu  ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

Oh,  death  was  grateful  1 


'  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended  ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland!  skoal!" 

Thus  the  tale  ended. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS 

Originally  published  hi  Park  Benjamin's  mammoth 
sheet,  The  New  World.  Of  the  composition  of  the  bal 
lad  Mr.  Longfellow  writes  as  follows  in  his  diary,  under 
date  of  December  30,  1839 :  "  I  wrote  last  evening  a  no 
tice  of  Allston's  poems.  After  which  I  sat  till  twelve 
o'clock  by  my  fire,  smoking,  when  suddenly  it  came 
into  my  mind  to  write  The  Ballad  of  the  Schooner  Hes 
perus  ;  which  I  accordingly  did.  Then  I  went  to  bed, 
but  could  not  sleep.  New  thoughts  were  running  in 
my  mind,  and  I  got  up  to  add  them  to  the  ballad.  It 
was  three  by  the  clock.  I  then  went  to  bed  and  fell 
asleep.  I  feel  pleased  with  the  ballad.  It  hardly  cost 
me  an  effort.  It  did  not  come  into  my  mind  by  lines, 
but  by  stanzas." 

IT  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea  ; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daugh 
ter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did 
blow 

The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sailbr, 
Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 

"  I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 
For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"  Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  ! " 

The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  Northeast, 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted 
steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"  Come  hither !  come  hither  !  my  little 
daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

lie  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast  ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"  0  father  1   I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"  'T  is  a  fog-bell  011  a  rock-bound  coast !  "  — 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"  O  father  !   I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea  !  " 

"  O  father  !   I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming 

snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden   clasped  her  hands  and 

prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the 

wave, 
On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and 
drear, 

Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 
Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 

Tow'rds  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 
A  sound  came  from  the  land  ; 

It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 
On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand 


The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 
Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 

But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 
Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board  ; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 
Ho  !  ho  !  the  breakers  roared  ! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea 
weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 
In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  ! 

Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 
On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  1 


THE   VILLAGE   BLACKSMITH 

In  the  autumn  of  1839  Mr.  Longfellow  was  writing 
psalms,  as  seen  above,  and  he  notes  in  his  diary,  October 
5th  :  "Wrote  a  new  Psalm  of  Life.  It  is  The  Village 
Blacksmith."  A  year  later  he  was  thinking  of  ballads, 
and  he  writes  to  his  father,  October  25th  :  "  My  pen 
has  not  been  very  prolific  of  late  ;  only  a  little  poetry 
has  trickled  from  it.  There  will  be  a  kind  of  ballad  on 
a  Blacksmith  in  the  next  Knickerbocker  [November, 
1840],  which  you  may  consider,  if  you  please,  as  a  song 
in  praise  of  your  ancestor  at  Newbury  [the  first  Stephen 
Longfellow]."  It  is  hardly  to  be  supposed,  however, 
that  the  form  of  the  poem  had  been  changed  during  the 
year.  The  suggestion  of  the  poem  came  from  the 
smithy  which  the  poet  passed  daily,  and  which  stood 
beneath  a  horse-chestnut  tree  not  far  from  his  house  in 
Cambridge.  The  tree,  against  the  protests  of  Mr.  Long 
fellow  and  others,  was  removed  in  1876,  on  the  ground 
that  it  imperilled  drivers  of  heavy  loads  who  passed 
under  it. 

UNDER  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 

The  village  smithy  stands  ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands  ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 


IT   IS   NOT   ALWAYS   MAY 


His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan  ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow  ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge> 
"With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door  ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise  ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies  ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  —  rejoicing,  —  sorrowing, 
Onward  through  life  he  goes  ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 
Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught  ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 


ENDYMION 

THE  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars  ; 
Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 


Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 
With  shadows  brown  between. 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams 

Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 

Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this, 
She  woke  Endymion  with  a  kiss, 
When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 
He  dreamed  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian's  kiss,  unasked,  unsought, 
Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought ; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaze. 

It  comes,  — the  beautiful,  the  free, 
The  crown  of  all  humanity,  — 

In  silence  and  alone 

To  seek  the  elected  one. 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 
And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him  who  slumbering  lies. 

'O  weary  hearts  !     O  slumbering  eyes  ! 
O  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  againij 

I  No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 

Responds  unto  his  own. 

Responds,  —  as  if  with  unseen  wings, 
An  angel  touched  its  quivering  strings  ; 

And  whispers,  in  its  song, 

"  Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long  ?j" 

IT   IS    NOT   ALWAYS    MAY 

No  hay  pajaros  en  los  nidos  de  antano. 

Spanish  Proverb. 

THE  sun  is  bright,  —  the  air  is  clear, 
The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing, 

And  from  the  stately  elms  I  hear 
The  bluebird  prophesying  Spring. 

So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows, 
It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky, 


i6 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Where,  waiting  till  the  west  winrt  blows, 
The  freighted  clouds  at  anchor  lie. 

All  things  are  new  ;  —  the  buds,  the  leaves, 
That  gild  the  elm-tree's  nodding  crest, 

And  even  the  nest  beneath  the  eaves  ;  — 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  iiest  ! 

mil  things  rejoice  in  youth  and  love, 
The  fulness  of  their  first  delight  ! 
And  learn  from  the  soft  heavens  above 
The  melting  tenderness  of  night. 

Maiden,  that  read'st  this  simple  rhyme, 
Enjoy  thy  youth,  it  will  not  stay  ; 

Enjoy  the  fragrance  of  thy  prime, 
For  oh,  it  is  not  always  May  ! 

Enjoy  the  Spring  of  Love  and  Youth, 
To  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest  ; 

For  Time  will  teach  thee  soon  the  truth, 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest  ! 


THE  RAINY  DAY 

Written  at  the  old  home  in  Portland- 

|   THE  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
The    vine    still   clings   to   the  mouldering 

wall, 

But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering 

Past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the 

blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart !  and  cease  repining  ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining  ; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary.  \ 


GOD'S-ACRE 

"I  would  like  to  be  burned,  not  buried,"  Mr.  Long 
fellow  notes,  an-1  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Ward,  who  had  the 
poem  in  his  hands  for  publication,  he  writes :  "  I  here 
add  a  concluding  stanza  for  Gocfs-Acre^  which  I  think 


improves  the  piece  and  rounds  it  off  more  perfectly  than 
belore,  —  the  thought  no  longer  resting  on  the  cold 
furrow,  but  on  the  waving  harvest  beyond  :  — 

Green  gate  of  Paradise  !  let  in  the  sun  ! 

Unclose  thy  portals,  that  we  may  behold 
Those  fields  elysian,  where  bright  rivers  run. 

And  waving  harvests  bend  like  seas  of  gold. 

The  poem  was  published  with  this  additional  stanza  in 
The  Democratic  Review  for  December,  1841,  but  when 
it  came  to  be  added  to  the  volume  the  stanza  was 
dropped. 

I  LIKE   that  ancient   Saxon  phrase,  which 

calls 
The   burial-ground  God's-Acre  !      It   is 

just  ; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls, 
And  breathes  a  beuison  o'er  the  sleeping 
dust. 

God's-Acre  !     Yes,  that  blessed  name  im 
parts 
Comfort  to  those  who  in  the  grave  have 

sown 
The  seed  that  they  had  garnered  in  their 

hearts, 

Their  bread  of  life,  alas  !  no  more  their 
own. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast, 

In  the  sure  faith,  that  we  shall  rise  again 
At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  archangel's 

blast 

Shall  winnow,  like  a  fan,  the  chaff  and 
grain. 

Then   shall   the   good   stand  in  immortal 

bloom, 

In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth  ; 
And  each  bright  blossom  mingle  its  perfume 
With  that  of  flowers,  which  never  bloomed 
on  earth. 

With  thy  rude  ploughshare,  Death,  turn 

up  the  sod, 
And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we 

sow  ; 

This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 
This  is  the  place  where  human  harvests 
grow. 


TO  THE  RIVER  CHARLES 

The  three  friends  hinted  at  in  the  eighth  stanza  were 
Charles  Sumner,  Charles  Folsom,  and  Charles  Amory. 

RIVER  !  that  in  silence  windest 
Through  the  meadows,  bright  and  free, 


THE   GOBLET   OF  LIFE 


17 


Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  findest 
In  the  bosom  of  the  sea  ! 

Four  long  years  of  mingled  feeling, 
Half  in  rest,  and  half  in  strife, 

I  have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 

Thou  hast  taught  me,  Silent  River  ! 

Many  a  lesson,  deep  and  long  ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver  ; 

I  can  give  thee  but  a  song. 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 

I  have  watched  thy  current  glide, 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a  tide. 

And  in  better  hours  and  brighter, 
When  I  saw  thy  waters  gleam, 

I  have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 
And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 

Not  for  this  alone  I  love  thee, 
Nor  because  thy  waves  of  blue 

From  celestial  seas  above  thee 
Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 

Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 

And  thy  waters  disappear, 
Friends  I  love  have  dwelt  beside  thee, 

And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 

More  than  this  ;  —  thy  name  reminds  me 
Of  three  friends,  all  true  and  tried  ; 

And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer,  closer  to  thy  side. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers  ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start, 
When  I  fan  the  living  embers 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart ! 

'T  is  for  this,  them  Silent  River  ! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee  ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver, 

Take  this  idle  song  from  me. 


BLIND    BARTIMEUS 


Written  November  3,  1841.  Mr.  Longfellow  writes 
under  that  date  to  Mr.  Ward:  "I  was  reading  this 
morning,  just  after  breakfast,  the  tenth  chapter  of 
Mirk,  in  Greek,  the  last  seven  verses  of  which  contain 
the  story  of  blind  Bartimeus,  and  always  seemed  to  me 


remarkable  for  their  beauty.     At  once  the  whole  scene 

S  resented  itself  to  my  mind  in  lively  colors,  —  the  walls  of 
ericho,  the  cold  wind  through  the  gateway,  the  ragged, 
blind  beggar,  his  shrill  cry,  the  tumultuous  crowd,  the 
serene  Christ,  the  miracle  ;  and  these  things  took  the 
form  I  have  given  them  above,  where,  perforce,  I  have 
retained  the  striking  Greek  expressions  of  entreaty, 
comfort,  and  healing;  though  I  am  well  aware  that 
Greek  was  not  spoken  at  Jericho.  ...  I  think  I  shall 
add  to  the  title,  '  supposed  to  be  written  by  a  monk  of 
the  Middle  Ages,'  as  it  is  in  the  legend  style." 

BLIND  Bartimeus  at  the  gates 

Of  Jericho  in  darkness  waits  ; 

He  hears  the  crowd  ;  —  he  hears  a  breath 

Say,  "  It  is  Christ  of  Nazareth  !  " 

And  calls,  in  tones  of  agony, 


The  thronging  multitudes  increase  ; 
Blind  Bartimeus,  hold  thy  peace  ! 
But  still,  above  the  noisy  crowd, 
The  beggar's  cry  is  shrill  and  loud  ; 
Until  they  say,  "  He  calleth  thee  !  " 
Qapffei-  eyeipai, 


Then  saith  the  Christ,  as  silent  stands 
The    crowd,    «  What    wilt    thou    at    my 

hands  ?  " 

And  he  replies,  "  Oh,  give  me  light  ! 
Rabbi,  restore  the  blind  man's  sight." 
And  Jesus  answers, 
'H  iriffTis  ffov  afawKe  <re  ! 


Ye  that  have  eyes,  yet  cannot  see, 
In  darkness  and  in  misery, 
Recall  those  mighty  Voices  Three, 
'lijtrot},  eAeTjtroV  /J.G  ! 
©aprrer  eyeipai.  viraye  ! 
'H  TT'HTTIS  ffov  aeVco/ce  ffe  ! 


THE  GOBLET  OF  LIFE 

Mr.  Longfellow,  writing  to  Mr.  Ward,  November  3, 
1841,  says:  "I  shall  send  him  [Mr.  Benjamin]  a  new 
poem,  called  simply  Fennel,  which  I  do  not  copy  here 
on  account  of  its  length.  It  is  as  pood,  perhaps,  as 
Excel.tior.  Hiwthori.e,  who  is  passing  the  night  with 
me,  likes  it  better."  He  afterward  changed  the  title 
to  that  which  the  poem  now  bears. 

FILLED  is  Life's  goblet  to  the  brim  ; 
And  though  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 
I  see  its  sparkling  bubbles  swim, 
And  chant  a  melancholy  hymn 
With  solemn  voice  and  slow. 

No  purple  flowers,  —  no  garlands  green, 
Conceal  the  goblet's  shade  or  sheen, 


IS 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Nor  maddening  draughts  of  Hippocrene, 
Like  gleams  of  sunshine,  flash  between 
Thick  leaves  of  mistletoe. 

This  goblet,  wrought  with  curious  art, 
Is  filled  with  waters,  that  upstart, 
When  the  deep  fountains  of  the  heart, 
By  strong  convulsions  rent  apart, 
Are  running  all  to  waste. 

And  as  it  mantling  passes  round, 
With  fennel  is  it  wreathed  and  crowned, 
WThose  seed  and  foliage  sun-imbrowned 
Are  in  its  waters  steeped  and  drowned, 
And  give  a  bitter  taste. 

Above  the  lowly  plants  it  towers, 
The  fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowers, 
And  in  an  earlier  age  than  ours 
Was  gifted  with  the  wondrous  powers, 
Lost  vision  to  restore. 

It  gave  new  strength,  and  fearless  mood  ; 
And  gladiators,  fierce  and  rude, 
Mingled  it  in  their  daily  food  ; 
And  he  who  battled  and  subdued, 
A  wreath  of  fennel  wore. 

Then  in  Life's  goblet  freely  press 
The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness, 
Nor  prize  the  colored  waters  less, 
For  in  thy  darkness  and  distress 

New  light  and  strength  they  give  ! 

And  he  who  has  not  learned  to  know 
How  false  its  sparkling  bubbles  show, 
How  bitter  are  the  drops  of  woe, 
With  which  its  brim  may  overflow, 
He  has  not  learned  to  live. 

The  prayer  of  Ajax  was  for  light  ; 
Through  all  that  dark  and  desperate 

fight, 

The  blackness  of  that  noonday  night, 
He  asked  but  the  return  of  sight, 
To  see  his  foeman's  face. 

Let  our  unceasing,  earnest  prayer 
Be,  too,  for  light,  —  for  strength  to  bear 
Our  portion  of  the  weight  of  care, 
That  crushes  into  dumb  despair 
One  half  the  human  race. 

f"O  suffering,  sad  humanity  ! 
0  ye  afflicted  ones,  who  lie 


Steeped  to  the  lips  in  misery, 
Longing,  and  yet  afraid  to  die, 

Patient,  though  sorely  tried  \J 

I  pledge  you  in  this  cup  of  grief, 
Where  floats  the  fennel's  bitter  leaf  ! 
The  Battle  of  our  Life  is  brief, 
The  alarm,  —  the  struggle,  —  the  relief, 
Then  sleep  we  side  by  side. 

MAIDENHOOD 

When  writing  to  his  father  of  the  appearance  of  his 
new  volume  of  poems,  Mr.  Longfellow  said  :  "  I  think 
the  last  two  pieces  the  best,  —  perhaps  as  good  as  any 
thing  I  have  written."  These  pieces  were  the  following 
and  Excelsior. 

MAIDEN  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies  ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
WTomanhood  and  childhood  fleet  ! 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse  ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly  ? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar  ? 

Oh,  thou  child  of  many  prayers  ! 

Life  hath  quicksands,  —  Life  hath  snares  I 

Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 


EXCELSIOR 


Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered  ;  — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand  ; 
Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 
One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

Oh,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 


For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 


EXCELSIOR 

The  original  manuscript  of  Excelsior,  showing  the  sev 
eral  drafts  and  interlineations,  is  preserved  in  the  library 
of  Harvard  University.  It  was  written  on  the  back  of  a 
note  from  Mr.  Surnner,  and  is  dated  at  the  close  :  "  Sep 
tember  28,  1841.  Half  past  3  o'clock,  morning.  Now  to 
bed."  The  suggestion  of  the  poem  came  to  Mr.  Long 
fellow  from  a  scrap  of  newspaper,  a  part  of  the  head 
ing  of  one  of  the  New  York  journals,  bearing  the  seal 
of  the  State,  —  a  shield,  with  a  rising  sun,  and  the 
motto  Excelsior.  The  intention  of  the  poem  was  in 
timated  in  a  letter  from  Mr.  Longfellow  written  some 
time  after  to  Mr.  C.  K.  Tuckerman  :  — 

"  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  receiving  your  note  in 
regard  to  the  poem  Excelsior  and  very  willingly  give 
you  my  intention  in  writing  it.  This  was  no  more  than 
to  display,  in  a  series  of  pictures,  the  life  of  a  man  of 
genius,  resisting  all  temptations,  laying  aside  all  fears, 
heedless  of  all  warnings,  and  pressing  right  on  to 
accomplish  his  purpose.  His  motto  is  Excelsior  — 
'higher.'  He  passes  through  the  Alpine  village— 
through  the  rough,  cold  paths  of  the  world — -where  the 
peasants  cannot  understand  him,  and  where  his  watch 
word  is  in  an  'unknown  tongue.'  He  disregards  the 
happiness  of  domestic  peace  and  sees  the  glaciers  —  his 
fate  — before  him.  He  disregards  the  warning  of  the 
old  man's  wisdom  and  the  fascinations  of  woman's 
love.  He  answers  to  all,  '  Higher  yet !  '  The  monks  of 
St.  Bernard  are  the  representatives  of  religious  forms 
and  ceremonies,  and  with  their  oft-repeated  prayer 
mingles  the  sound  of  his  voice,  telling  them  there  is 
something  higher  than  forms  and  ceremonies.  Filled 
with  these  aspirations,  he  perishes;  without  having 
reached  the  perfection  he  longed  for;  and  the  voice 
heard  in  the  air  is  the  promise  of  immortality  and  prog 
ress  ever  upward.  You  will  perceive  that  Excelsior, 
an  adjective  of  the  comparative  degree,  is  used  adver 
bially  ;  a  use  justified  by  the  best  Latin  writers."  This 
he  afterwards  found  to  be  a  mistake,  and  explained 
excelsior  as  the  last  word  of  the  phrase  Scopus  metis  est 
excelsior. 

Five  years  after  writing  this  poem,  Mr.  Longfellow 
made  the  following  entry  in  his  diary :  "  December  8, 


1S4G.  Looking  over  Brainard's  poems, -I  find,  in  a 
piece  called  The  Mocking-Sird,  this  passage  :  — 

Now  his  note 

Mounts  to  the  play -ground  of  the  lark,  high  up 
Quite  to  the  sky.    And  then  again  it  falls 
As  a  lost  star  falls  down  into  the  marsh. 
Now,  when  in  Excelsior  I  said, 

A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 

Brainard's  poem  was  not  in  my  mind,  nor  had  I  in  all 
probability  ever  read  it.  Felton  said  at  the  time  that 
the  same  image  was  in  Euripides,  or  Pindar,  I  forget 
which.  Of  a  truth,  one  cannot  strike  a  spade  into  the 
soil  of  Parnassus,  without  disturbing  the  bones  of  some 
dead  poet." 

Dr.'Holmes  remarks  of  Excelsior  that  "  the  repeti 
tion  of  the  aspiring  exclamation  which  gives  its  name  to 
the  poem,  lifts  every  stanza  a  step  higher  than  the  one 
which  preceded  it." 

THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior  ! 


His  brow  was  sad  ;  his  eye  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior  ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior  ! 

«  Try  not  the  Pass  ! "  the  old  man  said; 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  ! " 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior  ! 

"  Oh  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast  !  " 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior  ! 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch  1 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  !  " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night, 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior  1 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior  ! 


2O 


POEMS   ON    SLAVERY 


A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior  ! 


There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
Excelsior ! 


POEMS   ON   SLAVERY 


In  the  spring  of  1842  Mr.  Longfellow  obtained  leave 
of  absence  from  college  duties  for  six  months  and  went 
abroad  to  try  the  virtues  of  the  water-cure  at  Marien- 
berg  on  the  Rhine.  When  absent  in  Europe  in  the 
summer  of  1842  Mr.  Longfellow  made  an  acquaintance 
with  Ferdinand  Freiligrath,  the  poet,  which  ripened 
into  a  life-long  friendship.  It  was  to  this  friend  that  he 
wrote  shortly  alter  his  return  to  America  [on  leaving 
Bristol  for  New  York]  :  "We  sailed  (or  rather,  paddled) 
out  in  the  very  teeth  of  a  violent  west  wind,  which  blew 
for  a  week, —  'Fran  die  alte  sass  gekehrt  riickivarts  nach 
Osten11  with  a  vengeance.  We  had  a  very  boisterous 
passage.  I  was  not  out  of  my  berth  more  than  twelve 
hours  for  the  first  twelve  days.  I  was  in  the  forward 
part  of  the  vessel,  where  all  the  great  waves  struck 
and  broke  with  voices  of  thunder.  There,  'cribbed, 
cabined,  and  confined,'  I  passed  fifteen  days.  During 
this  time  I  wrote  seven  poems  on  slavery  ;  I  meditated 
upon  them  in  the  stormy,  sleepless  nights,  and  wrote 
them  down  with  a  pencil  in  the  morning.  A  email 
window  in  the  side  of  the  vessel  admitted  light  into  my 
berth,  and  there  I  lay  on  my  back  and  soothed  my  soul 
with  songs.  I  send  you  some  copies." 

He  had  published  the  poems  at  once  on  his  arrival  in 
America  in  December,  1842,  in  a  thin  volume  of  thirty- 


one  pages  in  glazed  paper  covers,  adding  to  the  seven 
an  eighth,  previously  written,  poem,  The  Warning.  It 
is  possible  that  his  immediate  impulse  to  write  came 
from  his  recent  association  with  Dickens,  whose  Ameri 
can  Notes,  with  its  "  grand  chapter  on  slavery,"  he 
speaks  of  having  read  in  London. 

The  book  naturally  received  attention  out  of  all  pro 
portion  to  its  size.  It  was  impossible  for  one  at  that 
time  to  range  himself  on  one  side  or  other  of  the  great 
controversy  without  inviting  criticism,  not  so  much  of 
literary  art  as  of  ethical  position.  To  his  father,  Mr. 
Longfellow  wrote  :  "  How  do  you  like  the  Slavery 
Poems  ?  I  think  they  make  an  impression  ;  I  have 
received  many  letters  about  them,  which  I  will  send  to 
you  by  the  first  good  opportunity.  Some  persons  regret 
that  I  should  have  written  them,  but  for  my  own  part 
I  am  glad  of  what  I  have  done.  My  feelings  prompted 
me,  and  my  judgment  approved,  and  still  approves." 
The  poem  on  Dr.  Channing  was  written  when  the  poet 
was  ignorant  of  the  great  preacher's  death. 

"  Since  that  event,"  he  says  in  his  prefatory  note  to 
the  volume,  "  the  poem  addressed  to  him  is  no  longer 
appropriate.  I  have  decided,  however,  to  let  it  remain 
as  it  was  written,  in  testimony  of  my  admiration  for  a 
great  and  good  man." 


TO   WILLIAM   E.   CHANNING 

THE  pages  of  thy  book  I  read, 

And  as  I  closed  each  one, 
My  heart,  responding,  ever  said, 

"  Servant  of  God  !  well  done  !  " 

Well  done  !  Thy  words  are  great  and  bold ; 

At  times  they  seem  to  me, 
Like  Luther's,  in  the  days  of  old, 

Half-battles  for  the  free. 

Go  on,  until  this  land  revokes 

The  old  and  chartered  Lie, 
The  feudal  curse,  whose  whips  and  yokes 

Insult  humanity. 

A  voice  is  ever  at  thy  side 

Speaking  in  tones  of  might, 
Like  the  prophetic  voice,  that  cried 

To  John  in  Patmos,  "  Write  !  " 

Write  !  and  tell  out  this  bloody  tale  ; 

Record  this  dire  eclipse, 
This  Day  of  Wrath,  this  Endless  Wail, 

This  dread  Apocalypse  ! 


THE   SLAVE'S    DREAM 

BESIDE  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay, 

His  sickle  in  his  hand  ; 
His  breast  was  bare,  his  matted  hair 

Was  buried  in  the  sand. 
Again,  in  the  mist  and  shadow  of  sleep, 

He  saw  his  Native  Land. 

Wide  through  the  landscape  of  his  dreams 

The  lordly  Niger  flowed  ; 
Beneath  the  palm-trees  on  the  plain 

Once  more  a  king  he  strode  ; 
And  heard  the  tinkling  caravans 

Descend  the  mountain  road. 

He  saw  once  more  his  dark-eyed  queen 

Among  her  children  stand  ; 
They   clasped   his    neck,   they   kissed   his 
cheeks, 

They  held  him  by  the  hand  !  — 
A  tear  burst  from  the  sleeper's  lids 

And  fell  into  the  sand. 

And  then  at  furious  speed  he  rode 
Along  the  Niger's  bank  ; 


THE   SLAVE     IN   THE   DISMAL   SWAMP 


21 


His  bridle-reins  were  golden  chains, 

And,  with  a  martial  clank, 
At  each  leap  he  could  feel  his  scabbard  of 
steel 

Smiting  his  stallion's  flank. 

Before  him,  like  a  blood-red  flag, 

The  bright  flamingoes  flew  ; 
From   morn  till   night   he  followed   their 
flight, 

O'er  plains  where  the  tamarind  grew, 
Till  he  saw  the  roofs  of  Caffre  huts, 

And  the  ocean  rose  to  view. 

At  night  he  heard  the  lion  roar, 

And  the  hyena  scream, 
And  the  river-horse,  as   he  crushed   the 
reeds 

Beside  some  hidden  stream  ; 
And  it  passed,  like  a  glorious  roll  of  drums, 

Through  the  triumph  of  his  dream. 

The  forests,  with  their  myriad  tongues, 

Shouted  of  liberty  ; 
And  the  Blast  of  th»  Desert  cried  aloud, 

With  a  voice  so  wild  and  free, 
That  he  started  in  his  sleep  and  smiled 

At  their  tempestuous  glee. 

He  did  not  feel  the  driver's  whip, 

Nor  the  burning  heat  of  day  ; 
FOP    Death   had    illumined    the    Land    of 
Sleep, 

And  his  lifeless  body  lay 
A  worn-out  fetter,  that  the  soul 

Had  broken  and  thrown  away  ! 


THE   GOOD    PART 

THAT  SHALL  NOT  BE   TAKEN   AWAY 

SHE  dwells  by  Great  Kenhawa's  side, 

In  valleys  green  and  cool  ; 
And  all  her  hope  and  all  her  pride 

Are  in  the  village  school. 

Her  soul,  like  the  transparent  air 
That  robes  the  hills  above, 

Though  not  of  earth,  encircles  there 
All  things  with  arms  of  love. 

And  thus  she  walks  among  her  girls 
With  praise  and  mild  rebukes  ; 


Subduing  e'en  rude  village  churls 
By  her  angelic  looks. 

She  reads  to  them  at  eventide 
Of  One  who  came  to  save  ; 

To  cast  the  captive's  chains  aside 
And  liberate  the  slave. 

And  oft  the  blessed  time  foretells 
When  all  men  shall  be  free  ; 

And  musical,  as  silver  bells, 
Their  falling  chains  shall  be. 

And  following  her  beloved  Lord, 

In  decent  poverty, 
She  makes  her  life  one  sweet  record 

And  deed  of  charity. 

For  she  was  rich,  and  gave  up  all 

To  break  the  iron  bands 
Of  those  who  waited  in  her  hall, 

And  labored  in  her  lands. 

Long  since  beyond  the  Southern  Sea 
Their  outbound  sails  have  sped, 

While  she,  in  meek  humility, 
Now  earns  her  daily  bread. 

It  is  their  prayers,  which  never  cease, 
That  clothe  her  with  such  grace  ; 

Their  blessing  is  the  light  of  peace 
That  shines  upon  her  face. 


THE   SLAVE    IN    THE    DISMAL 
SWAMP 

IN  dark  fens  of  the  Dismal  Swamp 

The  hunted  Negro  lay  ; 
He  saw  the  fire  of  the  midnight  camp, 
And  heard  at  times  a  horse's  tramp 

And  a  bloodhound's  distant  bay. 

Where   will-o'-the-wisps    and   glow-worms 

shine, 

In  bulrush  and  in  brake  ; 
Where  waving  mosses  shroud  the  pine, 
And  the   cedar  grows,  and  the   poisonous 

vine 
Is  spotted  like  the  snake  ; 

Where  hardly  a  human  foot  could  pass, 

Or  a  human  heart  would  dare, 
On  the  quaking  turf  of  the  green  morass 


22 


POEMS   ON    SLAVERY 


He  crouched  in  the  rank  and  tangled  grass, 
Like  a  wild  beast  in  his  lair. 

A  poor  old  slave,  infirm  and  lame  ; 

Great  scars  deformed  his  face  ; 
On    his    forehead   he   bore    the   brand   of 

shame, 
And  the  rags,  that  hid  his  mangled  frame, 

Were  the  livery  of  disgrace. 

All  things  above  were  bright  and  fair, 

All  things  were  glad  and  free  ; 
Lithe  squirrels  darted  here  and  there, 
And  wild  birds  filled  the  echoing  air 
With  songs  of  Liberty  ! 

On  him  alone  was  the  doom  of  pain, 

From  the  morning  of  his  birth  ; 
On  him  alone  the  curse  of  Cain 
Fell,  like  a  flail  on  the  garnered  grain, 
And  struck  him  to  the  earth  ! 


THE    SLAVE    SINGING   AT    MID 
NIGHT 

LOUD  he  sang  the  psalm  of  David  1 
He,  a  Negro  and  enslaved, 
Sang  of  Israel's  victory, 
Sang  of  Zion,  bright  and  free. 

In  that  hour,  when  night  is  calmest, 
Sang  he  from  the  Hebrew  Psalmist, 
In  a  voice  so  sweet  and  clear 
That  I  could  not  choose  but  hear, 

Songs  of  triumph,  and  ascriptions, 
Such  as  reached  the  swart  Egyptians, 
When  upon  the  Red  Sea  coast 
Perished  Pharaoh  and  his  host. 

And  the  voice  of  his  devotion 
Filled  my  soul  with  strange  emotion  ; 
For  its  tones  by  turns  were  glad, 
Sweetly  solemn,  wildly  sad. 

Paul  and  Silas,  in  their  prison, 
Sang  of  Christ,  the  Lord  arisen. 
And  an  earthquake's  arm  of  might 
Broke  their  dungeon-gates  at  night. 

But,  alas  !   what  holy  angel 
Brings  the  Slave  this  glad  evangel  ? 
And  what  earthquake's  arm  of  might 
Breaks  his  dungeon-gates  at  night  ? 


THE  WITNESSES 

-4-TN  Ocean's  wide  domains, 

Half  buried  in  the  sands, 
Lie  skeletons  in  chains, 

With  shackled  feet  and  hands. 

Beyond  the  fall  of  dews, 

Deeper  than  plummet  lies, 
Float  ships,  with  all  their  crews, 

No  more  to  sink  nor  rise. 

There  the  black  Slave-ship  swims, 
Freighted  with  human  forms, 

Whose  fettered,  fleshless  limbs 
Are  not  the  sport  of  storms. 

These  are  the  bones  of  Slaves  ; 

They  gleam  from  the  abyss  ; 
They  cry,  from  yawning  waves, 

"  We  are  the  Witnesses  !  " 

Within  Earth's  wide  domains 
Are  markets  for  men's  lives  ; 

Their  necks  are  galled  with  chains, 
Their  wrists  are  cramped  with  gyves. 

Dead  bodies,  that  the  kite 

In  deserts  makes  its  prey  ; 
Murders,  that  with  affright 

Scare  school-boys  from  their  play  ! 

All  evil  thoughts  and  deeds  ; 

Anger,  and  lust,  and  pride  ; 
The  foulest,  rankest  weeds, 

That  choke  Life's  groaning  tide  ! 

These  are  the  woes  of  Slaves  ; 

They  glare  from  the  abyss  ; 
They  cry,  from  unknown  graves, 

«  We  are  the  Witnesses  !  " 


THE   QUADROON    GIRL 


THE  Slaver  in  the  broad  lagoon 
Lay  moored  with  idle  sail ; 

He  waited  for  the  rising  moon, 
And  for  the  evening  gale. 

Under  the  shore  his  boat  was  tied, 
And  all  her  listless  crew 

Watched  the  gray  alligator  slide 
Into  the  still  bayou. 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


Odors  of  orange-flowers,  and  spice, 
Reached  them  from  time  to  time, 

Like  airs  that  breathe  from  Paradise 
Upon  a  world  of  crime. 

The  Planter,  under  his  roof  of  thatch, 
Smoked  thoughtfully  and  slow  ; 

The  Slaver's  thumb  was  on  the  latch, 
He  seemed  in  haste  to  go. 

He  said,  "  My  ship  at  anchor  rides 

In  yonder  broad  lagoon  ; 
I  only  wait  the  evening  tides, 

And  the  rising  of  the  moon." 

Before  them,  with  her  face  upraised, 

In  timid  attitude, 
Like  one  half  curious,  half  amazed, 

A  Quadroon  maiden  stood. 

Her  eyes  were  large,  and  full  of  light, 
Her  arms  and  neck  were  bare  ; 

No  garment  she  wore  save  a  kirtle  bright, 
And  her  own  long,  raven  hair. 

And  on  her  lips  there  played  a  smile 

As  holy,  meek,  arid  faint, 
As  lights  in  some  cathedral  aisle 

The  features  of  a  saint. 

"  The  soil  is  barren,  —  the  farm  is  old," 

The  thoughtful  planter  said  ; 
Then  looked  upon  the  Slaver's  gold, 

And  then  upon  the  maid. 

His  heart  within  him  was  at  strife 

With  such  accursed  gains  : 
For  he  knew  whose  passions  gave  her  life, 

Whose  blood  ran  in  her  veins. 


But  the  voice  of  nature  was  too  weak  ; 

He  took  the  glittering  gold  ! 
Then  pale  as  death  grew  the  maiden's  cheek, 

Her  hands  as  icy  cold. 

The  Slaver  led  her  from  the  door, 

He  led  her  by  the  hand, 
To  be  his  slave  and  paramour 

In  a  strange  and  distant  laud  ! 


THE    WARNING 

BEWARE  !     The  Israelite  of  old,  who  tore 
The  lion  in  his  path,  —  when,  poor  and 

blind, 

He  saw  the  blessed  light  of  heaven  no  more, 
Shorn  of  his  noble  strength  and  forced  to 

grind 

In  prison,  and  at  last  led  forth  to  be 
A  pander  to  Philistine  revelry,  — 

Upon  the  pillars  of  the  temple  laid 

His  desperate  hands,  and  in  its  overthrow 
Destroyed  himself,  and  with  him  those  who 

made 

A  cruel  mockery  of  his  sightless  woe  ; 
The  poor,  blind  Slave,  the  scoff  and  jest  of 

all, 
Expired,  and  thousands  perished  in  the  fall ! 

There  is  a  poor,  blind  Samson  in  this  land, 
Shorn  of  his  strength  and  bound  in  bonds 

of  steel, 

Who  may,  in  some  grim  revel,  raise  his  hand, 
And  shake  the  pillars  of  this  Common 
weal, 

Till  the  vast  Temple  of  our  liberties 
A  shapeless  mass  of  wreck  and  rubbish  lies. 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


The  first  form  of  this  comedy  was  serial  publication 
in  Graham's  Magazine,  September,  October,  and  No 
vember,  1842.  It  was  afterward  carefully  revised  and 
published  in  book  form  in  1843,  with  the  following 
preface  :  — 

"  The  subject  of  the  following  play  is  taken  in  part 
from  the  beautiful  tale  of  Cervantes,  La  Gitanilla.  To 
this  source,  however,  I  am  indebted  for  the  main  in 
cident  only,  the  love  of  a  Spanish  student  for  a  Gypsy 
girl,  and  the  name  of  the  heroine,  Preciosa.  I  have  not 
followed  the  story  in  any  of  its  details. 

"  In  Spain  this  subject  has  been  twice  handled  dra 
matically;  first  by  Juan  Perez  de  Montalvan,  in  La 
Gitanilla,  and  afterwards  by  Antonio  de  Solis  y  Riva- 
deneira  in  La  Gitanilla  de  Madrid. 

"  The  same  subject  has  also  been  made  use  of  by 
Thomas  Middleton,  an  English  dramatist  of  the  seven 


teenth  century.  His  play  is  called  The,  Spanish  Gypsy. 
The  main  plot  is  the  same  as  in  the  Spanish  pieces  ; 
but  there  runs  through  it  a  tragic  underplot  of  the 
loves  of  Rodrigo  and  Dona  Clara,  which  is  taken  from 
another  tale  of  Cervantes,  La  Fuerza  de  la  Sangre. 

"  The  reader  who  is  acquainted  with  La  Gitanilla 
of  Cervantes,  and  the  plays  of  Montalvan,  Solis,  and 
Middleton  will  perceive  that  my  treatment  of  the  sub 
ject  differs  entirely  from  theirs." 

The  book  bore  upon  its  title-page  a  motto  from 
Burns :  — 

"  What  's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what 's  resisted." 

It  had  been  the  poet's  intention  at  first  to  have  tho 
drama  put  on  the  stage,  but  this  plan  was  abandoned. 
A  German  version  was  performed  at  the  Ducal  Court- 
Theatre  in  Dessau,  January  28,  1855. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

VICTORIAN  ) Students  of  Alcala. 

HYPOLITO    ) 

THE  COUNT  OP  LABA  \    .    .    .    Gentlemen  of  Madrid. 

DON  CARLOS  ) 

THE  ARCHBISHOP  OF  TOLEDO. 

A  CARDINAL. 

BELTRAN  CRUZ  ADO Count  of  the  Gypsies. 

BARTOLOME  ROMAN      .     .     .     .  A  young  Gypsy. 
THE  PADRE  CURA  OF  GUADARRAMA. 

PEDRO  CRESPO Alcalde. 

PANCHO Alguucil. 

FRANCISCO Lara's  Servant. 

CIIISPA Victorwii's  Servant. 

BALTASAR Innkeeper. 

PKECIOSA A  Gypsy  Girl. 

ANGELICA A  poor  Girl. 

MARTINA The    Padre     Cura's 

Niece. 

DOLOBES Preciosa's  Maid. 

Gypsies,  Musicians,  etc. 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I.  —  The  COUNT  OF  LARA'S  chambers.  Night. 
The  COUNT  in  his  dressing-gown,  smoking  and  con 
versing  with  DON  CABLOS. 

Lara.  You  were  not  at  the  play  to-night, 

Don  Carlos  ; 
How  happened  it  ? 

Don  C.       I  had  engagements  elsewhere. 
Pray  who  was  there  ? 

Lara.  Why,  all  the  town  and  court. 

The   house   was    crowded  ;   and   the   busy 

fans 
Among  the  gayly  dressed   and   perfumed 

ladies 
Fluttered     like     butterflies     among     the 

flowers. 

There  was  the  Countess  of  Medina  Celi  ; 
The  Goblin  Lady  with  her  Phantom  Lover, 
Her  Lindo  Don  Diego  ;  Dona  Sol, 
And  Dona  Serafina,  and  her  cousins. 
Don  C.  What  was  the  play  ? 
Lara.  It  was  a  dull  affair  ; 

One  of  those  comedies  in  which  you  see,' 
As  Lope  says,  the  history  of  the  world 
Brought  down  from  Genesis  to  the  day  of 

Judgment. 
There  were  three  duels  fought  in  the  first 

act, 

Three  gentlemen  receiving  deadly  wounds, 
Laying  their  hands  upon  their  hearts,  and 

saying, 

"  Oh,  I  am  dead  !  "  a  lover  in  a  closet, 
An  old  hidalgo,  and  a  gay  Don  Juan, 
A  Dona  Inez  with  a  black:  mantilla, 
Followed  at  twilight  by  an  unknown  lover, 


Who  looks  intently  where  he  knows  she  is 

not  ! 
Don  C.    Of  course,  the  Preciosa  danced 

to-night  ? 

Lara.    And  never   better.     Every  foot 
step  fell 

As  lightly  as  a  sunbeam  on  the  water. 

I  think  the  girl  extremely  beautiful. 

Don  C.    Almost  beyond  the  privilege  of 
woman  ! 

I  saw  her  in  the  Prado  yesterday. 

Her  step  was  royal,  —  queen-like,  —  and 
her  face 

As  beautiful  as  a  saint's  in  Paradise. 
Lara.    May   not   a  saint   fall  from  her 
Paradise, 

And  be  no  more  a  saint  ? 

Don  C.  Why  do  you  ask  ? 

Lara.  Because  I  have  heard  it  said  this 
angel  fell, 

And  though  she  is  a  virgin  outwardly, 

Within  she  is  a  sinner  ;  like  those  panels 

Of  doors  and  altar-pieces  the  old  monks 

Painted  in  convents,  with  the  Virgin  Mary 

On   the    outside,   and   on    the    inside    Ve 
nus  ! 

Don  C.  You  do  her  wrong  ;  indeed,  you 
do  her  wrong  ! 

She  is  as  virtuous  as  she  is  fair. 

Lara.  How  credulous  you  are  !     Why, 
look  you,  friend, 

There  's  not  a  virtuous  woman  in  Madrid, 

In  this  whole  city  !     And  would  you  per 
suade  me 

That   a   mere    dancing  -  girl,    who    shows 
herself, 

Nightly,   half   naked,   on    the    stage,   for 
money, 

And   with   voluptuous    motions    fires    the 
blood 

Of  inconsiderate  youth,  is  to  be  held 

A  model  for  her  virtue  ? 

Don  C.  You  forget 

She  is  a  Gypsy  girl. 

Lara.  And  therefore  won 

The  easier. 

Don  C.         Nay,  not  to  be  won  at  all  I 

The  only  virtue  that  a  Gypsy  prizes 

Is  chastity.     That  is  her  only  virtue. 

Dearer  than  life  she  holds  it.     I  remem 
ber 

A  Gypsy  woman,  a  vile,  shameless  bawd, 

Whose  craft  was  to  betray  the  young  and 
fair  ; 

And  yet  this  woman  was  above  all  bribes. 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


25 


And   when  a  noble  lord,   touched  by  her 

beauty, 

The  wild  and  wizard  beauty  of  her  race, 
Offered   her  gold   to   be    what   she  made 

others, 

She  turned  upon  him,  with  a  look  of  scorn, 
And  smote  him  in  the  face  ! 

Lara.  And  does  that  prove 

That  Preciosa  is  above  suspicion  ? 

Don  C.  It  proves  a  nobleman  may  be 

repulsed 

^hen  he  thinks  conquest  easy.     I  believe 

That  woman,  in  her  deepest  degradation, 

'  Holds  something  sacred,  something  uude- 

filed, 
Some  pledge  and  keepsake  of  her  higher 

nature, 

And,  like  the  diamond  in  the  dark,  retains 
Some   quenchless   gleam   of    the   celestial 


Lara.  Yet   Preciosa   would  have   taken 

the  gold. 

Don  C.  (rising).     I  do  not  think  so. 
Lara.  I  am  sure  of  it. 

But   why   this   haste  ?     Stay   yet   a  little 

longer, 

And  fight  the  battles  of  your  Dulcinea. 
Don  C.  'T  is  late.     1  must  begone,  for 

if  I  stay 
You  will  not  be  persuaded. 

Lara.  Yes  ;  persuade  me. 

Don  C.  No  one  so  deaf  as  he  who  will 

not  hear  ! 
Lara.  No  one  so  blind  as  he  who  will  not 

see  ! 
Don  C.  And  so  good  night.     I  wish  you 

pleasant  dreams, 

And  greater  faith  in  woman.  {Exit. 

Lara.  Greater  faith  ! 

I  have  the  greatest  faith  ;  for  I  believe 
Victorian  is  her  lover.     I  believe 
That  I  shall  be  to-morrow  ;  and  thereafter 
Another,  and  another,  and  another, 
Chasing  each  other  through  her  zodiac, 
As  Taurus  chases  Aries. 

(Enter  FEANCISCO  with  a  casket.) 

Well,  Francisco, 
What  speed  with  Preciosa  ? 

Fran.  None,  my  lord. 

She  sends  your  jewels  back,  and  bids  me 

tell  you 

She  is  not  to  be  purchased  by  your  gold. 
Lara.  Then  I  will  try  some  other  way  to 

win  her. 
Pray,  dost  thou  know  Victorian  ? 


Fran.  Yes,  my  lord  ; 

I  saw  him  at  the  jeweller's  to-day. 

Lara.  What  was  he  doing  there  ? 

Fran.  I  saw  him  buy 

A  golden  ring,  that  had  a  ruby  in  it. 

Lara.  Was  there  another  like  it  ? 

Fran.  One  so  like  it 

I  could  not  choose  between  them. 

Lara.  It  is  well, 

To-morrow  morning  bring  that  ring  to  me. 
Do  not  forget.    Now  light  me  to  my  bed. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  street  in  Madrid.  Enter  CHISPA,  fol 
lowed  by  musicians,  loitli  a  bagpipe,  guitars,  and 
other  instruments. 

Chispa.  Abernuncio  Satanas !  and  a 
plague  on  all  lovers  who  ramble  about  at 
night  drinking  the  elements,  instead  of 
sleeping  quietly  in  their  beds.  Every 
dead  man  to  his  cemetery,  say  I  ;  and 
every  friar  to  his  monastery.  Now,  here  's 
my  master,  Victorian,  yesterday  a  cow- 
keeper,  and  to-day  a  gentleman  ;  yesterday 
a  student,  and  to-day  a  lover  ;  and  I  must 
be  up  later  than  the  nightingale,  for  as  the 
abbot  sings  so  must  the  sacristan  respond. 
God  grant  he  may  soon  be  married,  for 
then  shall  all  this  serenading  cease.  Ay, 
marry  !  marry  !  marry  !  Mother,  what 
does  marry  mean  ?  It  means  to  spin,  to 
bear  children,  and  to  weep,  my  daughter  ! 
And,  of  a  truth,  there  is  something  more 
in  matrimony  than  the  wedding-ring.  (To 
the  musicians.)  And  now,  gentlemen,  Pax 
vobiscum  !  as  the  ass  said  to  the  cabbages. 
Pray,  walk  this  way  ;  and  don't  hang  down 
your  heads.  It  is  no  disgrace  to  have  an 
old  father  and  a  ragged  shirt.  Now,  look 
you,  you  are  gentlemen  who  lead  the  life 
of  crickets  ;  you  enjoy  hunger  by  day  and 
noise  by  night.  Yet,  I  beseech  you,  for 
this  once  be  not  loud,  but  pathetic  ;  for  it 
is  a  serenade  to  a  damsel  in  bed,  and  not  to 
the  Man  in  the  Moon.  Your  object  is  not 
to  arouse  and  terrify,  but  to  soothe  and 
bring  lulling  dreams.  Therefore,  each 
shall  not  play  upon  his  instrument  as  if  it 
were  the  only  one  in  the  universe,  but 
gently,  and  with  a  certain  modesty,  ac 
cording  with  the  others.  Pray,  how  may  I 
call  thy  name,  friend  ? 

First  Mas.  Gerdnimo  Gil,  at  your  ser 
vice. 

Chispa.  Every  tub  smells  of   the  wine 


2-6 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


that  is  in  it.  Pray,  Ger<5nimo,  is  not  Satur 
day  an  unpleasant  day  with  thee  ? 

First  Mus.  Why  so  ? 

Chispa.  Because  I  have  heard  it  said 
that  Saturday  is  an  unpleasant  day  with 
those  who  have  but  one  shirt.  Moreover, 
I  have  seen  thee  at  the  tavern,  and  if  thou 
canst  run  as  fast  as  thou  canst  drink,  I 
should  like  to  hunt  hares  with  thee.  What 
instrument  is  that  ? 

First  Mus.  An  Aragonese  bagpipe. 

Chispa.  Pray,  art  thou  related  to  the  bag 
piper  of  Bujalance,  who  asked  a  maravedi 
for  playing,  and  ten  for  leaving  off  ? 

First  Mus.  No,  your  honor. 

Chispa.  I  am  glad  of  it.  What  other 
instruments  have  we  ? 

Second  and  Third  Musicians.  We  play 
the  bandurria. 

Chispa.  A  pleasing  instrument.  And 
thou? 

Fourth  Mus.  The  fife. 

Chispa.  I  like  it  ;  it  has  a  cheerful,  soul- 
stirring  sound,  that  soars  up  to  my  lady's 
window  like  the  song  of  a  swallow.  And 
you  others  ? 

Other  Mus.  We  are  the  singers,  please 
your  honor. 

Chispa.  You  are  too  many.  Do  you 
think  we  are  going  to  sing  mass  in  the 
cathedral  of  Cdrdova  ?  Four  men  can 
make  but  little  use  of  one  shoe,  and  I  see 
not  how  you  can  all  sing  in  one  song.  But 
follow  me  along  the  garden  wall.  That  is 
the  way  my  master  climbs  to  the  lady's 
window.  It  is  by  the  Vicar's  skirts  that 
the  Devil  climbs  into  the  belfry.  Come, 
follow  me,  and  make  no  noise.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.  —  PRECIOSA'S  chamber.     She  stands  at  the 
open  window. 

Prec\  How  slowly  through  the  lilac- 
scented  air 

Descends  the  tranquil  moon  !  Like  thistle 
down 

The  vapory  clouds  float  in  the  peaceful 
sky  ; 

And  sweetly  from  yon  hollow  vaults  of 
shade 

The  nightingales  breathe  out  their  souls  in 
song. 

And  hark  !  what  songs  of  love,  what  soul- 
like  sounds, 

Answer  them  from  belowJJ 


SERENADE 

(  Stars  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  in  yon  azure  deeps, 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light ! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps  I 

(Sleeps ! 

Moon  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps, 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light ! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps  I 

Wind  of  the  summer  night ! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps, 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light ! 

She  sleeps  ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Dreams  of  the  summer  night  I 
Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps 

Watch !  while  in  slumbers  light 
She  sleeps ! 

My  lady  sleeps ! 
Sleeps ! 

(Enter  VICTORIAN  by  the  balcony.) 

Viet.  Poor  little  dove  !     Thou  tremblest 

like  a  leaf  ! 
Prec.  I  am  so  frightened  !    'T  is  for  thee 

I  tremble  ! 
I  hate  to  have  thee   climb   that   wall   by 

night  ! 
Did  no  one  see  thee  ? 

Viet.  None,  my  love,  but  thou. 

Prec.  'T  is  very  dangerous  ;   and   when 

thou  art  gone 

I  chide  myself  for  letting  thee  come  here 
Thus  stealthily  by  night.    Where  hast  thou 

been? 

Since  yesterday  I  have  no  news  from  thee. 
Viet.  Since    yesterday   I   have   been  in 

Alcakt 

Erelong  the  time  will  come,  sweet  Preciosa, 
When  that  dull  distance  shall  no  more  di 
vide  us  ; 

And  I  no  more  shall  scale  thy  wall  by  night 
To  steal  a  kiss  from  thee,  as  I  do  now. 
Prec.  An  honest  thief,  to  steal  but  what 

thou  givest. 

Viet.  And  we  shall  sit  together  unmo 
lested, 
(And  words  of  true  love  pass  from  tongue 

to  tongue, 

As  singing  birds  from  one  bough  to  an 
other. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT 


Prec.    That  were   a  life  to  make  time 

envious !  . 

I  knew  that  thou  wouldst  come  to  me  to 
night. 
I  saw  thee  at  the  play. 

Viet.  Sweet  child  of  air  ! 

Never  did  I  behold  thee  so  attired 
And  garmented  in  beaut)7"  as  to-night ! 
What  hast  thou  done  to  make  thee  look  so 

fair  ? 

Prec.  Am  I  not  always  fair  ? 
Viet.  Ay,  and  so  fair 

That  I  am  jealous  of  all  eyes  that  see  thee, 
And  wish  that  they  were  blind. 

Prec.  I  heed  them  not ; 

When  thou  art  present,  I   see   none   but 

thee! 
Viet.  There  's  nothing  fair  nor  beautiful, 

but  takes 

Something  from  thee,  that  makes  it  beauti 
ful. 
Prec.  And  yet  thou  leavest  me  for  those 

dusty  books. 
Viet.  Thou  comest  between  me  and  those 

books  too  often  ! 

I  see  thy  face  in  everything  I  see  ! 
The  paintings  in  the  chapel  wear  thy  looks, 
The  canticles  are  changed  to  sarabands, 
And  with  the  learned  doctors  of  the  schools 
I  see  thee  dance  cachuchas. 

Prec.  In  good  sooth, 

I  dance  with  learned  doctors  of  the  schools 
To-morrow  morning. 

Viet.  And  with  whom,  I  pray  ? 

Prec.  A   grave  and  reverend   Cardinal, 

and  his  Grace 
The  Archbishop  of  Toledo. 

Viet.  What  mad  jest 

Is  this  ? 

Prec.      It  is  no  jest  ;  indeed  it  is  not. 
Viet.  Prithee,  explain  thyself. 
Prec.  Why,  simply  thus. 

Thou  knowest  the  Pope  has  sent  here  into 

Spain 

To  put  a  stop  to  dances  on  the  stage. 
Viet.  I  have  heard  it  whispered. 
Prec.  Now  the  Cardinal, 

Who  for  this  purpose  comes,  would  fain 

behold 
With  his  own  eyes  these  dances  ;  and  the 

Archbishop 
Has  sent  for  me  — 

Viet.  That   thou   mayest    dance    before 

them  ! 
Now  viva  la  cachucha  !     It  will  breathe 


The  fire  of  youth  into  these  gray  old  men  ! 
'T  will  be  thy  proudest  conquest  ! 

Prec.  Saving  one. 

And  yet  I  fear  these  dances  will  be  stopped, 
And  Preciosa  be  once  more  a  beggar. 
Viet.  The  sweetest  beggar  that  e'er  asked 

for  alms  ; 
With  such   beseeching  eyes,  that  when  I 

saw  thee 
I  gave  my  heart  away  ! 

Prec.  Dost  thou  remember 

When  first  we  met  ? 

Viet.  It  was  at  Cdrdova, 

In  the  cathedral  garden.     Thou  wast  sit 
ting 

Under  the  orange  trees,  beside  a  fountain. 
Prec.  'T  was  Easter  Sunday.     The  full- 
blossomed  trees 
Filled  all  the  air  with  fragrance  and  with 

j°y- 

The  priests  were    singing,  and  the  organ 
sounded, 

And  then  anon  the  great  cathedral  bell. 

It  was  the  elevation  of  the  Host. 

We  both  of  us  fell  down  upon  our  knees, 

Under  the  orange  boughs,  and  prayed  to 
gether. 

I  never  had  been  happy  till  that  moment. 
Viet.  Thou  blessed  angel ! 
Prec.  And  when  thou  wast  gone 

I  felt  an  aching  here.     I  did  not  speak 

To  any  one  that  day.     But  from  that  day 

Bartolome'  grew  hateful  unto  me. 

Viet.  Remember  him  no  more.     Let  not 
his  shadow 

Come  between  thee  and  me.     Sweet  Pre 
ciosa  ! 

I  loved  thee  even  then,  though  I  was  silent! 
Prec.  I  thought  I  ne'er  should  see  thy 
face  again. 

Thy  farewell  had  a  sound  of  sorrow  in  it. 
Viet.  That   was  the   first  sound   in  the 
song  of  love  ! 

Scarce   more   than  silence   is,  and  yet  a 
sound. 

Hands  of  invisible  spirits  touch  the  strings 

Of  that  mysterious  instrument,  the  soul, 

And  play  the  prelude  of  our  fate.   We  hear 

The  voice  prophetic,  and  are  not  alone.  ..,.,.] 
Prec.  That  is  my  faith.     Dost  thou  be- 

ligye  these  warnings  ? 
Vict\  So  far  as  this.     Our  feelings  and 
our  thoughts 

Tend  ever  on,  and  rest  not  in  the  Present. 

As  drops  of  rain  fall  into  some  dark  well,] 


28 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


\Aiid  from  below  conies  a  scarce  audible 
sound, 

So  fall  our  thoughts  into  the  dark  Here 
after, 

And  their  mysterious  echo  reaches  us.  \ 
Prec.  I  have    felt   it   so,  but   found  no 
words  to  say  it ! 

I  cannot  reason  ;  I  can  only  feel ! 

But  thou  hast  language    for  all   thoughts 
and  feelings. 

Thou  art  a  scholar;  and  sometimes  I  think 

We  cannot  walk  together  in  this  world  ! 

The  distance  that  divides  us  is  too  great ! 

Henceforth   thy  pathway  lies   among   the 
stars  ; 

I  must  not  hold  thee  back. 

Viet.  Thou  little  sceptic  ! 

Dost  thou  still  doubt  ?j  What  I  most  prize 
in  woman 

Is  her  affections,  not  her  intellect  ! 

The  intellect  is  finite  ;  but  the  affections 

Are  infinite,  and  cannot  be  exhausted.) 

Compare  me  with  the   great  men   of  the 
earth  ; 

What    am    I  ?      Why,   a    pygmy   among 
giants  ! 

But  if  thou   lovest,  —  mark  me  !    I  say 
lovest,  — 

The  greatest  of  thy  sex  excels  thee  not ! 

The  world  of  the  affections  is  thy  world, 

Not  that  of  man's  ambition.     In  that  still 
ness 

Which  most  becomes  a  woman,  calm  and 
holy, 

Thou  sittest  by  the  fireside  of  the  heart, 

Feeding  its  flame.     The  element  of  fire 

Is  pure.     It  cannot  change  nor  hide  its  na 
ture, 

But  burns  as  brightly  in  a  Gypsy  camp    . 

As  in  a  palace  hall.     Art  thou  convinced,? 
Free.  Yes,  that  I  love  thee,  as  the  good 
love  heaven  ; 

But  not  that  I  am  worthy  of  that  heaven. 

How  shall  I  more  deserve  it  ? 

Viet.  Loving  more. 

Prec.  I  cannot  love  thee  more ;  my  heart 

is  full. 

Viet.  Then   let   it  overflow,  and  I  will 
drink  it, 

As  in  the  summer-time  the  thirsty  sands 

Drink  the  swift  waters  of  the  Manzanares, 

And  still  do  thirst  for  more. 

A  Watchman  (in  the  street).     Ave  Maria 

Purissima  !     'T  is  midnight  and  serene  1 
Viet.  Hear'st  thou  that  cry  ? 


Prec.  It  is  a  hateful  sound, 

To  scare  thee  from  me  ! 

Viet.  As  the  hunter's  horn 

Doth   scare   the    timid   stag,   or   bark   of 

hounds 
The  moor-fowl  from  his  mate. 

Prec.  Pray,  do  not  go  ! 

Viet.  I  must  away  to  Alcald  to-night. 
Think  of  me  when  I  am  away. 

Prec.  Fear  not  ! 

I  have  no  thoughts  that  do  not  think  of 

thee. 
Viet,  (giving  her  a  ring).    And  to  remind 

thee  of  my  love,  take  this  ; 
A  serpent,  emblem  of  Eternity  ; 
A  ruby,  —  say,  a  drop  of  my  heart's  blood. 
Prec.  It  is  an  ancient  saying,  that  the 

ruby 

Brings   gladness   to  the  wearer,  and  pre 
serves 
The  heart  pure,  and,  if  laid  beneath  the 

pillow, 

Drives  away  evil  dreams.     But  then,  alas  ! 
It  was  a  serpent  tempted  Eve  to  sin. 

Viet.   What  convent  of  barefooted  Car 
melites 
Taught  thee  so  much  theology  ? 

Prec.  (laying  her  hand  upon  his  mouth). 

Hush  !  hush  ! 

Good  night  !  and  may  all  holy  angels  guard 

thee  ! 
Viet.  Good  night  !    good  night  !      Thou 

art  my  guardian  angel  ! 
I  have  no  other  saint  than  thou  to  pray  to  ! 

(He  descends  by  the  balcony.) 
Prec.  Take  care,  and  do  not  hurt  thee. 

Art  thou  safe  ? 
Viet,  (from   the   garden).      Safe    as    my 

love  for  thee  !     But  art  thou  safe  ? 
Others  can  climb  a  balcony  by  moonlight 
As  well  as  I.    Pray  shut  thy  window  close; 
I  am  jealous  of  the  perfumed  air  of  night 
That  from  this  garden  climbs  to  kiss  thy 

lips. 

Prec.  (throwing  down  her  handkerchief). 
Thou  silly  child  !   Take  this  to  blind 
thine  eyes. 
It  is  my  benison  ! 

Viet.  And  brings  to  me 

Sweet  fragrance  from  thy  lips,  as  the  soft 

wind 

Wafts  to  the  out-bound  mariner  the  breath 
Of  the  beloved  land  he  leaves  behind. 
Prec.  Make  not  thy  voyage  long. 
Viet.  To-morrow  night 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


29 


Shall  see  me  safe  returned.     Thou  art  the 

star 

To  guide  me  to  an  anchorage.    Good  night ! 
My  beauteous  star  !     My  star  of  love,  good 

night ! 

Prec.  Good  night ! 

Watchman   (at  a  distance).     Ave  Maria 
Purissirna  ! 

SCENE  IV.  —  An  inn  on  the  road  to  Alcala..     BALTASAR 
asleep  on  a  bench.    Enter  CHISPA. 

Chispa.  And  here  we  are,  half-way  to 
Alcala,  between  cocks  and  midnight.  Body 
o'  me  !  what  an  inn  this  is  !  The  lights 
out,  and  the  landlord  asleep.  Hold, !  an 
cient  Baltasar ! 

Bal.  (waking).     Here  I  am. 

Chispa.  Yes,  there  you  are,  like  a  one- 
eyed  Alcalde  in  a  town  without  inhabitants. 
Bring  a  light,  and  let  me  have  supper. 

Bal.  Where  is  your  master  ? 

Chispa.  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about 
him.  We  have  stopped  a  moment  to 
breathe  our  horses  ;  and  if  he  chooses  to 
walk  up  and  down  in  the  open  air,  looking 
into  the  sky  as  one  who  hears  it  rain,  that 
does  not  satisfy  my  hunger,  you  know.  But 
be  quick,  for  I  am  in  a  hurry,  and  every 
man  stretches  his  legs  according  to  the 
length  of  his  coverlet.  What  have  we 
here  ? 

Bal.  (setting  a  light  on  the  table).  Stewed 
rabbit. 

Chispa  (eating).  Conscience  of  Portale- 
gre  1  Stewed  kitten,  you  mean  ! 

Bal.  And  a  pitcher  of  Pedro  Ximenes, 
with  a  roasted  pear  in  it. 

Chispa  (drinking).  Ancient  Baltasar, 
amigo  !  You  know  how  to  cry  wine  and 
sell  vinegar.  I  tell  you  this  is  nothing  but 
Vinto  Tinto  of  La  Mancha,  with  a  tang  of 
the  swine-skin. 

Bal.  I  swear  to  you  by  Saint  Simon  and 
Judas,  it  is  all  as  I  say. 

Chispa.  And  I  swear  to  you  by  Saint 
Peter  and  Saint  Paul,  that  it  is  no  such 
thing.  Moreover,  your  supper  is  like  the 
hidalgo's  dinner,  very  little  meat  and  a 
great  deal  of  tablecloth. 

Bal.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Chispa.  And  more  noise  than  nuts. 

Bal.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  You  must  have  your 
Toke,  Master  Chispa.  But  shall  I  not  ask 
Don  Victorian  in,  to  take  a  draught  of  the 
Pedro  Ximenes  ? 


Chispa.  No  ;  you  might  as  well  say, 
"  Don't-you-want-some  ?  "  to  a  dead  man. 

Bal.  Why  does  he  go  so  often  to  Madrid  ? 

Chispa.  For  the  same  reason  that  he 
eats  no  supper.  He  is  in  love.  Were  you 
ever  in  love,  Baltasar  ? 

Bal.  I  was  never  out  of  it,  good  Chispa. 
It  has  been  the  torment  of  my  life. 

Chispa.  What  !  are  you  on  lire,  too,  old 
haystack  ?  Why,  we  shall  never  be  able 
to  put  you  out. 

Viet,   (without).     Chispa  ! 

Chispa.  Go  to  bed,  Pero  Grullo,  for  the 
cocks  are  crowing. 

Viet.   Ea  !  Chispa  !  Chispa  ! 

Chispa.  Ea  !  Senor.  Come  with  me, 
ancient  Baltasar,  and  bring  water  for  the 
horses.  I  will  pay  for  the  supper  to 
morrow.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  VICTORIAN'S  chambers  at  Alcala..    HYPOLITO 
asleep  in  an  arm-chair.    He  awakes  slowly. 

Hyp.  I  must  have  been  asleep  !  ay,  sound 

asleep  !  <— > 

And  it  was  all  a  dream.  (  O  sleep,  sweet 

sleep  ! 

Whatever  form  thou  takest,  thou  art  fair, 
Holding  unto  our  lips  thy  goblet  filled 
Out  of  Oblivion's  well,  a  healing  draught  I] 
The  candles  have  burned  low  ;  it  musfTBe 

late. 
Where  can  Victorian  be  ?     Like  Fray  Car- 

rillo, 

The  only  place  in  which  one  cannot  find  him 
Is  his  own  cell.     Here's  his  guitar,  that 

seldom 

Feels  the  caresses  of  its  master's  hand. 
Open  thy  silent  lips,  sweet  instrument  ! 
And  make  dull  midnight  merry  with  a 

song. 

(He  plays  and  sings.) 

Padre  Francisco ! 
Padre  Francisco ! 

What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Francisco  ? 
Here  is  a  pretty  young1  maiden 
Who  wants  to  confess  her  sins  1 
Open  the  door  and  let  her  come  in, 
I  will  shrive  her  of  every  sin. 

(Enter  VICTORIAN.) 

Viet.  Padre  Hvpolito  !    Padre  Hypolito  ! 

Hyp.  What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Hy 
polito  ? 

Viet.  Come,  shrive  me  straight;  for,  if 
love  be  a  sin, 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


I  am  the  greatest  sinner  that  doth  live. 
I  will  confess  the  sweetest  of  all  crimes, 
A  maiden  wooed  and  won. 

Hyp.  The  same  old  tale 

Of  the  old  woman  in  the  chimney-corner, 
Who,  while   the  pot   boils,   says,    "  Come 

here,  my  child  ; 

I  '11  tell  thee  a  story  of  my  wedding-day." 
Viet.  Nay,  listen,  for  my  heart  is  full ; 

so  full 
That  I  must  speak. 

Hyp.  Alas  !  that  heart  of  thine 

Is  like  a  scene  in  the  old  play  ;  the  curtain 
Rises  to  solemn  music,  and  lo  !  enter 
The  eleven  thousand  virgins  of  Cologne  ! 
Viet.  Nay,  like  the  Sibyl's  volumes,  thou 

shouldst  say  ; 
Those   that   remained,  after   the  six  were 

burned, 
Being   held   more  precious  than  the  nine 

together. 

But  listen  to  my  tale.    Dost  thou  remember 
The  Gypsy  girl  we  saw  at  Cdrdova 
Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  market-place  ? 
Hyp.  Thou  meanest  Preciosa. 
Viet.  Ay,  the  same. 

Thou  knowest  how  her  image  haunted  me 
Long  after  we  returned  to  Alcald. 
She  's  in  Madrid. 

Hyp.  I  know  it. 

Viet.  And  I  'm  in  love. 

Hyp.  And    therefore   in    Madrid    when 

thou  shouldst  be 
In  Alcala. 

Viet.          Oh  pardon  me,  my  friend, 
If  I  so  long  have  kept  this   secret  from 

thee  ; 
But  silence  is  the  charm  that  guards  such 

treasures, 

And,  if  a  word  be  spoken  ere  the  time, 
They  sink  again,  they  were  not  meant  for  us. 
Hyp.  Alas  !  alas  !  I  see  thou  art  in  love. 
Love  keeps  the  cold  out  better  than  a  cloak. 
It  serves  for  food   and  raiment.     Give  a 

Spaniard 

His  mass,  his  olla,  and  his  Dona  Luisa  — 
Thou  knowest  the  proverb.     But  pray  tell 

me,  lover, 
How  speeds  thy  wooing  ?     Is  the  maiden 

coy  ? 

Write  her  a  song,  beginning  with  an  Ave  • 
Sing  as  the  monk  sang  to  the  Virgin  Mary, 

Ave!  cujus  calcem  dare 
Nee  centenni  commendare 
Sciret  Seraph  studio  I 


Viet.  Pray,  do  not  jest !     This  is  no  time 

fdr  it  ! 
I  am  in  earnest  ! 

Hyp.  Seriously  enamored  ? 

What,  ho  !     The  Primus  of  great  AlcaM 
Enamored  of  a  Gypsy  ?     Tell  me  frankly, 
How  meanest  thou  ? 

Viet.  I  mean  it  honestly. 

Hyp.  Surely  thou  wilt  not  marry  her  ! 
Viet.  Why  not  ? 

Hyp.  She  was  betrothed  to  one  Bartol- 

ome', 

If  I  remember  rightly,  a  young  Gypsy 
Who  danced  with  her  at  Cdrdova. 

Viet.  They  quarrelled, 

And  so  the  matter  ended. 

Hyp.  But  in  truth 

Thou  wilt  not  marry  her. 
r-*  Viet.  In  truth  I  will. 

\The  angels  sang  in  heaven  when  she  was 

born  ! 

She  is  a  precious  jewel  I  have  found 
Among  the  filth  and  rubbish  of  the  world. 
I  '11   stoop   for  it  ;    but   when   I   wear  it 

here, 

Set  on  my  forehead  like  the  morning  star, 
The   world   may  wonder,  but   it  will   not 

laughj 
Hyp.  If  thou  wear'st  nothing  else  upon 

thy  forehead, 
'T  will  be  indeed  a  wonder. 

Viet.  Out  upon  thee 

With   thy  unseasonable  jests  !     Pray  tell 

me, 
Is  there  no  virtue  in  the  world  ? 

Hyp.  Not  much. 

What,  think'st  thou,  is  she  doing  at  this 

moment  ; 
Now,  while  we  speak  of  h^r  ? 

Viet.  \   She  lies  asleep, 

And  from  her  parted  lips  her  gentle  breath 
Comes  like  the  fragrance  from  the  lips  of 

flowers.] 
Her    tender   limbs   are   still,   and   on   her 

breast 

The  cross  she  prayed  to,  ere  she  fell  asleep, 
Rises  and  falls  with  the  soft  tide  of  dreams, 
Like  a  light  barge  safe  moored. 

Hyp.  Which  means,  in  prose, 

She  's  sleeping  with  her  mouth  a  little  open  ! 

Viet.  Oh,  would  I  had  the  old  magician's 

glass 

To  see  her  as  she  lies  in  child-like  sleep  ! 
Hyp.  And  wouldst  thou  venture  ? 
Viet.  Ay,  indeed  I  would  ! 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT 


Hyp.  Thou  art  courageous.     Hast  thou 

e'er  reflected 
How  much  lies  hidden  in  that  one  word, 

now? 

Viet.  Yes  ;  all  the  awful  mystery  of  Life  ! 
I  oft  have  thought,  my  dear  Hypolito, 
That   could  we,  by  some  spell  of   magic, 

change 

The  world  and  its  inhabitants  to  stone, 
In  the  same  attitudes  they  now  are  in, 
What  fearful  glances  downward  might  we 

cast 

Into  the  hollow  chasms  of  human  life  ! 
What  groups  should  we  behold  attout  the 

death-bed, 

Putting  to  shame  the  group  of  Niobe  ! 
What  joyful  welcomes,  and  what  sad  fare 
wells  ! 

What  stony  tears  in  those  congealed  eyes  ! 
What    visible    joy    or    anguish    in    those 

cheeks  ! 
What  bridal   pomps,   and   what    funereal 

shows ! 
What  foes,  like  gladiators,  fierce  and  strug- 


What  lovers   with   their  marble    lips   to 
gether  ! 

Hyp.  Ay,  there  it  is  !  and,  if  I  were  in 
love, 

That  is  the  very  point  I  most  should  dread. 

This   magic   glass,  these   magic   spells   of 
thine, 

Might  tell  a  tale  were  better  left  untold. 

For  instance,  they  might  show  us  thy  fair 
cousin, 

The  Lady  Violante,  bathed  in  tears 

Of  love  and  anger,  like  the  maid  of  Col 
chis, 

Whom  thou,  another  faithless  Argonaut, 

Having  won  that  golden  fleece,  a  woman's 
love, 

Desertest  for  this  Glauce. 

Viet.  Hold  thy  peace  ! 

She  cares  not  for  me.     She  may  wed  an 
other, 

Or  go  into  a  convent,  and,  thus  dying, 

Marry  Achilles  in  the  Elysian  Fields. 
Hyp.      (rising).      And   so,    good   night  ! 
Good  morning,  I  should  say. 
(Clock  strikes  three.) 

Hark !  how  the  loud  and  ponderous  mace 

of  Time 

Knocks  at  the  golden  portals  of  the  day  ! 
And  so,  once  more,  good  night  J     We  '11 

speak  more  largely 


Of  Preciosa  when  we  meet  again. 
Get  thee  to  bed,  and  the  magician,  Sleep, 
Shall  show  her  to  thee,  in  his  magic  glass, 
In  all  her  loveliness.     Good  night !       [Exit. 
Viet.  Good  night  ! 

But  not  to  bed  ;  for  I  must  read  awhile. 

(Throws  himself  into   the  arm-chair  which  HYPOLITO 
has  left,  and  lays  a  large  book  open  upon  his  knees.) 

Must  read,  or  sit  in  revery  and  watch 
The  changing  color  of  the  waves  that  break. 
Upon  the  idle  sea-shore  of  the  mind  ! 
Visions  of  Fame  !  that  once  did  visit  me, 
Making   night    glorious   with   your   smile, 

where  are  ye  ? 
Oh,  who  shall  give  me,  now  that  ye  are 

gone, 

Juices  of  those  immortal  plants  that  bloom 
Upon  Olympus,  making  us  immortal  ? 
Or  teach   me  where  that  wondrous   man 
drake  grows 
Whose  magic  root,  torn  from  the  earth  with 

groans, 
At   midnight   hour,   can   scare   the    fiends 

away, 

And  make  the  mind  prolific  in  its  fancies  ? 
1  have  the  wish,  but  want  the  will,  to  act ! 
Souls  of  great  men  departed  !  Ye  whose 

words 
Have  come  to  light  from  the  swift  river  of 

Time, 
Like  Roman  swords  found  in  the  Tagus' 

bed, 
Where  is  the  strength  to  wield  the  arms  ye 

bore? 

From  the  barred  visor  of  Antiquity 
Reflected  shines  the  eternal  light  of  Truth, 
As   from   a   mirror !      All   the   means    of 

action  — 

The  shapeless  masses,  the  materials  — 
Lie  everywhere  about  us.     What  we  need 
Is  the  celestial  fire  to  change  the  flint 
Into  transparent  crystal,  bright  and  clear. 
That  fire  is  genius  !     The  rude  peasant  sits 
At  evening  in  his  smoky  cot,  and  draws 
With  charcoal  uncouth  figures  on  the  wall. 
The  son  of    genius  comes,  foot-sore  with 

travel, 
And  begs   a   shelter   from   the   inclement 

night. 
He  takes  the  charcoal  from  the  peasant's 

hand, 

And,  by  the  magic  of  his  touch  at  once 
Transfigured,  all  its  hidden  virtues  shine, 
And,  in  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  clown, 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT 


It  gleams  a  diamond  !     Even  thus  trans 
formed, 

Rude  popular  traditions  and  old  tales 
Shine  as  immortal  poems,  at  the  touch 
Of  some  poor,  houseless,  homeless,  wander 
ing  bard, 

Who   had   but  a  night's  lodging    for    his 
r —         pains. 
iBut  there  are  brighter  dreams  than  those 

of  Fame, 
Which  are  the  dreams  of  Love  !     Out  of 

the  heart 

Rises  the  bright  ideal  of  these  dreams, 
As  from  some  woodland  fount  a  spirit  rises 
And  sinks  again  into  its  silent  deeps, 
Ere   the   enamored   knight  can  touch  her 

robe  !  ) 

'T  is  this  ideal  that  the  soul  of  man, 
Like  the  enamored  knight  beside  the  foun 
tain, 
Waits    for    upon    the    margin    of    Life's 

stream  ; 
Waits  to  behold  her  rise  from   the   dark 

waters, 

Clad  in  a  mortal  shape  !     Alas  !  how  many 
Must  wait  in  vain  !     The  stream  flows  ever 
more, 

But  from  its  silent  deeps  no  spirit  rises  ! 
Yet  I,  born  under  a  propitious  star, 
Have  found  the  bright  ideal  of  my  dreams. 
Yes  !  she  is  ever  with  me.     I  can  feel, 
Here,  as  I  sit  at  midnight  and  alone, 
Her  gentle  breathing  !  on  my  breast  can 

feel 

The  pressure  of  her  head  !     God's  benison 
Rest  ever  on  it !     Close   those    beauteous 

eyes, 
Sweet  Sleep  !  and  all  the  flowers  that  bloom 

at  night 

With  balmy  lips  breathe  in  her  ears  my 
name  ! 

(Gradually  sinks  asleep.) 


ACT   II 

SCENE  I. — PRECIOSA'S  chamber.    Morning.    PRECIOSA 
and  ANGELICA. 

Prec.  Why  will  you  go  so  soon  ?     Stay 

yet  awhile. 

The  poor  too  often  turn  away  unheard 
From  hearts  that  shut  against  them  with  a 

sound 
That  will  be  heard  in  heaven.     Pray,  tell 

me  more 


Of  your  adversities.     Keep  nothing  from 

me. 
What  is  your  landlord's  name  ? 

Aug.  The  Count  of  Lara. 

Prec.  The  Count  of  Lara  ?     Oh,  beware 

that  man  ! 
Mistrust  his   pity,  —  hold   no  parley  with 

him  ! 

And  rather  die  an  outcast  in  the  streets 
Than  touch  his  gold. 

Ang.  You  know  him,  then  ! 

Prec.  As  much 

As  any  woman  may,  and  yet  be  pure. 
As  you*  would  keep  your  name  without  a 

blemish, 
Beware  of  him  ! 

Ang.  Alas  !  what  can  I  do  ? 

I  cannot  choose  my  friends.     Each  word  of 

kindness, 

Come  whence  it  may,  is  welcome  to  the  poor. 
Prec.  Make  me  your  friend.     A  girl  so 

young  and  fair 
Should  have  no  friends  but  those  of   her 

own  sex. 
What  is  your  name  ? 

Ang.  Angelica. 

Prec.  That  name 

Was  given  you,  that  you  might  be  an  angel 
To  her  who  bore  you  !     When  your  infant 

smile 
Made  her   home   Paradise,  you  were  her 

angel. 

Oh,  be  an  angel  still  !   She  needs  that  smile. 
So  long  as  you  are  innocent,  fear  nothing. 
No  one  can  harm  you  !     I  am  a  poor  girl, 
Whom  chance  has  taken  from  the  public 

streets, 
I   have   no   other   shield   than   mine    own 

virtue. 

That  is  the  charm  which  has  protected  me  ! 
Amid  a  thousand  perils,  I  have  worn  it 
Here  on  my  heart !  It  is  my  guardian  angel. 
A 11  g.     (rifting).      I   thank   you   for   this 

counsel,  dearest  lady. 
Prec.  Thank  me  by  following  it. 
Ang.  Indeed  I  will. 

Prec.  Pray,  do   not   go.      I  have  much 

more  to  say. 
Ang.  My  mother  is  alone.     I   dare  not 

leave  her. 
Prec.  Some  other  time,  then,  when  we 

meet  again. 

You  must  not  go  away  with  words  alone. 
(Gives  her  a  purse.) 

Take  this.     Would  it  were  more. 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


33 


Aug. 

Prec.  No  thanks. 


I  thank  you,  lady. 
To-morrow  come    to 


me  again. 
I  dance  to-night,  —  perhaps  for  the  last 

time. 

But  what  I  gain,  I  promise  shall  be  yours, 
If  that  can  save  you  from  the  Count   of 

Lara. 
Ang.  Oh,  my  dear  lady  !  how  shall  I  be 

grateful 
For  so  much  kindness  ? 

Prec.  I  deserve  no  thanks. 

Thank  Heaven,  not  me. 

Ang.  Both  Heaven  and  you. 

Prec.  Farewell. 

Remember  that  you  come  again  to-morrow. 
Ang.  I  will.     And  may  the  Blessed  Vir 
gin  guard  you, 

And  all  good  angels.  \_Exit. 

Prec.  May  they  guard  thee  too, 

And  all  the  poor  ;  for  they  have  need  of 

angels. 

Now  bring  me,  dear  Dolores,  my  basquina, 
My  richest  maja  dress,  —  my  dancing  dress, 
And  my  most  precious  jewels  !  Make  me 

look 
Fairer   than  night  e'er  saw  me  !     I  've  a 

prize 

To  win  this  day,  worthy  of  Preciosa  ! 
(Enter  BELTRAN  CRUZADO.) 

Cruz.  Ave  Maria  ! 

Prec.  O  God  !  my  evil  genius  ! 

What  seekest  thou  here  to-day  ? 

Cruz.  Thyself,  —  my  child. 

Prec.  What  is  thy  will  with  me  ? 

Cruz.  Gold  !  gold  ! 

Prec.  I  gave  thee  yesterday  ;  I  have  no 
more. 

Cruz.  The  gold  of  the  Busne*,  —  give  me 
his  gold  ! 

Prec.  I  gave  the  last  in  charity  to-day. 

Cruz.  That  is  a  foolish  lie. 

Prec.  It  is  the  truth. 

Cruz.  Curses  upon  thee  !     Thou  art  not 

my  child  ! 

Hast  thou  given  gold  away,  and  not  to  me  ? 
Not  to  thy  father  ?  To  whom,  then  ? 

Prec.  To  one 

Who  needs  it  more. 

Cruz.  No  one  can  need  it  more. 

Prec.  Thou  art  not  poor. 

Cruz.  What,  I,  who  lurk  about 

In  dismal  suburbs  and  unwholesome  lanes  ; 
I,  who  nm  housed  worse  than  the  galley 
slave  : 


I,  who  am  fed  worse  than   the   kennelled 

hound  ; 
I,  who  am  clothed  in  rags,  —  Beltran  Cru- 

zado,  — 
Not  poor  ! 

Prec.  Thou  hast  a  stout  heart  and  strong 

hands. 
Thou  canst  supply  thy  wants  ;  what  wouldst 

thou  more  ? 
Cruz.  The  gold  of  the  Busnd  !  give  me 

his  gold  ! 
Prec.  Beltran  Cru/ado !    hear   me   once 

for  all. 

I  speak  the  truth.    So  long  as  I  had  gold, 
I  gave  it  to  thee  freely,  at  all  times, 
Never  denied  thee  ;  never  had  a  wish 
But  to  fulfil  thine  own.     Now  go  in  peace  ! 
Be  merciful,  be  patient,  and  erelong 
Thou  shalt  have  more. 

Cruz.  And  if  I  have  it  not, 

Thou  shalt  no  longer  dwell  here  in  rich 

chambers, 

Wear  silken  dresses,  feed  on  dainty  food, 
And  live  in  idleness  ;  but  go  with  me, 
Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  public  streets, 
And    wander   wild    again    o'er    field   and 

fell; 
For  here  we  stay  not  long. 

Prec.  What !  inarch  again  ? 

Cruz.  Ay,  with   all  speed.      I  hate  the 

crowded  town  ! 

I  cannot  breathe  shut  up  within  its  gates  1 
Air,  —  I  want  air,  and  sunshine,  and  blue 

sky, 

The  feeling  of  the  breeze  upon  my  face, 
The  feeling  of  the  turf  beneath  my  feet, 
And  no  walls   but  the   far-off    mountain- 
tops. 
Then  I  am  free  and  strong,  —  once  more 

myself, 

Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the  Gale's  ! 
Prec.  God  speed  thee  on  thy  march  !  — 

I  cannot  go. 
Cruz.  Remember  who   I   am,  and   who 

thou  art ! 

Be  silent  and  obey  !     Yet  one  thing  more. 
Bartolome'  Rom&n  — 

Prec.  (with  emotion^).    Oh,  I  beseech  thee  ! 
If  my  obedience  and  blameless  life, 
If  my  humility  and  meek  submission 
In  a.ll  things  hitherto,  can  move  in  thee 
One  feeling  of  compassion  ;  if  thou  art 
Indeed  my  father,  and  canst  trace  in  me 
One  look  of  her  who  bore  me,  or  one  tone 
That  doth  remind  thee  of  her,  let  it  plead 


34 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


In  my  behalf,  who  am  a  feeble  girl, 
Too  feeble  to  resist,  and  do  not  force  me 
To  wed  that  man  !     I  am  afraid  of  him  ! 
I  do  not  love  him  !     On  my  knees  1  beg 

thee 

To  use  no  violence,  nor  do  in  haste 
What  cannot  be  undone  ! 

Cruz.  O  child,  child,  child  ! 

Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  secret,  as  a  bird 
Betrays  her  nest,  by  striving  to  conceal  it. 
I  will  not  leave  thee  here  in  the  great  city 
To  be  a  grandee's  mistress.      Make  thee 

ready 

To  go  with  us  ;  and  until  then  remember 
A  watchful  eye  is  on  thee.  \Extt. 

Prec.  Woe  is  me  ! 

I  have  a  strange  misgiving  in  my  heart  ! 
But  that  one  deed  of  charity  I  '11  do, 
Befall  what  may  ;   they  cannot  take   that 

from  me. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  room  in  the  ARCHBISHOP'S  Palace.    The 
ARCHBISHOP  and  a  CARDINAL  seated. 

Arch.  Knowing  how  near  it  touched  the 

public  morals, 
And  that   our  age  is  grown   corrupt   and 

rotten 

By  such  excesses,  we  have  sent  to  Rome, 
Beseeching  that  his  Holiness  would  aid 
In  curing  the  gross  surfeit  of  the  time, 
By  seasonable  stop  put  here  in  Spain 
To  bull-fights  and  lewd  dances  on  the  stage. 
All  this  you  know. 

Card.  Know  and  approve. 

Arch.  And  further, 

That,  by  a  mandate  from  his  Holiness, 
The  first  have  been  suppressed. 

Card.  I  trust  forever. 

It  was  a  cruel  sport. 

Arch.  A  barbarous  pastime, 

Disgraceful  to  the  land  that  calls  itself 
Most  Catholic  and  Christian. 

Card.  Yet  the  people 

Murmur  at  this  ;  and,  if  the  public  dances 
Should  be  condemned  upon  too  slight  occa 
sion, 

Worse  ills  might  follow  than  the  ills  we  cure. 
As  Panem  et  Circenses  was  the  cry 
Among  the  Roman  populace  of  old, 
So  Pan  y  Toros  is  the  cry  in  Spain. 
Hence  I  would  aot  advisedly  herein  ; 
And  therefore  have  induced  your  Grace  to 

see 

These  national  dances,   ere   we    interdict 
them. 


(Enter  a  Servant.) 
Serv.  The  dancing-girl,  and  with  her  the 

musicians 
Your   Grace   was  pleased  to  order,   wait 

without. 
Arch.  Bid   them   come   in.     Now  shall 

your  eyes  behold 

In  what  angelic,  yet  voluptuous  shape 
The  Devil  came  to  tempt  Saint  Anthony. 

(Enter  PRECIOSA,  with  a  mantle  thrown  over  her  head. 
She  advances  slowly,  in  modest,  half -timid  attitude.) 

Card,  (aside).    Oh,  what  a  fair  and  min 
istering  angel 
Was  lost  to  heaven  when  this  sweet  woman 

fell ! 

Prec.  (kneeling  before  the  ARCHBISHOP). 
I  have  obeyed  the  order  of  your 
Grace. 

If  I  intrude  upon  your  better  hours, 
I  proffer  this  excuse,  and  here  beseech 
Your  holy  benediction. 

Arch.  May  God  bless  thee, 

And  lead  thee  to  a  better  life.     Arise. 
Card,  (aside*).     Her  acts  are  modest,  and 

her  words  discreet ! 
I  did  not   look   for  this  !      Come  hither, 

child. 

Is  thy  name  Preciosa  ? 
Prec.  Thus  I  am  called. 

Card.  That  is  a  Gypsy  name.      Who  is 

thy  father  ? 
Prec.  Beltran    Cruzado,   Count    of    the 

Gale's. 
Arch.  I    have   a  dim    remembrance   of 

that  man  ; 

He  was  a  bold  and  reckless  character, 
A  sun-burnt  Ishmael ! 

Card.  Dost  thou  remember 

Thy  earlier  days  ? 

Prec.  Yes  ;  by  the  Darro's  side 

My  childhood   passed.      I  can  remember 

still 
The  river,  and  the  mountains  capped  with 

snow  ; 

The  villages,  where,  yet  a  little  child, 
I  told  the  traveller's  fortune  in  the  street  ; 
The  smuggler's  horse,  the  brigand  and  the 

shepherd  ; 
The  march  across  the  moor  ;  the  halt  at 

noon  ; 
The   red   fire   of  the  evening   camp,  that 

lighted 

The  forest  where  we  slept ;   and,  further 
back, 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


35 


As  in  a  dream  or  in  some  former  life, 
Gardens  and  palace  walls. 

A  rch.  'T  is  the  Alhambra, 

Under  whose  towers  the  Gypsy  camp  was 

pitched. 
But  the  time  wears  ;  and  we  would  see  thee 

dance. 
Free.  Your  Grace  shall  be  obeyed. 

(She  lays  aside  her  mantilla.  The  music  of  the  cachu- 
cha  is  played,  and  the  dance  begins.  The  ARCH 
BISHOP  and  the  CARDINAL  look  on  with  gravity  and 
an  occasional  frown  ;  then  make  signs  to  each  other  ; 
and,  as  the  dance  continues,  become  more  and  more 
pleased  and  excited;  and  at  length  rise  from  their 
seats,  throw  their  caps  in  the  air,  and  applaud  vehe 
mently  as  the  scene  closes.) 


SCENE  III.  —  The  Prado.  A  long  avenue  of  trees  lead 
ing  to  the  gate  of  Atocha.  On  the  right  the  dome  and 
spires  of  a  convent.  A  fountain.  Evening.  DON 
CARLOS  and  HYPOLITO  meeting. 

Don  C.  Hola  !  good  evening,  Don  Hypo- 

lito. 
Hyp.  And  a  good  evening  to  my  friend, 

Don  Carlos. 

Some  lucky  star  has  led  my  steps  this  way. 
I  was  in  search  of  you. 

Don  C.  Command  me  always. 

Hyp.  Do  you   remember,  in  Quevedo's 

Dreams, 

The  miser,  who,  upon  the   Day  of  Judg 
ment, 
Asks  if  his  money-bags  would  rise  ? 

Don  C.  I  do  ; 

But  what  of  that  ? 

Hyp.  I  am  that  wretched  man. 

Don  C.  You  mean  to  tell  me  yours  have 

risen  empty  ? 
Hyp.  And  amen  !   said  my  Cid  Campe- 

ador. 

Don  C.  Pray,  how  much  need  you  ? 
Hyp.  Some  half-dozen  ounces, 

Which,  with  due  interest  — 

Don  C.  (giving  his  purse).     What,  am  I 

a  Jew 

To  put  my  moneys  out  at  usury  ? 
Here  is  my  purse. 

Hyp.  Thank  you.     A  pretty  purse. 

Made  by  the  hand  of  some  fair  Madrilena  ; 
Perhaps  a  keepsake. 

Don  C.  No,  't  is  at  your  service. 

Hyp.  Thank  you  again.     Lie  there,  good 

Chrysostom, 
And  with  thy  golden   mouth   remind   me 

often, 
I  am  the  debtor  of  my  friend. 


Don  C.  But  tell  me, 

Come  you  to-day  from  Alcald  ? 

Hyp.  This  moment. 

Don  C.  And  pray,  how  fares  the  brave 

Victorian  ? 
Hyp.  Indifferent  well  ;  that  is  to  say,  not 

well. 

A  damsel  has  ensnared  him  with  the  glances 
Of  her  dark,  roving  eyes,  as  herdsmen  catch 
A  steer  of  Andalusia  with  a  lazo. 
He  is  in  love. 

Don  C.          And  is  it  faring  ill 
To  be  in  love  ? 

Hyp.  In  his  case  very  ill. 

Don  C.  Why  so  ? 

Hyp.  For  many  reasons.    First  and  fore 
most, 

Because  he  is  in  love  with  an  ideal ; 
'A  creature  of  his  own  imagination  ; 
A  child  of  air  ;  an  echo  of  his  heart  ; 
And,  like  a  lily  on  a  river  floating,  > 

She  floats  upon  the  river  of  his  thoughts!^ 
Don  C.  A  common  thing  with  poets.  Imt 

who  is 

This  floating  lily  ?     For,  in  fine,  some  wo 
man, 

Some  living  woman,  —  not  a  mere  ideal,  — 
Must  wear  the  outward  semblance  of  his 

thought. 
Who  is  it  ?     Tell  me. 

Hyp.  Well,  it  is  a  woman  ! 

But,  look  you,  from  the  coffer  of  his  heart 
He  brings  forth  precious  jewels  to  adorn 

her, 

As  pious  priests  adorn  some  favorite  saint 
With  gems  and  gold,  until  at  length  she 

gleams 
One  blaze  of  glory.     Without  these,  you 

know, 

And  the  priest's  benediction,  't  is  a  doll. 
Don  C.  Well,  well !  who  is  this  doll? 
Hyp.  Why,  who  do  you  think  ? 

Don  C.  His  cousin  Violante. 
Hyp.  Guess  again. 

To  ease  his  laboring  heart,  in  the  last  storm 
He  threw  her  overboard,  with  all  her  in 
gots. 
Don  C.  I  cannot  guess  ;  so  tell  me  who 

it  is. 

Hyp.  Not  I. 
Don  C.  Why  not  ? 

Hyp.  (mysteriously).      Why  ?      Because 

Mari  Franca 

Was   married  four  leagues   out   of   Sala 
manca  ! 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT 


Don  C.  Jesting  aside,  who  is  it  ? 

Hyp.  Preciosa. 

Don  C.  Impossible  !   The  Count  of  Lara 

tells  uie 
She  is  not  virtuous. 

Hyp.  Did  I  say  she  was  ? 

The  Koman  Emperor  Claudius  had  a  wife 
Whose  name  was  Messalina,  as  1  think  ; 
Valeria  Messalina  was  her  name. 
But  hist  !  I  see  him  yonder  through  the 

trees, 
Walking  as  in  a  dream. 

Don  C.  He  comes  this  way. 

Hyp.  It  has  been  truly  said  by  some  wise 

man, 

That  money,  grief,  and  love  cannot  be  hid 
den. 

(Enter  VICTORIAN  in  front.) 
Viet.  Where'er    thy   step    has  passed  is 

holy  ground  ! 
These  groves  are  sacred  !     I  behold  thee 

walking 
Under  these  shadowy  trees,  where  we  have 

walked 

At  evening,  and  I  feel  thy  presence  now  ; 
Feel  that  the  place  has  taken  a  charm  from 

thee, 
And  is  forever  hallowed. 

Hyp.  Mark  him  well  ! 

See  how  he  strides  away  with  lordly  air, 
Like  that  odd  guest  of  stone,  that  grim 

Commander 

Who  comes  to  sup  with  Juan  in  the  play. 
Don  C.  W'hat  ho  !  Victorian  ! 
Hyp.  Wilt  thou  sup  with  us  ? 

Viet.  HoH  !   amigos  !    Faith,  I  did  not 

see  you. 
How  fares  Don  Carlos  ? 

Don  C.  At  your  service  ever. 

Viet.  How  is  that  young  and  green-eyed 

Gaditana 
That  you  both  wot  of  ? 

Don  C.  Ay,  soft,  emerald  eyes  ! 

She  has  gone  back  to  Cadiz. 

Hyp.  Ay  de  mf ! 

Viet.  You  are  much  to  blame  for  letting 

her  go  back. 

A  pretty  girl  ;  and  in  her  tender  eyes 
Just  that  soft  shade  of  green  we  sometimes 

see 
In  evening  skies. 

Hyp.  But,  speaking  of  green  eyes, 

Are  thine  green  ? 

Viet.  Not  a  whit.     Why  so  ? 

Hyp.  I  think 


The  slightest  shade  of  green  would  be  be 
coming, 
For  thou  art  jealous. 

Viet.  ^  No,  I  am  not  jealous. 

Hyp.  Thou  shouldst  be. 
Viet.  Wrhy  ? 

Hyp.  Because  thou  art  in  love. 

And  they  who  are  in  love  are  always  jealous. 
Therefore  thou  shouldst  be. 

Viet.  Marry,  is  that  all  ? 

Farewell  ;  I  am  in  haste.     Farewell,  Don 

Carlos. 
Thou  sayest  I  should  be  jealous  ? 

Hyp.  Ay,  in  truth 

I  fear  there  is  reason.  Be  upon  thy  guard. 
I  hear  it  whispered  that  the  Count  of  Lara 
Lays  siege  to  the  same  citadel. 

Viet.  Indeed ! 

Then  he  will  have  his  labor  for  his  pains. 
Hyp.  He  does   not  think  so,  and   Don 

Carlos  tells  me 
He  boasts  of  his  success. 

Viet.  How 's  this,  Don  Carlos  ? 

Don  C.  Some  hints  of  it  I  heard  from 
*—*         his  own  lips. 

IHe  spoke  but  lightly  of  the  lady's  virtue, 
As  a  gay  man  might  speakJ[ 

Viet.  Deatnand  damnation  ! 

I  '11  cut  his  lying  tongue  out  of  his  mouth, 
And  throw  it  to  my  dog  !    But,  no,  no,  no  ! 
This  cannot  be.     You  jest,  indeed  you  jest. 
Trifle  with  me  no  more.     For  otherwise 
We  are  no  longer  friends.     And  so,  fare 
well  !  lExit. 
Hyp.  Now  what   a   coil  is  here  1     The 

Avenging  Child 

Hunting  the  traitor  Quadros  to  his  death, 
And  the   great  Moor  Calaynos,  when  he 

rode 

To  Paris  for  the  ears  of  Oliver, 
Were   nothing  to   him  !      O   hot  -  headed 

youth  ! 

But  come;  we  will  not  follow.    Let  us  join 
The  crowd  that  pours  into  the  Prado.    There 
We  shall  find  merrier  company  ;  I  see 
The  Marialonzos  and  the  Almavivas, 
And  fifty  fans,  that  beckon  me  already. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  PRECIOSA'S  chamber.  She  is  sitting,  with 
a  book  in  bfr  hand,  nenr  a  table,  on  which  arc  flow 
ers.  A  bird  sivqivg  in  its  cage.  The  COUNT  OP 
LARA  enters  behind  unperceived. 

Prec.  (reads}. 

All  are  sleeping1,  weary  heart ! 
Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art ! 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


37 


Haigho  I  I  wish  Victorian  were  here. 

I  know  not  what  it  is  makes  ine  so  restless! 

(The  bird  sings.) 

Thou  little  prisoner  with  thy  motley  coat, 
That  from  thy  vaulted,  wiry  dungeon  sing- 

est, 

Like  thee  I  am  a  captive,  and,  like  thee, 
I  have  a  gentle  jailer.     Lack-a-day  ! 


All  this  throbbing-,  all  (his  aching, 
Evermore  shall  keep  thae  availing1, 
For  a  heart  in  sorrow  breaking 
Thinketh  ever  of  its  smart ! 

Thou  speakest  truly,  poet !  and  methinks 

More  hearts  are  breaking  in  this  world  of 
ours 

Than  one  would  say.     In  distant  villages 

And  solitudes  remote,  where  winds  have 
wafted 

The  barbed  seeds  of  love,  or  birds  of  pas 
sage 

Scattered  them  in  their  flight,  do  they  take 
root, 

And  grow  in  silence,  and  in  silence  perish. 

Who  hears  the  falling  of  the  forest  leaf  ? 

Or  who  takes  note  of  every  flower  that 
dies? 

Heigho  !  I  wish  Victorian  would  come. 

Dolores  I 

(Turns  to  lay  down  her  book,  and  perceives  the  COUNT.) 

Ha! 

Lara.  Senora,  pardon  me  1 

Free.  How 's  this  ?     Dolores  ! 
Lara.  Pardon  me  — 

Prec.  Dolores ! 

Lara.  Be  not  alarmed  ;  I  found  no  one 

in  waiting. 
If  I  have  been  too  bold  — 

Prec.  (turning  Tier  back  upon  him).     You 

are  too  bold  ! 
Retire  !  retire,  and  leave  me  ! 

Lara.  My  dear  lady, 

First  hear  me  !     I  beseech   you,  let   me 

speak  ! 
?T  is  for  your  good  I  come. 

Prec.  (turning  toward  him  with  indigna 
tion).     Begone  !  begone ! 
You  are  the  Count  of  Lara,  but  your  deeds 
Would  make  the  statues  of  your  ancestors 
Blush   on    their   tombs !      Is   it   Castilian 

honor, 

Is  it  Castilian  pride,  to  steal  in  here 
Upon  a  friendless  girl,  to  do  her  wrong  ? 


(Oh  shame  !    shame  !    shanie  !    that  you,  a 

nobleman, 

Should  be  so  little  noble  in  your  thoughts 
As  to  send  jewels  here  to  win  my  love, 
And  think  to  buy  my  honor  with  your  gold!  . 
I  have  no  words  to  tell  you  how  I  scorn  i 

you  ! 

Begone  !  The  sight  of  you  is  hateful  to  me! 
Begone,  I  say  ! 

Lara.        Be  calm  ;  I  will  not  harm  you. 

Prec.  Because  you  dare  not. 
- — Lara.  I  dare  anything  1 

Therefore  beware  !     You  are   deceived  in 

me. 

In  this  false  world,  we  do  not  always  know 
Who  are  our  friends  and  who  our  enemies. 
We  all  have  enemies,  and  all  need  friends. 
Even  you,  fair  Preciosa,  here  at  court        , 
Have  foes,  who  seek  to  wrong  you.^ 

Prec.  If  to  this 

I  owe  the  honor  of  the  present  visit, 
You  might  have  spared  the  coming.     Hav 
ing  spoken, 
Once  more  I  beg  you,  leave  me  to  myself. 

Lara.  I  thought  it  but  a  friendly  part  to 

tell  you 
What  strange  reports  are  current  here  in 

town. 

For  my  own  self,  I  do  not  credit  them  ; 
But  there  are  many  who,  not  knowing  you, 
Will  lend  a  readier  ear. 

Prec.  There  was  nc  need 

That  you  should  take  upon  yourself   the 

duty 
Of  telling  me  these  tales. 

Lara.  Malicious  tongues 

Are  ever  busy  with  your  name. 

Prec.  Alas ! 

I  've  no  protectors.     I  am  a  poor  girl, 
Exposed  to  insults  and  unfeeling  jest. 
They  wound  me,  yet  I  cannot  shield  my 
self. 

I  give  no  cause  for  these  reports.     I  live 
Retired  ;  am  visited  by  none. 

Lara.  By  none  ? 

Oh,  then,  indeed,  you  are  much  wronged  ! 

Prec.  How  mean  you  ? 

Lara.  Nay,  nay  ;  I  will  not  wound  your 

gentle  soul 
By  the  report  of  idle  tales. 

Prec.  Speak  out  ! 

What  are  these  idle  tales  ?     You  need  not 
spare  me. 

Lara.  I  will  deal  frankly  with  you.   Par 
don  me  : 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


This  window,  as  I  think,  looks  towards  the 
street, 

And  this  into  the  Prado,  does  it  not  ? 

In  yon  high  house,  beyond  the  garden 
wall,  — 

You  see  the  roof  there  just  above  the 
trees,  — 

There  lives  a  friend,  who  told  me  yester 
day, 

That  on  a  certain  night,  —  be  not  offended 

If  I  too  plainly  speak,  —  he  saw  a  man 

Climb  to  your  chamber  window.  You  are 
silent  ! 

I  would  not  blame  you,  being  young  and 
fair  — 

{He  tries  to  embrace  her.    She  starts  back,  and  dran-s  a 
dagger  from  her  bosom.) 

Prec.  Beware  !    beware  !     I  am  a  Gypsy 

girl  ! 
Lay  not  your  hand  upon   me.     One  step 

nearer 
And  I  will  strike  ! 

Lara.          Pray  you,  put  up  that  dagger. 
Fear  not~ 

Prec.  \I  do  not  fear.     I  have  a  heart  \ 
In  whose  strength  I  can  trust. 

Lara.  Listen  to  me. 

I  come  here  as  your  friend,  —  I  am  your 

friend,  — 

And  by  a  single  word  can  put  a  stop 
To  all  those  idle  tales,  and  make  your  name 
Spotless  as  lilies  are.     Here  on  my  knees, 
Fair  Preciosa  !  on  my  knees  I  swear, 
I  love  you  even  to  madness,  and  that  love 
Has  driven  me  to  break  the  rules  of  cus 
tom, 

And  force  myself  unasked  into  your  pres 
ence. 

(VICTORIAN  enters  behind.) 
Prec.  Kise,  Count  of  Lara  !     That  is  not 

the  place 

For  such  as  you  are.     It  becomes  you  not 
To  kneel  before  me.    I  am  strangely  moved 
To  see  one  of    your   rank   thus   low   and 

humbled  ; 

For  your  sake  I  will  put  aside  all  anger, 
All  unkind  feeling,  all  dislike,  and  speak 
In  gentleness,  as  most  becomes  a  woman, 
And  as  my  heart  now  prompts  me.  I  no 

more 

Will  hate  you,  for  all  hate  is  painful  to  me. 
But  if,  without  offending  modesty 
And  that  reserve  which  is  a  woman's  glory, 
I  may  speak  freely,  I  will  teach  my  heart 
To  love  you. 


Lara.  O  sweet  augel  ! 

Prec.  Ay,  in  truth, 

Far  better  than  you  love  yourself  or  me. 
Lara.  Give  me  some  sign  of  this,  —  the 

slightest  token. 
Let  me  but  kiss  your  hand  ! 

Prec.  Nay,  come  no  nearer. 

The  words  I  utter  are  its  sign  and  token. 
Misunderstand  me  not !     Be  not  deceived  ! 
The  love  wherewith  I  love  you  is  not  such 
As  you  would  offer  me.     For  you  come 

here 

To  take  from  me  the  only  thing  I  have, 
My   honor.     You   are   wealthy,   you   have 

friends 

And  kindred,  and  a  thousand  pleasant  hopes 
That  fill  your  heart  with  happiness  ;  but  I 
Am  poor,  and  friendless,  having  but  one 

treasure, 
And  you  would  take  that  from  me,  and  for 

what? 

To  flatter  your  own  vanity,  and  make  me 
What  you   would   most  despise.     Oh,  sir, 

such  love, 
That  seeks  to  harm  me,   cannot  be  true 

love. 

Indeed  it  cannot.     But  my  love  for  you 
Is  of  a  different  kind.     It  seeks  your  good. 
It  is  a  holier  feeling.     It  rebukes 
Your  earthly  passion,  your  unchaste  desires, 
And  bids  you  look  into  your  heart,  and  see 
How  you  do  wrong  that  better  nature  in 

you, 
And  grieve  your  soul  with  sin. 

Lara.  I  swear  to  you, 

I  would  not  harm  you  ;  I  would  only  love 

you. 
I  would  not  take  your  honor,  but  restore 

it, 

And  in  return  I  ask  but  some  slight  mark 
Of  your  affection.     If  indeed  you  love  me. 
As  you  confess  you  do,  oh,  let  me  thus 
With  this  embrace  — 

Viet,  (rushing  forward}.     Hold  !   hold  ! 

This  is  too  much. 
What  means  this  outrage  ? 

Lara.  First,  what  right  have  you 

To  question  thus  a  nobleman  of  Spain  ? 
Viet.  I  too   am   noble,  and   you   are   no 

more  ! 
Out  of  my  sight  ! 

Lara.  Are  you  the  master  here  ? 

Viet.  Ay,  here  and  elsewhere,  when  the 

wrong  of  others 
Gives  me  the  right ! 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


39 


Prec.  (to  LARA).     Go  !    I  beseech  you,  | 

go  ! 

Viet.  I   shall    have   business   with   you, 
Count,  anon  ! 

Lara.  You  cannot  come  too  soon  !      [Exit. 

Prec.  Victorian ! 

Oh,  we  have  been  betrayed  ! 

Viet.  Ha  !  ha  !  betrayed  ! 

'T  is  I  have  been  betrayed,  not  we  !  —  not 
we  ! 

Prec.  Dost  thou  imagine  — 

Viet.  I  imagine  nothing  ; 

I  see  how  't  is  thou  whilest  the  time  away 
When  I  am  gone  ! 

Prec.  Oh,  speak  not  in  that  tone  ! 

It  wounds  me  deeply. 

Viet.  'T  was  not  meant  to  flatter. 

Prec.  Too  well  thou  knowest  the  pres 
ence  of  that  man 
Is  hateful  to  me  ! 

Viet.  Yet  I  saw  thee  stand 

And  listen  to  him,  when  he  told  his  love. 

Prec.  I  did  not  heed  his  words. 

Viet.  Indeed  thou  didst, 

And  answeredst  them  with  love. 

Prec.  Hadst  thou  heard  all  — 

Viet.  I  heard  enough. 

Prec.  Be  not  so  angry  with  me. 

Viet.  I  am  not  angry  ;  I  am  very  calm. 

Prec.  If  thou  wilt  let  me  speak  — 

Viet.  Nay,  say  no  more. 

I  know  too  much  already.     Thou  art  false! 
I  do  not  like  these  Gypsy  marriages  ! 
Where  is  the  ring  I  gave  thee  ? 

Prec.  In  my  casket. 

Viet.  There  let  it  rest  !      I  would   not 

have  thee  wear  it  : 

I  thought  thee  spotless,  and  thou  art  pol 
luted  ! 

Prec.  I  call  the  Heavens  to  witness  — 

Viet.  Nay,  nay,  nay  ! 

Take  not  the  name  of  Heaven  upon  thy 

lips  ! 
They  are  forsworn  ! 

Prec.  Victorian  !  dear  Victorian  ! 

Viet.  I  gave  up  all  for  thee  ;  myself,  my 

fame, 

My  hopes  of  fortune,  ay,  my  very  soul  ! 
And  thou  hast  been  my  ruin  !    Now,  go  on! 
Laugh  at  my  folly  with  thy  paramour 
And,  sitting  on  the  Count  of  Lara's  knee, 
Say  what  a  poor,  fond  fool  Victorian  was  ! 
(He  casts  her  from  him  and  rushes  out.) 

Prec.  And  this  from  thee  ! 
(Scene  closes.) 


SCENE  V.  —  The  COUNT  OP  LARA'S  rooms.    Enter  the 
COUNT. 

Lara.  There  's  nothing  in  this  world  so 

sweet  as  love, 

And  next  to  love  the  sweetest  thing  is  hate  ! 
I  've  learned  to  hate,  and  therefore  am  re 
venged. 

A  silly  girl  to  play  the  prude  with  me  ! 
The  fire  that  I  have  kindled  — 
(Enter  FRANCISCO.) 

Well,  Francisco, 
What  tidings  from  Don  Juan  ? 

Fran.  Good,  my  lord  ; 

He  will  be  present. 

Lara.  And  the  Duke  of  Lermos  ! 

Fran.  Was  not  at  home. 
Lara.  How  with  the  rest  ? 

Fran.  1  've  found 

The  men  you  wanted.  They  will  all  be  there, 
And  at  the  given  signal  raise  a  whirlwind 
Of  such  discordant  noises,  that  the  dance 
Must  cease  for  lack  of  music. 

Lara.  Bravely  done. 

Ah  !  little  dost  thou  dream,  sweet  Preciosa, 
What  lies  in  wait  for  thee.     Sleep  shall  not 

close 

Thine  eyes  this  night  !     Give  me  my  cloak 
and  sword.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —  A  retired  spot  beyond  the  city  gales.    En- 
ter  VICTORIAN  and  HYPOLITO. 

Viet.  Oh  shame  !     Oh  shame  !     Why  do 

I  walk  abroad 
By  daylight,  when  the  very  sunshine  mocks 

me, 

And  voices,  and  familiar  sights  and  sounds 
Cry,  "  Hide  thyself  ! "    \Oh,  what  a  thin 

partition 
Doth  shut  out  from  the  curious  world  the 

knowledge 

Of  evil  deeds  that  have  been  done  in  dark 
ness  ! 
Disgrace  has  many  tongues.     My  fears  are 

windows, 
Through    which    all    eyes    seem    gazing. 

Every  face 

Expresses  some  suspicion  of  my  shame. 
And  in  derision  seems  to  smile  at  me  !\ 
Hyp.   Did  I  not  caution  thee  ?     Did  I 

not  tell  thee 

I  was  but  half  persuaded  of  her  virtue  ? 
Viet.   And   yet,    Hypolito,   we   may   be 

wrong, 

We  may  be  over-hasty  in  condemning  ! 
The  Count  of  Lara  is  a  cursed  villain. 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


Hyp.  And  therefore  is  she  cursed,  loving 

him. 
Viet,  fehe  does  not  love  him  !     'T  is  for 

gold  !  for  gold  ! 
Hyp.  Ay,  but  remember,  in  the  public 

streets 
He  shows  a  golden  ring  the  Gypsy  gave 

him, 
A  serpent  with  a  ruby  in  its  mouth. 

Viet.  She  had  that  ring  from  me  !   God  ! 

she  is  false  ; 
But   I    will   be   revenged  !     The   hour   is 

passed. 
Where  stays  the  coward  ? 

Hyp.  Nay,  he  is  no  coward  ; 

A  villain,  if  thou  wilt,  but  not  a  coward. 
I  've  seen  him  play  with  swords  ;  it  is  his 

pastime. 

And  therefore  be  not  over-confident, 
He  '11  task  thy  skill  anon.     Look,  here  he 
comes. 

(Enter  LARA  followed  by  FRANCISCO.) 
Lara.  Good  evening,  gentlemen. 
Hyp.  Good  evening,  Count. 

Lara.  I  trust  I  have  not  kept  you  long 

in  waiting. 
Viet.  Not  long,  and  yet  too  long.     Are 

you  prepared  ? 
Lara.  I  am. 
Hyp.         It  grieves  me  much  to  see  this 

quarrel 

Between  you,  gentlemen.     Is  there  no  way 
Left  open  to  accord  this  difference, 
But  you  must  make  one  with  your  swords  ? 
Viet.  No  !  none  ! 

I  do  entreat  thee,  dear  Hypolito, 
Stand  not  between  me  and  my  foe.     Too 

long 
Our     tongues    have     spoken.      Let    these 

tongues  of  steel 

End  our  debate.      Upon  your   guard,  Sir 
Count. 

(They  fght.    VICTORIAN  disarms  the  COUNT.) 

Your   life   is  mine  ;  and    what   shall   now 

withhold  me 

From    sending   your   vile  soul   to   its   ac 
count  ? 

Lara.  Strike  !  strike  ! 
Viet.    You   are   disarmed.      I   will   not 

kill  you. 

I  will   not   murder    you.     Take   up   your 
sword. 

(FHANCISCO  hands  the  COUNT  his  sword,  and  HYPOLITO 
interposes.) 


Hyp.  Enough  !    Let  it  end  here  !     The 

Count  of  Lara 

Has  shown  himself  a  brave  man,  and  Vic 
torian 

A  generous  one,  as  ever.     Now  be  friends. 
Put  up  your  swords  ;  for,  to  speak  frankly 

to  you, 

Your  cause  of  quarrel  is  too  slight  a  thing 
To  move  you  to  extremes. 

Lara.  I  am  content. 

I  sought  no  quarrel.     A  few  hasty  words, 
Spoken  in  the  heat  of  blood,  have  led  to 

this. 

Viet.  Nay,  something  more  than  that. 
Lara.  I  understand  you. 

Therein  I  did  not  mean  to  cross  your  path. 
To  me  the  door  stood  open,  as  to  others. 
But,    had  I   known   the   girl  belonged  to 

you, 
Never  would  I  have  sought  to  win  her  from 

you. 
The  truth  stands  now  revealed  ;  she  has 

been  false 
To  both  of  us. 

Viet.  Ay,  false  as  hell  itself  ! 

Lara.  In  truth,  I  did  not  seek  her  ;  she 

sought  me  ; 

And  told  me  how  to  win  her,  telling  me 
The    hours    when   she   was    oftenest    left 

alone. 
Viet.  Say,  can   you   prove  this  to  me  ? 

Oh,  pluck  out 
These   awful   doubts,   that   goad   me  into 

madness  ! 
Let  me  know  all !  all !  all  ! 

Lara.  You  shall  know  all. 

Here  is  my  page,  who  was  the  messenger 
Between  us.    Question  him.    Was  it  not  so, 

Francisco  ? 

Fran.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Lara.  If  further  proof 

Is  needful,  I  have  here  a  ring  she  gave  me. 
Viet.   Pray  let  me  see  that  ring  !     It  is 

the  same  ! 

(Throws  it  upon  the  ground,  and  tramples  upon  it.) 
Thus  may  she  perish  who  once  wore  that 

ring  ! 
Thus  do  I  spurn  her   from   me  ;  do  thus 

trample 
Her   memory   in  the  dust  !     O    Count  of 

Lara, 
We   both   have  been   abused,    been  much 

abused  ! 
I  thank  you  for  your  courtesy  and  frank- 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT 


Though,   like   the    surgeon's   hand,   yours 

gave  me  pain, 
Yet  it  has  cured  my  blindness,  and  I  thank 

you. 

I  now  can  see  the  folly  I  have  done, 
Though  't  is,  alas  !  too  late.     So  fare  you 

well! 

To-night  I  leave  this  hateful  town  forever. 
Regard  me  as  your    friend.     Once   more 

farewell  ! 
Hyp.  Farewell,  Sir  Count. 

[Exeunt  VICTORIAN  and  HYPOLITO. 
Lara.  Farewell !  farewell  !  farewell  ! 
Thus  have  1  cleared  the  field  of  my  worst 

foe! 

I  have  none  else  to  fear  ;  the  fight  is  done, 
The  citadel  is  stormed,  the  victory  won  ! 

{Exit  with  FRANCISCO. 

SCENE  VII.  —  A  lane  in  the  suburbs.     Night.     Enter 
CRUZADO  and  BARTOLOME. 

Cruz.  And  so,  Bartolome',  the  expedition 
failed.  But  where  wast  thou  for  the  most 
part  ? 

Bart.  In  the  Guadarrama  mountains, 
near  San  Ildefonso. 

Cruz.  And  thou  bringest  nothing  back 
with  thee  ?  Didst  thou  rob  no  one  ? 

Bart.  There  was  no  one  to  rob,  save  a 
party  of  students  from  Segovia,  who  looked 
as  if  they  would  rob  us  ;  and  a  jolly  little 
friar,  who  had  nothing  in  his  pockets  but 
a  missal  and  a  loaf  of  bread. 

Cruz.  Pray,  then,  what  brings  thee  back 
to  Madrid  ? 

Bart.  First  tell  me  what  keeps  thee  here  ? 

Cruz.  Preciosa. 

Bart.  And  she  brings  me  back.  Hast 
thou  forgotten  thy  promise  ? 

Cruz.  The  two  years  are  not  passed  yet. 
Wait  patiently.  The  girl  shall  be  thine. 

Bart.  I  hear  she  has  a  Busnd  lover. 

Cruz.  That  is  nothing. 

Bart.  I  do  not  like  it.  I  hate  him, — 
the  son  of  a  Busnd  harlot.  He  goes  in 
and  out,  and  speaks  with  her  alone,  and  I 
must  stand  aside,  and  wait  his  pleasure. 

Cruz.  Be  patient,  I  say.  Thou  shalt  have 
thy  revenge.  When  the  time  comes,  thou 
shalt  waylay  him. 

Bart.   Meanwhile,  show  me  her  house. 

Cruz.  Come  this  way.  But  thou  wilt  not 
find  her.  She  dances  at  the  play  to-night. 

Bart.  No  matter.  Show  me  the  house. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  VIII.  —  The  Theatre.  The  orchestra  plays  the 
cuclmchu.  Sound  of  castanets  behind  the  scenes. 
TJte  curtain  rixes,  and  discovers  PRECIOSA  in  the 
attitude  of  commencing  the  dance.  '1  he  cachucha. 
Tumult;  hisses  ;  cries  of  "  Brava .'"  and  "Afuera!" 
She  falters  and  pauses.  The  music  stops.  General 
confusion.  PRECIOSA  faints. 


SCENE  IX.  —  The  COUNT  OP  LARA'S  chambers.    LARA 
and  his  friends  at  supper. 

Lara.   So,  Caballeros,  once  more  many 

thanks ! 

You  have  stood  by  me  bravely  in  this  mat 
ter. 
Pray  fill  your  glasses. 

Don  J.  Did  you  mark,  Don  Luis, 

How  pale  she  looked,  when  first  the  noise 

began, 
And  then  stood  still,  with  her  large  eyes 

dilated  ! 
Her  nostrils  spread  !  her  lips  apart !  her 

bosom 
Tumultuous  as  the  sea  ! 

Don  L.  I  pitied  her. 

Lara.   Her  pride  is  humbled  ;  and  this 

very  night 
I  mean  to  visit  her. 

Don  J.  Will  you  serenade  her  ? 

Lara.    No  music  !   no  more  music  ! 
Don  L.  Why  not  music  ? 

It  softens  many  hearts. 

Lara.  Not  in  the  humor 

She   now   is    in.     Music    would    madden 

her. 

Don  J.    Try  golden  cymbals. 
Don  L.  Yes,  try  Don  Dinero  ; 

A  mighty  wooer  is  your  Don  Dinero. 
Lara.  To   tell   the  truth,   then,  I  have 

bribed  her  maid. 

But,  Caballeros,  you  dislike  this  wine. 
A  bumper  and  away  ;  for  the  night  wears. 
A  health  to  Preciosa. 

(They  rise  and  drink.) 

A II.  Preciosa. 

\Lara  (holding  up  his  glass).   Thou  bright 
and  flaming  minister  of  Love  ! 

Thou  wonderful  magician  !  who  hast  stolen 

My  secret  from  me,  and  'mid  sighs  of  pas 
sion 

Caught  from  my  lips,  with  red  and  fiery 
tongue, 

Her  precious  name  !    Oh  nevermore  hence 
forth 

Shall  mortal  lips  press  thine ;  and  never-J 
more 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT 


A  mortal  name  be  whispered  in  thine  ear. 
Go  !  keep  my  secret  ! 

(Drinks  and  dashes  the  goblet  down.) 

Don  J.  Ite  !  missa  est ! 

(Scene  closes.) 

SCENE  X.  —  Street  and  garden  wall.    Night.     Enter 
CRUZADO  and  BARTOLOME. 

Cruz.  This  is  the  garden  wall,  and  above 
it,  yonder,  is  her  house.  The  window  in 
which  thou  seest  the  light  is  her  window. 
But  we  will  not  go  in  now. 

Bart.  Why  not  ? 

Cruz.  Because  she  is  not  at  home. 

Bart.  No  matter  ;  we  can  wait.  But 
how  is  this  ?  The  gate  is  bolted.  (Sound 
of  guitars  and  voices  in  a  neighboring  street.) 
Hark  !  There  comes  her  lover  with  his 
infernal  serenade  !  Hark  ! 

SONG 

Good  night !    Good  night,  beloved ! 

I  come  to  watch  o'er  thee  ! 
To  be  near  thee,  —  to  be  near  thee, 

Alone  is  peace  for  me. 

Thine  eyes  are  stars  of  morning, 
Thy  lips  are  crimson  flowers  ! 

Good  night !    Good  night,  beloved, 
While  I  count  the  weary  hours. 

Cruz.  They  are  not  coming  this  way. 
Bart.  Wait,  they  begin  again. 

SONG  (coming  nearer) 

Ah  !  thou  moon  that  shinest 

Argent-clear  above  ! 
AU  night  long  enlighten 

My  sweet  lady-love ; 

Moon  that  shinest, 
All  night  long  enlighten ! 

Bart.  Woe  be  to  him,  if  he  comes  this 
way! 

Cruz.  Be  quiet,  they  are  passing  down 
the  street. 

SONG  (dying  away) 

The  nuns  in  the  cloister 

Sang  to  each  other  ; 
For  so  many  sisters 

Is  there  not  one  brother  ! 
Ay,  for  the  partridge,  mother  ! 

The  cat  has  run  away  with  the  partridge  ! 
Puss !  puss  !  pnss  ! 

Bart.  Follow  that !  follow  that !  Come 
with  me.  Puss  !  puss  ! 

(Exeunt.     On  the  opposite  side  enter  the  COUNT  OF 
LARA  and  gentlemen  with  FRANCISCO.) 


Lara.  The  gate  is  fast.     Over  the  wall, 

Francisco, 
And  draw  the  bolt.    There,  so,  and  so,  and 

over. 
Now,  gentlemen,   come   in,   and  help  me 

scale 
Yon  balcony.     How  now  ?     Her  light  still 

burns. 

Move  warily.     Make  fast  the  gate,  Fran 
cisco. 

(Exeunt.  Eeenter  CRUZADO  and  BARTOLOME.) 
Bart.  They  went  in  at  the  gate.     Hark  ! 
I  hear    them   in   the    garden.     {Tries  the 
gate.}    Bolted  again  !   Vive  Cristo  !  Follow 
me  over  the  wall. 

(They  climb  the  wall.) 

SCENE  XI.  —  PRECIOSA'S  bedchamber.  Midnight.  She 
is  sleeping  in  an  arm-chair,  in  an  undress.  DOLORES 
watching  her. 

Dol.  She  sleeps  at  last ! 

(Opens  the  window,  and  listens.) 

All  silent  in  the  street, 
And  in  the  garden.     Hark  ! 

Prec.  (in  her  sleep).       I  must  go  hence  ? 
Give  me  my  cloak  ! 

Dol.        He  comes  !    I  hear  his  footsteps. 
Prec.  Go  tell  them  that  I  cannot  dance 

to-night  ; 
I  am  too  ill !     Look  at  me  !     See  the 

fever 
That  burns  upon  my   cheek !     I  must  go 

hence. 
I  am  too  weak  to  dance. 

(Signal  from  the  garden.) 

Dol.  (from  the  window}.    Who's  there? 
Voice  (from  below}.  A  friend. 

Dol.  I  will  undo  the  door.     Wait  till  I 

come. 
Prec.  I  must  go  hence.     I  pray  you  do 

not  harm  me  ! 
Shame  !  shame  !  to  treat  a  feeble  woman 

thus  ! 
Be  you  but  kind,  I  will  do  all  things  for 

you. 

I  'm  ready  now,  —  give  me  my  castanets. 
Where    is  Victorian?     Oh,   those   hateful 

lamps  ! 

They  glare  upon  me  like  an  evil  eye. 
I  cannot  stay.     Hark  !  how  they  mock  at 

me  ! 

They  hiss  at  me  like  serpents  !     Save  me  J 
save  me  ! 

(She  wakes.) 

How  late  is  it,  Dolores  ? 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT 


43 


Dol.  It  is  midnight. 

Free.  We  must  be  patient.     Smooth  this 

pillow  for  me. 

(She  sleeps  again.    Noise  from  the  garden,  and  voices.) 
Voice.  Muera ! 

Another  voice.  O  villains  !  villains  ! 
Lara.  So  1  have  at  you  ! 

Voice.  Take  that ! 

Lara.  Oh,  I  am  wounded  ! 

Dol.  (shutting  the  ivindow).    Jesu  Maria  ! 


ACT   III 

SCENE  I.  —  A  cross-road  through,  a  wood.  In  the  back 
ground  a  distant  village  spire.  VICTORIAN  and  HY- 
POLITO,  as  travelling  students,  with  guitars,  sitting 
under  the  trees.  HYPOLITO  plays  and  sings. 

SONG 

Ah,  Love ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  I 

Enemy 
Of  all  that  mankind  may  not  rue ! 

Most  untrue 
To  him  who  keeps  most  faith  with  thee. 

Woe  is  me ! 
The  falcon  has  the  eyes  of  the  dove. 

Ah,  Love ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love ! 

Fiat.  (Yes,  Love  is  ever  busy  with  his 

shuttle, 

Is  ever  weaving  into  life's  dull  warp 
Bright,  gorgeous  flowers  and  scenes  Arca 
dian  ; 

Hanging  our  gloomy  prison-house  about 
With  tapestries,  that  make  its  walls  dilate 
In  never-ending  vistas  of  delight.^J 

Hyp.  Thinking  to  walk  in  those  Arcadian 

pastures, 

Thou  hast  run  thy  noble  head  against  the 
wall. 

SONG  (continued) 

Thy  deceits 
Give  us  clearly  to  comprehend, 

Whither  tend 
All  thy  pleasures,  all  thy  sweets ! 

They  are  cheats, 
Thorns  below  and  flowers  above. 

Ah,  Love ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love ! 

Viet.  A  very  pretty  song.     I  thank  thee 

for  it. 

Hyp.  It  suits  thy  case. 
Viet.  Indeed,  I  think  it  does. 

What  wise  man  wrote  it  ? 

Hyp.  Lopez  Maldonado. 


Viet.  In  truth,  a  pretty  song. 
Hyp.  With  much  truth  in  it. 

I  hope  thou  wilt  profit  by  it ;  and  in  earnest 
Try  to  forget  this  lady  of  thy  love. 

Viet.  I  will  forget  her  !     All  dear  recol 
lections 
Pressed  in  my  heart,  like  flowers  within  a 

book, 
Shall  be  torn  out,  and  scattered  to  the 

winds ! 

I  will  forget  her  !  But  perhaps  hereafter, 
When  she  shall  learn  how  heartless  is  the 

world, 

A  voice  within  her  will  repeat  my  name, 
And  she   will  say,   "He  was  indeed   my 

friend  ! " 

Oh,  would  I  were  a  soldier,  not  a  scholar, 
That  the  loud  march,  the  deafening  beat  of 

drums, 
The  shattering  blast  of  the  brass-throated 

trumpet, 
The  din  of  arms,  the  onslaught  and  the 

storm, 
And  a  swift  death,  might  make  me  deaf 

forever 

To  the  upbraidings  of  this  foolish  heart ! 
Hyp.  Then  let  that  foolish  heart  upbraid 

no  more  ! 

To  conquer  love,  one  need  but  will  to  con 
quer. 

Viet.  Yet,  good  Hypolito,  it  is  in  vain 
I  throw  into  Oblivion's  sea  the  sword 
That  pierces  me  ;  for,  like  Excalibar, 
With  gemmed  and  flashing  hilt,  it  will  not 

sink. 
There  rises  from  below  a  hand  that  grasps 

it, 

And  waves  it  in  the  air  ;  and  wailing  voices 
Are  heard  along  the  shore. 

Hyp.  And  yet  at  last 

Down  sank  Excalibar  to  rise  no  more. 
This  is  not  well.     In  truth,  it  vexes  me. 
Instead  of  whistling  to  the  steeds  of  Time, 
To  make  them  jog  on  merrily  with  life's 

burden, 
Like  a  dead  weight  thou  hangest  on  the 

wheels. 

Thou  art  too  young,  too  full  of  lusty  health 
To  talk  of  dying,  t 

Viet.  \  Yet  I  fain  would  die  ! 

To  go  through  life,  unloving  and  unloved  ; 
To  feel  that  thirst  and  hunger  of  the  soul 
We  cannot  still ;  that  longing,  that  wild 

impulse, 
And  struggle  after  something  we  have  not  \ 


44 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT 


And  cannot  have  ;  the  effort  to  be  strong ; 

And,  like  the  Spartan  boy,  to  smile,  and 
smile, 

While  secret  wounds  do  bleed  beneath  our 
cloaks  ; 

All   this   the   dead  feel    not, — the    dead 
alone  ! 

Would  I  were  with  them  ! 
.Hyp.  We  shall  all  be  soon. 

;    Viet.  It  cannot  be  too  soon  ;   for  I  am 
weary 

Of  the  bewildering  masquerade  of  Life, 

Where    strangers    walk    as    friends,    and 
friends  as  strangers  ; 

Where   whispers    overheard    betray   false 
hearts  ; 

And  through  the  mazes  of  the  crowd  we 
chase 

Some  form  of  loveliness,  that  smiles,  and 
beckons, 

And  cheats  us  with  fair  words,  only  to  leave 
us 

A  mockery  and  a  jest ;  maddened,  —  con 
fused,  — 

Not  knowing  friend  from  f oej 
,..  Hyp.  Why  seek  to  know  ? 

{  Enjoy  the  merry  shrove-tide  of  thy  youth  ! 
4  Take  each  fair  mask  for  what  it  gives  it 
self, 

Nor  strive  to  look  beneath  it.^ 

Viet.  I  confess, 

That  were  the  wiser  part.     But  Hope  no 
longer 

Comforts  my  soul.     I  am  a  wretched  man, 

Much  like  a  poor  and  shipwrecked  mariner, 

Who,  struggling  to  climb  up  into  the  boat, 

Has  both  his  bruised  and  bleeding  hands 
cut  off, 

And  sinks  again  into  the  weltering  sea, 

Helpless  and  hopeless  ! 

Hyp.  Yet  thou  shalt  not  perish. 

The  strength  of  thine  own  arm  is  thy  salva 
tion. 

Above    thy   head,  through   rifted   clouds, 
there  shines 

A  glorious  star.     Be  patient.      Trust  thy 

star  ! 

(Sound  of  a  village  bell  in  the  distance.) 
Viet.  Ave  Maria  !     I  hear  the  sacristan 

Ringing  the  chimes  from   yonder  village 
belfry  ! 

A  solemn  sound,  that  echoes  far  and  wide 

Over  the  red  roofs  of  the  cottages, 

And  bids  the  laboring  hind  afield,  the  shep 
herd, 


Guarding  his  flock,  the  lonely  muleteer, 

And  all  the  crowd  in  village  streets,  stand 
still, 

And  breathe  a  prayer  unto  the  blessed  Vir 
gin  ! 

Hyp.  Amen  !  amen  !     Not  half  a  league 
from  hence 

The  village  lies. 

Viet.  This  path  will  lead  us  to  it, 

Over  the  wheat-fields,  where  the  shadows 
sail 

Across  the  running  sea,  now  green,  now 
blue, 

And,  like  an  idle  mariner  on  the  main, 

WThistles  the  quail.     Come,  let  us  hasten 
on.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Public  square  in  the  village  of  Guadar- 
rama.  The  Ave  Maria  still  tolling.  A  crowd  of  vil 
lagers,  with  their  hats  in  their  hands,  as  if  in  prayer. 
In  front,  a  group  of  Gypsies.  The  bell  rings  a  mer 
rier  peal.  A  Gypsy  dance.  Enter  PANCHO,  followed 
by  PEDRO  CRESPO. 

Pancho.  Make  room,  ye  vagabonds  and 

Gypsy  thieves  ! 

Make  room  for  the  Alcalde  and  for  me  ! 
Pedro  C.  Keep  silence  all !     I  have  an 

edict  here 
From  our  most  gracious  lord,  the  King  of 

Spain, 

Jerusalem,  and  the  Canary  Islands, 
Which  I  shall  publish  in  the  market-place. 
Open  your  ears  and  listen  ! 

(Enter  the  PADRE  CCRA  at  the  door  of  his  cottage.) 
Padre  Cura, 
Good  day  !  and,  pray  you,  hear  this  edict 

read. 
Padre   C.     Good  day,  and  God  be  with 

you  ! 
Pray,  what  is  it  ? 

Pedro  C.  An  act  of  banishment  against 
the  Gypsies  ! 

(Agitation  and  murmurs  in  the  crowd.) 
Pancho.  Silence  ! 
Pedro  C.  (reads}.     "  I  hereby  order  and 

command, 

That   the  Egyptian  and   Chaldean    stran 
gers, 
Known    by   the    name  of    Gypsies,    shall 

henceforth 

Be  banished  from  the  realm,  as  vagabonds 
And  beggars  ;  and  if,  after  seventy  days, 
Any  be  found  within  our  kingdom's  bounds, 
They  shall  receive  a  hundred  lashes  each  ; 
The  second  time,  shall  have  their  ears  cut 
off; 


THE  SPANISH   STUDENT 


45 


The  third,  be  slaves  for  life  to  him  who 

takes  them, 

Or  burnt  as  heretics.    Signed,  I,  the  King." 
Vile  miscreants  and  creatures  unbaptized  ! 
You  hear  the  law  !     Obey  and  disappear  ! 
Pancho.  And  if  ill  seventy  days  you  are 

not  gone, 

Dead  or  alive  I  make  you  all  my  slaves. 
{The  Gypsies  go  out  in  confusion,  showing  signs  of  fear 

and  discontent.    PANCHO  follows.) 
Padre   C.  A   righteous    law !      A   very 

righteous  law  ! 
Pray  you,  sit  down. 

Pedro  C.  I  thank  you  heartily. 

(They  seat  themselves  on  a  bench  at  the  PADRE  CUBA'S 
door.  Sound  of  guitars  heard  at  a  distance,  ap 
proaching  during  the  dialogue  which  follows.) 

A  very  righteous  judgment,  as  you  say. 
Now  tell  me,  Padre  Cura,  — you  know  all 

things,  — 
How  came  these  Gypsies  into  Spain  ? 

Padre  C.  Why,  look  you  ; 

They  came  with  Hercules  from  Palestine, 
And  hence  are  thieves  and  vagrants,  Sir 

Alcalde, 

As  the  Simoniacs  from  Simon  Magus. 
And,  look  you,  as  Fray  Jayme  Bleda  says, 
There   are   a  hundred  marks  to  prove   a 

Moor 

Is  not  a  Christian,  so  't  is  with  the  Gypsies. 
They  never  marry,  never  go  to  mass, 
Never   baptize    their   children,    nor    keep 

Lent, 
Nor  see  the  inside  of  a  church,  —  nor  — 

nor  — 

Pedro  C.  Good  reasons,  good,  substan 
tial  reasons  all ! 

No  matter  for  the  other  ninety-five. 
They  should  be  burnt,  I  see  it  plain  enough, 
They  should  be  burnt. 

(Enter  VICTORIAN  and  HFPOLITO  playing.) 
Pairs  C.  And  pray,  whom  have  we  here  ? 
Pedro    C.  More    vagrants  !      By    Saint 

Lnzarus,  more  vagrants  ! 
Hyp.  Good  evening,  gentlemen  !    Is  this 

Guadarrama  ? 
Padre  C.  Yes,  Guadarrama,    and   good 

evening  to  you. 
Hyp.  We  seek  the  Padre   Cura  of  the 

village  ; 

And,  judging  from  your   dress   and   rev 
erend  mien, 
You  must  be  he. 

Padre   C.     I  am.      Pray,  what's    your 
pleasure  ? 


Hyp.  We  are  poor  students  travelling  in 

vacation. 
You  know  this  mark  ? 

(Touching  the  wooden  spoon  in  his  hat-band.) 
Padre  C.  (joy fully).  Ay,  know  it,  and 

have  worn  it. 
Pedro  C.  (aside).  Soup-eaters  !    by   the 

mass  !     The  worst  of  vagrants  ! 
And  there 's  no  law   against   them.     Sir, 
your  servant.  [Exit. 

Padre  C.  Your  servant,  Pedro  Crespo. 
Hyp.  Padre  Cura, 

From  the  first  moment  I  beheld  your  face, 
I  said  within  myself,  "  This  is  the  man  !  " 
There  is  a  certain  something  in  your  looks, 
A  certain  scholar-like  and  studious  some 
thing,  — 

You  understand,  —  which  cannot  be  mis 
taken  ; 

Which  marks  you  as  a  very  learned  man, 
In  fine,  as  one  of  us. 

Viet,  (aside).  What  impudence  ! 

Hyp.  As  we  approached,  I  said  to  my 

companion, 
"  That    is    the    Padre    Cura ;    mark    my 

words  ! " 
Meaning  your  Grace.     "  The  other  man," 

said  I, 

"  Who  sits  so  awkwardly  upon  the  bench, 
Must  be  the  sacristan." 

Padre  C.  Ah  !  said  you  so  ? 

Why,  that  was  Pedro  Crespo,  the  alcalde  ! 

Hyp.  Indeed  !  you   much  astonish  me  ! 

His  air 

Was  not  so  full  of  dignity  and  grace 
As  an  alcalde's  should  be. 

Padre  C.  That  is  true, 

He  's    out   of    humor  with   some   vagrant 

Gypsies, 

Who  have  their  camp  here  in  the  neighbor 
hood. 

There  's  nothing  so  undignified  as  anger. 
Hyp.  The  Padre  Cura  will   excuse   our 

boldness, 

If,  from  his  well-known  hospitality, 
We  crave  a  lodging  for  the  night. 

Padre  C.  I  pray  you  ! 

You  do  me  honor  !     I  am  but  too  happy 
To  have  such  guests  beneath  my  humble 

roof. 

It  is  not  often  that  I  have  occasion 
To  speak  with  scholars  ;  and  Emollit  mores, 
Nee  sinit  esse  feros,  Cicero  says. 
Hyp.  'T  is  Ovid,  is  it  not  ? 
Padre  C.  No,  Cicero. 


46 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


Hyp.  Your  Grace  is  right.     You  are  the 

better  scholar. 

Now  what  a  dunce  was  I  to  think  it  Ovid  ! 
But  hang  me  if  it  is  not !     (Aside.} 

Padre  C.  Pass  this  way. 

He  was  a  very  great  man,  was  Cicero  ! 
Pray  you,  go  in,  go  in  !  no  ceremony. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A    room   in   the   PADRE   CUBA'S   house. 
Enter  the  PADRE  and  HYPOLITO. 

Padre  C.    So  then,  Senor,  you  come  from 

Alcald. 

I  am  glad  to  hear  it.    It  was  there  I  studied. 
Hyp.  And  left  behind  an  honored  name, 

no  doubt. 
How  may  I  call  your  Grace  ? 

Padre  C.  Ger<5nimo 

De  Santillana,  at  your  Honor's  service. 
Hyp.  Descended  from  the  Marquis  San 
tillana  ? 
From  the  distinguished  poet  ? 

Padre  C.  From  the  Marquis, 

Not  from  the  poet. 

Hyp.  Why,  they  were  the  same. 

Let  me  embrace  you  !    Oh,  some  lucky  star 
Has  brought  me  hither  !     Yet  once  more  ! 

—  once  more  ! 

Your  name  is  ever  green  in  AlcaM, 
And  our  professor,  when  we  are  unruly, 
Will  shake  his  hoary  head,  and  say,  "  Alas  ! 
It  was  not  so  in  Santillana's  time  !  " 

Padre  C.  I  did  not  think  my  name  re 
membered  there. 

Hyp.  More  than  remembered  ;  it  is  idol 
ized. 

Padre  C.  Of  what  prof  essor  speak  you? 
Hyp.  Timoneda. 

Padre  C.  I  don't  remember  any  Timo 
neda. 
Hyp.  A  grave  and  sombre   man,  whose 

beetling  brow 

O'erhangs  the  rushing  current  of  his  speech 
As  rocks  o'er  rivers  hang.     Have  you  for 
gotten  ? 
Padre  C.  Indeed,    I   have.      Oh,    those 

were  pleasant  days, 
Those  college  days  !     I  ne'er  shall  see  the 

like! 

I  had  not  buried  then  so  many  hopes  ! 
I  had  not  buried  then  so  many  friends  ! 
I  've   turned   my  back  on  what   was   then 

before  me  ; 

And  the  bright   faces  of  my  young  com 
panions 


Are  wrinkled  like  my  own,  or  are  no  more. 
Do  you  remember  Cueva  ? 

Hyp.  Cueva?  Cueva? 

Padre  C.  Fool  that  I  am  !     He  was  be 
fore  your  time. 

You  're  a  mere  boy,  and  I  am  an  old  man. 
Hyp.  I  should  not  like  to  try  my  strength 

with  you. 
Padre  C.  Well,  well.    But  I  forget ;  yon 

must  be  hungry. 
Martina  !  ho  !  Martina  !     'T  is  my  niece. 

(Enter  MARTINA.) 
Hyp.  You  may  be  proud  of  such  a  niece 

as  that. 
I   wish   I  had   a  niece.       Emollit    mores. 

(Aside.} 

He  was  a  very  great  man,  was  Cicero  1 
Your  servant,  fair  Martina. 

Mart.  Servant,  sir. 

Padre  C.  This  gentleman  is  hungry.    See 

thou  to  it. 
Let  us  have  supper. 

Mart.  'T  will  be  ready  soon. 

Padre  C.  And  bring  a  bottle  of  my  Val- 

de-Peiias 

Out  of  the  cellar.     Stay  ;  I  '11  go  myself. 
Pray  you,  Senor,  excuse  me.  [Exit. 

Hyp.  Hist !  Martina  ! 

One  word  with  you.    Bless  me  !  what  hand 
some  eyes  ! 

To-day  there  have  been  Gypsies  in  the  vil 
lage. 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

Mart.       There  have  been  Gypsies  here. 
Hyp.  Yes,  and  have  told  your  fortune. 
Mart,  (embarrassed).    Told  my  fortune  ? 
Hyp.  Yes,  yes  ;    I  know  they  did.     Give 

me  your  hand. 
I  '11  tell  you  what  they  said.     They  said, — 

they  said, 
The  shepherd  boy  that  loved  you  was  a 

clown, 
And  him  you  should  not  marry.     Was  it 

not? 

Mart,  (surprised).    How  know  you  that  ? 
Hyp.   Oh,  I  know  more  than  that. 
What  a  soft,  little  hand !     And  then  they 

said, 

A  cavalier  from  court,  handsome,  and  tall 
And  rich,  should  come  one  day  to  marry 

you, 

And  you  should  be  a  lady.     Was  it  not  ? 
He  has  arrived,  the  handsome  cavalier. 

(Tries  to  kiss  her.    She  runs  off.    Enter  VICTORIAN, 
with  a  letter.) 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


4-7 


Viet.  The  muleteer  has  come. 

Hyp.  So  soon  ? 

Viet.  I  found  him 

Sitting  at  supper  by  the  tavern  door, 
And,  from  a  pitcher  that  he  held  aloft 
His  whole  arm's  length,  drinking  the  blood- 
red  wine. 

Hyp.  What  news  from  Court  ? 

Viet.  He     brought     this     letter     only. 

(Reads.) 

Oh,  cursed  perfidy  !     Why  did  I  let 
That  lying  tongue  deceive  me  !     Preciosa, 
Sweet  Preciosa  !  how  art  thou  avenged  ! 

Hyp.  What  news  is  this,  that  makes  thy 

cheek  turn  pale, 
And  thy  hand  tremble  ? 

Viet.  Oh,  most  infamous  ! 

The  Count  of  Lara  is  a  worthless  villain  ! 

Hyp.  That  is  no  news,  forsooth. 

Viet.  He  strove  in  vain 

To  steal  from  me  the  jewel  of  my  soul, 
The  love  of  Preciosa.     Not  succeeding, 
He  swore  to  be  revenged  ;  and  set  on  foot 
A  plot  to  ruin  her,  which  has  succeeded. 
She  has  been  hissed  and  hooted  from  the 


Her  reputation  stained  by  slanderous  lies 
Too  foul  to  speak  of  ;  and,  once  more  a 

beggar, 
She  roams  a  wanderer  over  God's  green 

earth, 
Housing  with  Gypsies  ! 

Hyp.  To  renew  again 

The  Age  of  Gold,  and  make  the  shepherd 

swains 
Desperate   with    love,   like    Gasper    Gil's 

Diana. 
Redit  et  Virgo! 

Viet.  Dear  Hypolito, 

How  have  I  wronged  that  meek,  confiding 

heart ! 

I  will  go  seek  for  her  ;  and  with  my  tears 
Wash  out  the  wrong  I  've  done  her  ! 

Hyp.  Oh,  beware  ! 

Act  not  that  folly  o'er  again. 

Viet.  Ay,  folly, 

Delusion,  madness,  call  it  what  thou  wilt, 
I  will  confess  my  weakness,  —  I  still  love 

her! 
Still  fondly  love  her  ! 

(Enter  the  PADRE  CUBA.) 

Hyp.  Tell  us,  Padre  Cura, 

Who  are  these  Gypsies  in   the   neighbor 
hood? 
Padre  C.  Beltran  Cruzado  and  his  crew. 


Viet.  Kind  Heaven, 

I  thank   thee  !     She   is   found !    is   found 

again  ! 
Hyp.  And  have  they  with  them  a  pale, 

beautiful  girl, 
Called  Preciosa  ? 

Padre  C.  Ay,  a  pretty  girl. 

The  gentleman  seems  moved. 

Hyp.  Yes,  moved  with  hunger, 

He  is  half  famished  with  this  long  day's 

journey. 

Padre  C.  Then,  pray  you,  come  this  way. 
The  supper  waits.  lExeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  post-house  on  the  road  to  Segovia,  not 
far  from  the  village  of  Guadarrama.  Enter  CHISPA, 
cracking  a  whip,  and  singing  the  cachucha. 

Chispa.  Halloo  !  Don  Fulano  !  Let  us 
have  horses,  and  quickly.  Alas,  poor  Chi 
spa  !  what  a  dog's  life  dost  thou  lead  !  I 
thought,  when  I  left  my  old  master  Victo 
rian,  the  student,  to  serve  my  new  master 
Don  Carlos,  the  gentleman,  that  I,  too, 
should  lead  the  life  of  a  gentleman  ;  should 
go  to  bed  early,  and  get  up  late.  For  when 
the  abbot  plays  cards,  what  can  you  expect 
of  the  friars  ?  But,  in  running  away  from 
the  thunder,  I  have  run  into  the  lightning. 
Here  I  am  in  hot  chase  after  my  master 
and  his  Gypsy  girl.  And  a  good  beginning 
of  the  week  it  is,  as  he  said  who  was  hanged 
on  Monday  morning. 

(Enter  DON  CARLOS.) 

Don  C.  Are  not  the  horses  ready  yet  ? 

Chispa.  I  should  think  not,  for  the  host 
ler  seems  to  be  asleep.  Ho  !  within  there  ! 
Horses  !  horses  !  horses  !  (He  knocks  at 
the  gate  with  his  whip,  and  enter  MOSQUITO, 
putting  on  his  jacket.) 

Mosq.  Pray,  have  a  little  patience.  I  'm 
not  a  musket. 

Chispa.  Health  and  pistareens  !  I  'm 
glad  to  see  you  come  on  dancing,  padre  ! 
Pray,  what  's  the  news  ? 

Mosq.  You  cannot  have  fresh  horses ; 
because  there  are  none. 

Chispa.  Cachiporra  !  Throw  that  bone 
to  another  dog.  Do  I  look  like  your  aunt  ? 

Mosq.  No  ;  she  has  a  beard. 

Chispa.  Go  to  !  go  to  ! 

Mosq.  Are  you  from  Madrid  ? 

Chispa.  Yes  ;  and  going  to  Estramadura. 
Get  us  horses. 

Mosq.  What  's  the  news  at  Court  ? 

Chispa.  Why,  the  latest  news  is,  that  I 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


am  going  to  set  up  a  coach,  and  I  have 
already  bought  the  whip. 

(Strikes  him  round  (he  legs.) 

Mosq.  Oh  !  oh  !  you  hurt  me  ! 

Don  C.  Enough  of  this  folly.  Let  us 
have  horses.  (Gives  money  to  MOSQUITO.) 
It  is  almost  dark  ;  and  we  are  in  haste. 
But  tell  me,  has  a  band  of  Gypsies  passed 
this  way  of  late  ? 

Mosq.  Yes  ;  and  they  are  still  in  the 
neighborhood. 

Don  C.  And  where  ? 

Mosq.  Across  the  fields  yonder,  in  the 
woods  near  Guadarrama.  [Exit. 

Don  C.  Now  this  is  lucky.  We  will 
visit  the  Gypsy  camp. 

Chispa.  Are  you  not  afraid  of  the  evil 
eye  ?  Have  you  a  stag's  horn  with  you  ? 

Don  C.  Fear  not.  We  will  pass  the 
night  at  the  village. 

Chispa.  And  sleep  like  the  Squires  of 
Hernan  Daza,  nine  under  one  blanket. 

Don  C.  I  hope  we  may  find  the  Preciosa 
among  them. 

Chispa.   Among  the  Squires  ? 

Don  C.  No  ;  among  the  Gypsies,  block 
head  ! 

Chispa.  I  hope  we  may  ;  for  we  are  giv 
ing  ourselves  trouble  enough  on  her  ac 
count.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  However, 
there  is  no  catching  trout  without  wetting 
one's  trousers.  Yonder  come  the  horses. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  The  Gypsy  camp  in  the  forest.  Night. 
Gypsies  trm-khig  at  a  forge.  Others  playing  cards 
by  the  f  relight. 

Gypsies  (at  the  forge  sing'). 

On  the  top  of  a  mountain  I  stand, 

With  a  crown  of  red  g-olcl  in  my  hand, 

Wild  Moors  come  trooping1  over  the  lea, 

Oh  how  from  their  fury  shall  1  flee,  flee,  flee  ? 

Oh  how  from  their  fury  shall  I  flee  ? 

First  Gypsy  (playing}.  Down  with  your 
John  -  Dorados,  my  pigeon.  Down  with 
your  John-Dorados,  and  let  us  make  an 
end. 

Gypsies  (at  the  forge  sing) . 

Lond  sang1  the  Spanish  cavalier, 

And  thus  his  ditty  ran  ; 
God  send  the  Gvnsy  lassie  here, 

Arid  not  the  Gypsy  man. 

First  Gypsy  (playing}.  There  you  are  in 
your  morocco  ! 

Second    Gypsy.    One  more  game.     The 


Alcalde's  doves  against  the  Padre  Cura's 
new  moon. 

First  Gypsy.  Have  at  you,  Chirelin. 

Gypsies  (at  the  forge  sing). 

At  midnight,  when  the  moon  began 

To  show  her  silver  flame, 
There  came  to  him  no  Gypsy  man, 

The  Gypsy  lassie  came. 

(Enter  BELTRAN  CRUZADO.) 

Cruz.  Come  hither,  Murcigalleros  and 
Rastilleros  ;  leave  work,  leave  play  ;  listen 
to  your  orders  for  the  night.  (Speaking  to 
the  right.)  You  will  get  you  to  the  village, 
mark  you,  by  the  stone  cross. 

Gypsies.  Ay  ! 

Cruz,  (to  the  left).  And  you,  by  the  pole 
with  the  hermit's  head  upon  it. 

Gypsies.  Ay  ! 

Cruz.  As  soon  as  you  see  the  planets  are 
out,  in  with  you,  and  be  busy  with  the  ten 
commandments,  under  the  sly,  and  Saint 
Martin  asleep.  D'  ye  hear  ? 

Gypsies.  Ay  ! 

Cruz.  Keep  your  lanterns  open,  and,  if 
you  see  a  goblin  or  a  papagayo,  take  to 
your  trampers.  Vineyards  and  Dancing 
John  is  the  word.  Am  I  comprehended  ? 

Gypsies.  Ay  !  ay  ! 

Cruz.  Away,  then  ! 

(Exeunt  severally.    CRCZADO  icalJcs  up  the  stnge,  and 
disappears  among  (he  trees.     Enter  PRECIOSA.) 

Prec.  How  strangely  gleams  through  the 

gigantic  trees, 

The  red  light  of  the  forge  !    Wild,  beckon 
ing  shadows 

Stalk  through  the  forest,  ever  and  anon 
Rising   and    bending   with    the    flickering 

flame, 

Then  flitting  into  darkness  !     So  within  me 
Strange  hopes  and  fears  do  beckon  to  each 

other, 
My  brightest  hopes  giving   dark   fears  a 

being 

As  the  light  does  the  shadow.     Woe  is  me  ! 
How  still  it  is  about  me,  and  how  lonely  ! 

(BARTOLOME  rushes  in.) 
Bart.  Ho  !  Preciosa  ! 
Prec.  O  Bartolomd ! 

Thou  here  ? 

Bart.  Lo  !  I  nm  here. 

Prec.  Whence  comest  thou  ? 

Bart.  From  the  rough  ridges  of  the  wild 

Sierra, 

From  caverns  in  the  rocks,  from  hunger, 
thirst, 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


49 


And  fever  !    Like  a  wild  wolf  to  the  sheep- 
fold 

Come  I  for  thee,  my  lamb. 

Prec.  Oh,  touch  me  not ! 

The  Count  of  Lara's  blood  is  on  thy  hands  ! 

The  Count  of  Lara's  curse  is  on  thy  soul  ! 

Do  not  come  near  ine  !     Pray,  begone  from 
here  ! 

Thou  art  in  danger  !    They  have  set  a  price 

Upon  thy  head  ! 

Bart.  Ay,  and  I  've  wandered  long 

Among  the  mountains  ;  and  for  many  days 

Have  seen  no  human  face,  save  the  rough 
swineherd's. 

The  wind  and  rain  have  been  my  sole  com 
panions. 

I   shouted    to   them    from   the   rocks   thy 
name, 

And  the  loud  echo  sent  it  back  to  me, 

Till  I  grew  mad.     I  could  not  stay  from 
thee, 

And  I  am  here  !     Betray  me,  if  thou  wilt. 
Prec.  Betray  thee  ?     I  betray  thee  ? 
Bart.  Preciosa ! 

I  come  for  thee  !   for  thee   I   thus    brave 
death  ! 

Fly  with  me  o'er  the  borders  of  this  realm  ! 

Fly  with  me  ! 

Prec.    Speak  of  that  no  more.    I  cannot. 

I  'in  thine  no  longer. 

Bart.  Oh,  recall  the  time 

When  we  were  children  !    how  we  played 
together, 

How  we  grew  up  together  ;  how  we  plighted 

Our  hearts  unto  each  other,  even  in  child 
hood  ! 

Fulfil  thy  promise,  for  the  hour  has  come. 

I  'm  hunted  from  the  kingdom,  like  a  wolf  ! 

Fulfil  thy  promise. 

Prec.  'T  was  my  father's  promise, 

Not   mine.      I   never   gave    my    heart   to 
thee, 

Nor  promised  thee  my  hand  ! 

Bart.  False  tongue  of  woman  ! 

And  heart  more  false  ! 

Free.  Nay,  listen  unto  me. 

I  will  speak  frankly.     I  have  never  loved 
thee  ; 

I  cannot  love  thee.     This  is  not  my  fault, 

It  is  my  destiny.     Thou  art  a  man 

Restless  and  violent.     What  wouldst  thou 
with  me, 

A  feeble  girl,  who  have  not  ~ong  to  live, 

Whose   heart   is  broken?      Seek   another 
wife, 


Better  than  I,  and  fairer  ;  and  let  not 
Thy  rash  and  headlong  moods  estrange  her 

from  thee. 

Thou  art  unhappy  in  this  hopeless  passion. 
I  never  sought   thy  love  ;  never  did  aught 
To  make  thee  love  me.     Yet  I  pity  thee, 
And  most  of  all  I  pity  thy  wild  heart, 
That  hurries  thee  to  crimes  and  deeds  of 

blood. 
Beware,  beware  of  that. 

Bart.  For  thy  dear  sake 

1  will   be   gentle.      Thou   shalt  teach  me 

patience. 
Prec.    1  hen  take  this  farewell,  and  depart; 

in  peace. 
Thou  must  not  linger  here. 

Bart.  Come,  come  with  me. 

Prec.  Hark  !  I  hear  footsteps. 
Bart.  I  entreat  thee,  come  1 

Prec.  Away  !     It  is  in  vain. 
Bart.  Wilt  thou  not  come  ? 

Prec.  Never  ! 

Bart.    Then  woe,  eternal  woe,  upon  thee  ! 

Thou  shalt  not  be  another's.     Thou  shalt 

die.  {Exit. 

Prec.  All  holy  angels  keep  me  in  this 

hour ! 

Spirit  of  her  who  bore  me,  look  upon  me  ! 
Mother  of  God,  the  glorified,  protect  me  ! 
Christ  and  the  saints,  be  merciful  unto  me  ! 
Yet  why  should  I  fear  death  ?      What  is  it 

to  die  ? 

To  leave  all  disappointment,  care,  and  sor 
row, 
To  leave  all  falsehood,  treachery,  and  un- 

kindness, 

All  ignominy,  suffering,  and  despair, 
And  be  at  rest  forever  !     O  dull  heart, 
Be  of  good  cheer  !    When  thou  shalt  cease 

to  beat, 

Then  shalt  thou  cease  to  suffer  and  com 
plain  ! 

(Enter  VICTORIAN  and  HYPOLITO  behind.) 
Viet.  'T  is  she  !     Behold,  how  beautiful 

she  stands 
Under  the  tent-like  trees  ! 

Hyp.  A  woodland  nymph  ! 

Viet.  I  pray  thee,  stand  aside.    Leave  me. 
Hyp.  Be  wary. 

Do  not  betray  thyself  too  soon. 

Viet,  (disguising  his  voice}.   Hist  !  Gypsy  I 
Prec.  (aside,  with  emotion).     That  voice  I 
that  voice  from  heaven  !     Oh,  speak 
again  ! 
Who  is  it  calls  ? 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


Viet.  A  friend. 

Free,  (aside).          'Tishe!     'Tishe! 
I  thank  thee,  Heaven,  that  thou  hast  heard 

my  prayer, 
And   sent   me    this   protector !      Now  be 

strong, 
Be  strong,  my  heart  !    I   must  dissemble 

here. 
False  friend  or  true  ? 

Viet.  A  true  friend  to  the  true  ; 

Fear  not  ;  come  hither.     So  ;  can  you  tell 

fortunes  ? 
Prec.  Not  in  the  dark.     Come  nearer  to 

the  fire. 
Give  me  your  hand.     It  is  not  crossed,  I 

see. 
Viet,    (putting  a  piece   of  gold  into  her 

hand).     There  is  the  cross. 
Prec.  Is  't  silver  ? 

Viet.  No,  't  is  gold. 

Prec.    There  's  a  fair  lady  at  the  Court, 

who  loves  you, 
And  for  yourself  alone. 

Viet.  Fie  !  the  old  story  ! 

Tell  me  a  better  fortune  for  my  money  ; 
Not  this  old  woman's  tale  ! 

Prec.  You  are  passionate  ; 

And  this  same  passionate  humor  in  your 

blood 
Has  marred  your  fortune.     Yes  ;  I  see  it 

now  ; 

The  line  of  life  is  crossed  by  many  marks. 
Shame  !   shame  !     Oh,  you  have  wronged 

the  maid  who  loved  you  ! 
How  could  you  do  it  ? 

Viet.  I  never  loved  a  maid  ; 

For  she  I  loved  was  then  a  maid  no  more. 
Prec.  How  know  you  that  ? 
Viet.  A  little  bird  in  the  air 

Whispered  the  secret. 

Prec.  There,  take  back  your  gold  ! 

Your  hand  is  cold,  like  a  deceiver's  hand! 
There  is  no  blessing  in  its  charity  ! 
Make  her  your  wife,   for  you  have  been 

abused  ; 

And  you  shall  mend  your  fortunes,  mend- 
/~^      ing  hers. 
\  Viet,  (aside).  How  like  an  angel's  speaks 

the  tongue  of  woman, 
When   pleading    in    another's    cause    her 

own  ! 

That  is  a  pretty  ring  upon  your  finger. 
Pray  give  it  me.     (Tries  to  take  the  ring.) 

Prec.  No  ;  never  from  my  hand 

Shall  that  be  taken  ! 


Viet.  Why,  't  is  but  a  ring. 

I  '11  give  it  back  to  you  ;  or,  if  I  keep  it, 
Will   give   you  gold  to   buy  you   twenty 

such. 

Prec.  Why  would  you  have  this  ring  ? 
Viet.  A  traveller's  fancy, 

A  whim,  and  nothing  more.     I  would  fain 

keep  it 

As  a  memento  of  the  Gypsy  camp 
In  Guadarrarna,  and  the  fortune-teller 
Who   sent   me    back   to   wed  a  widowed 

maid. 
Pray,  let  me  have  the  ring. 

Prec.  No,  never  !   never  I 

I  will  not  part  with  it,  even  when  I  die  ; 
But   bid   my   nurse   fold  my  pale  fingers 

thus, 
That  it  may  not  fall  from  them.     'T  is  a 

token 
Of  a  beloved  friend,  who  is  no  more. 

Viet.  How  ?  dead  ? 

Prec.  Yes  ;  dead  to  me  ;  and  worse  than 

dead. 
He  is  estranged  !     And  yet  I  keep    this 

ring. 

I  will  rise  with  it  from  my  grave  here 
after, 

To  prove  to  him  that  I  was  never  false. 
Viet,    (aside).     Be    still,    my    swelling 

heart  !  one  moment,  still  ! 
Why,  't  is  the  folly  of  a  love-sick  girl. 
Come,  give  it  me,  or  I  will  say  't  is  mir 
And  that  you  stole  it. 

Prec.  Oh,  you  will  not  dare 

To  utter  such  a  falsehood  ! 

Viet.  I  not  dare  ? 

Look    in    my  face,   and    say   if  there   is 

aught 

I  have   not   dared,  I  would   not   dare  for 
thee  ! 

(She  rushes  into  his  arms.) 

Prec.  'T  is  thou  !  't  is  thou  !     Yes;  yes; 

my  heart's  elected  ! 
My   dearest-dear    Victorian  !    my     soul's 

heaven  ! 
Where   hast   thou   been   so  long?     Why 

didst  thou  leave  me  ? 
Viet.  Ask  me  not  now,  my  dearest  Pre- 

ciosa. 

Let  me  forget  we  ever  have  been  parted  I 
Prec.  Hadst  thou  not  come  — 
Viet.  I  pray  thee,  do  not  chide  me  ! 

Prec.  I  should  have  perished  here  among 
these  Gypsies. 


mine, 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


Viet.  Forgive   me,   sweet !    for   what   I 

made  thee  suffer. 

Think'st  thou  this  heart  could  feel  a  mo 
ment's  joy, 

Thou  being  absent  ?     Oh,  believe  it  not  ! 
Indeed,   since  that  sad   hour  I   have  not 

slept, 

For  thinking  of  the  wrong  I  did  to  thee  ! 
Dost   thou   forgive   me  ?     Say,  wilt  thou 

forgive  me  ? 
Prec.  I  have  forgiven  thee.     Ere  those 

words  of  anger 
Were   in   the  book  of  Heaven  writ  down 

against  thee, 
I  had  forgiven  thee. 

Viet.  I  'm  the  veriest  fool 

That  walks  the  earth,  to  have   believed 

thee  false. 
It  was  the  Count  of  Lara  —  «• 

Prec.  That  bad  man 

Has  worked  me  harm  enough.     Hast  thou 

.     not  heard  — 
\  Viet.  I  have  heard  all.     And  yet  speak 

on,  speak  on  ! 
Let   me   but   hear   thy   voice,   and   I   am 

happy  ; 

For  every  tone,  like  some  sweet  incanta 
tion, 

Calls  up  the  buried  past  to  plead  for  me. 
Speak,  my  beloved,  speak  into  my  heart, 
Whatever  fills  and  agitates  thine  own.j 

(They  walk  aside.) 
Hyp.  All  gentle  quarrels  in  the  pastoral 

poets, 

All  passionate  love-scenes  in  the  best  ro 
mances, 

All  chaste  embraces  on  the  public  stage, 
All  soft  adventures,  which  the  liberal  stars 
Have  winked  at,  as  the  natural  course  of 

things, 
Have  been   surpassed  here  by  my  friend, 

the  student, 
And  this  sweet  Gypsy  lass,  fair  Preciosa  ! 

Prec.  Senor  Hypolito  !    I  kiss  your  hand. 
Pray,  shall  I  tell  your  fortune  ? 

Hyp.  Not  to-night  ; 

For,  should  you  treat  me  as  you  did  Vic 
torian, 

And  send  me  back  to  marry  maids  forlorn, 
My  wedding  day  would  last  from  now  till 

Christmas. 

Chispa   (within).     What   ho !   the    Gyp 
sies,  ho  !  Beltran  Cruzado  ! 
Halloo  !  halloo  !  halloo  !  halloo  ! 

(Enters  booted,  with  a  whip  and  lantern.) 


Viet.  What  now  ? 

Why  such  a  fearful  din  ?     Hast  thou  been 

robbed  ? 
Chispa.   Ay,  robbed  and  murdered  ;  and 

good  evening  to  you, 
My  worthy  masters. 

Viet.        Speak  ;  what  brings  thee  here  ? 
Chispa  (to  PRECIOSA).  Good  news  from 
Court  ;   good  news  !     Beltran  Cru 
zado, 

The  Count  of  the  Gale's,  is  not  your  father, 
But  your  true  father  has  returned  to  Spain 
Laden  with  wealth.  You  are  no  more  a 

Gypsy. 

Viet.  Strange  as  a  Moorish  tale  ! 
Chispa.  And  we  have  all 

Been  drinking  at  the  tavern  to  your  health, 
As  wells  drink  in  November,  when  it  rains. 
Viet.  Where  is  the  gentleman  ? 
Chispa.  As  the  old  song  says, 

His  body  is  in  Segovia, 
His  soul  is  in  Madrid. 

Prec.  Is  this  a  dream  ?     Oh,  if  it  be  a 

dream, 

Let  me  sleep  on,  and  do  not  wake  me  yet ! 
Repeat  thy  story  !     Say  I  'm  not  deceived  ! 
Say  that  I  do  not  dream  !     I  am  awake  ; 
This  is  the  Gypsy  camp  ;  this  is  Victorian, 
And   this   his   friend,  Hypolito  !      Speak  ! 

speak  ! 

Let  me  not  wake  and  find  it  all  a  dream  ! 
Viet.  It   is    a    dream,   sweet    child  1    a 

waking  dream, 

A  blissful  certainty,  a  vision  bright 
Of    that   rare  happiness,   which    even   on 

earth 
Heaven  gives  to  those  it  loves.     Now  art 

thou  rich, 

As  thou  wast  ever  beautiful  and  good  ; 
And  I  am  now  the  beggar. 

Prec.  (giving  him  her  hand).    I  have  still 
A  hand  to  give. 

Chispa  (aside).  And  I  have  two  to  take. 
I've    heard    my    grandmother    say,   that 

Heaven  gives  almonds 
To  those  who  have  no  teeth.      That 's  nuts 

to  crack. 
I  've  teeth  to  spare,  but  where  shall  I  find 

almonds  ? 

Viet.  What  more  of  this  strange  story  ? 
Chispa.  Nothing  more. 

Your  friend,  Don  Carlos,  is  now  at  the  vil 
lage 
Showing  to  Pedro  Crespo,  the  Alcalde, 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT 


The  proofs  of  what  I  tell  you.     The  old 
hag, 

Who  stole  you  in  your  childhood,  has  con 
fessed  ; 

And   probably   they'll   hang   her   for   the 
crime, 

To  make  the  celebration  more  complete. 
Viet.  No  ;  let  it  be  a  day  of  general  joy  ; 

Fortune  comes  well  to  all,  that  comes  not 
late. 

Now  let  us  join  Don  Carlos. 

Hyp.  So  farewell, 

The  student's  wandering  life  I     Sweet  ser 
enades, 

Sung  under  ladies'  windows  in  the  night, 

And  all  that  makes  vacation  beautiful ! 

To  you,  ye  cloistered  shades  of  Alcald, 

To  you,  ye  radiant  visions  of  romance, 

Written  in  books,  but  here  surpassed  by 
truth, 

The  Bachelor  Hypolito  returns, 

And  leaves  the  Gypsy   with  the   Spanish 
Student. 

SCENE  VI.  —  A  pass  in  the  Guadarrama  mountains. 
Early  morning.  A  muleteer  crosses  the  stage,  sitting 
tideways  on  his  mule,  and  lighting  a  paper  cigar  with 
flint  and  steel. 

SONG 

If  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden, 

Awake  and  open  thy  door, 
'T  is  the  break  of  day,  and  we  must  away 

O'er  meadow,  and  mount,  and  moor. 

Wait  not  to  find  thy  slippers, 

But  come  with  thy  naked  feet ; 
We  shall  have  to  pass  through  the  dewy  grass, 

And  waters  wide  and  fleet. 

(Disappears  down  the  pass.    Enter  a  Monk.    A  Shep 
herd  appears  on  the  rocks  above.} 

Monk.  Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena.  Ola"  ! 
good  man  ! 

Shep.  Ola! 

Monk.  Is  this  the  road  to  Segovia  ? 

Shep.  It  is,  your  reverence. 

Monk.  How  far  is  it  ? 

Shep.  I  do  not  know. 

Monk.  What  is  that  yonder  in  the  val 
ley  ? 

Sliep.  San  Ildefonso. 

Monk.  A  long  way  to  breakfast. 

Shep.  Ay,  marry. 

Monk.  Are  there  robbers  in  these  moun 
tains? 

Shep.  Yes,  and  worse  than  that. 

Monk.  What  ? 


Shep.  Wolves. 

Monk.  Santa  Maria  !  Come  with  me  to 
San  Ildefonso,  and  thou  shalt  be  well  re 
warded. 

Shep.  What  wilt  thou  give  me  ? 

Monk.  An  Agnus  Dei  and  my  benedic 
tion. 

(They  disappear.  A  mounted  Contrabandista  passes, 
wrapped  in  his  cloak,  and  a  gun  at  his  saddle-bow. 
He  goes  down  the  pass  singing.) 

SONG 

Worn  with  speed  is  my  good  rteed, 

And  1  march  me  hurried,  worried  ; 

Onward,  caballito  mio, 

With  the  white  star  in  thy  forehead  ! 

Onward,  for  here  conies  the  Ronda, 

And  1  hear  their  rifles  crack ! 

Ay,  jale"o !    Ay,  ay,  jale*o ! 

Ay,  jale"o !     1  hey  cross  our  track. 

(Song  dies  awny.  Enter  PRECIOSA,  on  horseback,  at 
tended  by  VICTORIAN,  HYPOLITO,  DON  CAKLOS,  and 
CHISPA,  on  foot  and  armed.) 

Viet.  This  is  the  highest  point.    Here  let 

us  rest. 

See,  Preciosa,  see  how  all  about  us 
Kneeling,  like    hooded    friars,   the    misty 

mountains 

Receive  the  benediction  of  the  sun  ! 
O  glorious  sight  ! 

Prec.  Most  beautiful  indeed  ! 

Hyp.  Most  wonderful  ! 

Viet.  And  in  the  vale  below, 

Where  yonder  steeples  flash  like  lifted  hal 
berds, 

San  Ildefonso,  from  its  noisy  belfries, 
Sends  up  a  salutation  to  the  morn, 
As  if  an  army  smote  their  brazen  shields, 
And  shouted  victory  ! 

Prec.  And  which  way  lies 

Segovia  ? 

Viet.         At  a  great  distance  yonder. 
Dost  thou  not  see  it  ? 

Prec.  No.     I  do  not  see  it. 

Viet.     The  merest  flaw  that  dents  the 

horizon's  edge, 
There,  yonder  ! 

Hyp.  'T  is  a  notable  old  town, 

Boasting  an  ancient  Roman  aqueduct, 
And  an  Alcdzar,  builded  by  the  Moors, 
Wherein,  you  may  remember,  poor  Gil  Bias 
Was  fed  on  Pan  del  Rey.    Oh,  many  a  time 
3ut  of  its  grated  windows  have  I  looked 
hundreds    of    feet    plumb   down    to    the 
Eresma, 


THE   BELFRY   OF   BRUGES 


53 


That,  like   a   serpent  through   the   valley 

creeping, 
Glides  at  its  foot. 

Prec.  Oh  yes  !  I  see  it  now, 

Yet  rather  with  my  heart  than  with  mine 

eyes, 
So  faint  it  is.     And  all  my  thoughts  sail 

thither, 

Freighted  with  prayers  and  hopes,  and  for 
ward  urged 

Against  all  stress  of  accident,  as  in 
The  Eastern  T;de,  against  the  wind  and  tide 
Great   ships  were  drawn  to  the  Magnetic 

Mountains, 
And  there  were  wrecked,  and  perished  in 

the  sea  !     (She  weeps. ) 
Viet.  O  gentle  spirit  !     Thou  didst  bear 

unmoved 

Blasts  of  adversity  and  frosts  of  fnte  ! 
But  the  first  ray  of  sunshine  that  falls  on 

thee 

Malts  thee  to  tears  !   Oh,  let  thy  weary  heart 
Lean  upon  mine  !    and  it  shall    faint   no 

more, 

Nor  thirst,  nor  hunger  ;  but  be  comforted 
And  filled  with  my  affection. 

Prec.  Stay  no  longer  ! 

My   father   waits.      Methinks   I   see   him 

there, 
Now  looking  from  the  window,  and  now 

watching 


Each  sound  of  wheels  or  footfall   in   the 

street, 
And    saying,    "  Hark  !    she    comes  ! "      O 

father  !  father  ! 

( They  descend  the  pass.  CHISPA  remains  behind. ) 
Chispa.  I  have  a  father,  too,  but  he  is  a 
dead  one.  Alas  and  alack-a-day !  Poor 
was  I  born,  and  poor  do  I  remain.  I  neither 
win  nor  lose.  Thus  I  wag  through  the 
world,  half  the  time  on  foot,  and  the  other 
half  walking  ;  and  always  as  merry  as  a 
thunder-storm  in  the  night.  And  so  we 
plough  along,  as  the  fly  said  to  the  ox. 
Who  knows  what  may  happen  ?  Patience, 
and  shuffle  the  cards  !  I  am  not  yet  so  bald 
that  you  can  see  my  brains  ;  and  perhaps, 
after  all,  I  shall  some  day  go  to  Rome,  and 
come  back  Saint  Peter.  Benedicite  !  {.Exit. 
(A  pause.  Then  enter  BARTOLOM^  wildly,  as  if  in  pur 
suit,  with  a  carbine  in  his  hand.) 

Bart.  They  passed  this  way.    I  hear  their 

horses'  hoofs  ! 
Yonder  I  see  them  !      Come,  sweet  cara- 

millo, 
This  serenade  shall  be  the  Gypsy's  last  I 

(Fires  down  the  pass.) 
Ha  !  ha !     Well  whistled,  my  sweet  cara- 

millo  ! 
Well  whistled  !  —  I  have  missed  her  !  —  0 

my  God  ! 
(  The  shot  is  returned.    BAETOLOM±  falls. ) 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


The  Belfry  of  Bruges  and  other  Poems  was  published 
December  '^3,  1845,  but  the  greater  part  of  the  volume 
had  ulreauy  appeared  in  tlie  illustrated  edition  of  Mr. 
Longfellow's  poems  published  earlier  in  the  year  in 
Philadelphia,  as  well  as  in  the  pages  of  Graham's  Mag 
azine,  which  at  this  time  was  tiie  most  Irequeut  vehicle 
01  his  writing. 

The  poem  which  gives  the  title  to  the  volume  was  the 
pro  luct  of  his  excursion  in  Europe  in  the  summer  of 
1842  While  on  his  way  to  the  watercure  at  Marien- 
berg  on  the  Rhine,  he  spent  a  few  days  in  Belgium,  and 
here  is  the  entry  which  he  makes  in  his  diary  :  — 

M  iy  30.  In  the  evening  took  the  railway  from  Ghent 
to  Bruges.  Stopped  at  La  Fleur  de  Ble  attracted  by 
the  name,  and  found  it  a  good  hotel.  It  was  not  yet 
night ,  and  I  strolled  through  the  fine  old  streets  and 
felt  myself  a  hundred  years  old.  The  chimes  seemed 
to  be  ringing  incessantly  ;  and  the  air  of  repose  and  an 
tiquity  was  delightful.  ...  Oh,  those  chimes,  those 
chimes  !  how  deliciously  they  lull  one  to  sleep  !  The 
little  bells,  with  their  clear,  liquid  notes,  like  the  voices 
of  boys  in  a  choir,  and  the  solemn  bass  of  the  great  bell 
tolling  in,  like  the  voice  of  a  friar  ! 

May  31.     Rose  before  five  and  climbed  the  high  bel 


fry  which  was  once  crowned  by  the  gilded  copper  drag 
on  now  at  Ghent.  The  carillon  of  forty-eight  bells; 
the  little  chamber  in  the  tower ;  the  machinery,  like  a 
huge  barrel-organ,  with  keys  like  a  musical  instrument 
for  the  carilloneur ;  the  view  from  the  tower ;  the  sing 
ing  of  swallows  with  the  chimes  ;  the  fresh  morning 
air ;  the  mist  in  the  horizon  ;  the  red  roofs  far  below  ; 
the  canal,  like  a  silver  clasp,  linking  the  city  with  the 
sea,  —  how  much  to  remember  ! 

From  some  expressions  in  a  letter  to  Freiligrath  it 
would  seem  that  this  poem  and  Nuremberg  formed  part 
of  a  plan  which  the  poet  had  designed  of  a  series  of 
travel-sketches  in  verse,  a  plan  which  in  a  desultory 
way  he  may  be  said  to  have  been  executing  all  his  days 
and  to  have  carried  out  systematically  in  another  shape 
in  his  collection  of  Poems  of  Places. 

The  contents  of  this  division  are  the  same  as  in  the 
volume  so  entitled,  except  that  a  group  of  six  trans 
lations  has  been  withheld,  to  be  placed  with  the  other 
translated  pieces  at  the  end  of  the  volume  ;  except  also 
that  to  the  Sonnets  is  added  the  personal  one  entitled 
Mezzo  Cctmmin,  written  at  this  time  and  first  printed 
in  the  Life. 


54 


THE   BELFRY   OF   BRUGES 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 
CARILLON 

IN  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city, 
As  the  evening  shades  descended, 
Low  and  loud  and  sweetly  blended, 
Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times, 
And  changing  like  a  poet's  rhymes, 
Rang  the  beautiful  wild  chimes 
From  the  Belfry  in  the  market 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

Then,  with  deep  sonorous  clangor 
Calmly  answering  their  sweet  anger, 
When  the  wrangling  bells  had  ended, 
Slowly  struck  the  clock  eleven, 
And,  from  out  the  silent  heaven, 
Silence  on  the  town  descended. 
Silence,  silence  everywhere, 
On  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
Save  that  footsteps  here  and  there 
Of  some  burgher  home  returning, 
By  the  street  lamps  faintly  burning, 
For  a  moment  woke  the  echoes 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

But  amid  my  broken  slumbers 
Still  I  heard  those  magic  numbers, 
As  they  loud  proclaimed  the  flight 
And  stolen  marches  of  the  night  ; 
Till  their  chimes  in  sweet  collision 
Mingled  with  each  wandering  vision, 
Mingled  with  the  fortune-telling 
Gypsy-bands  of  dreams  and  fancies, 
Which  amid  the  waste  expanses 
Of  the  silent  land  of  trances 
Have  their  solitary  dwelling  ; 
All  else  seemed  asleep  in  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 

And  I  thought  how  like  these  chimes 
Are  the  poet's  airy  rhymes, 
All  his  rhymes  and  roundelays, 
His  conceits,  and  songs,  and  ditties, 
From  the  belfry  of  his  brain, 
Scattered  downward,  though  in  vain, 
On  the  roofs  and  stones  of  cities  ! 
For  by  night  the  drowsy  ear 
Under  its  curtains  cannot  hear, 
And  by  day  men  go  their  ways, 
Hearing  the  music  as  they  pass, 
But  deeming  it  no  more,  alas  ! 
Than  the  hollow  sound  of  brass. 


Yet  perchance  a  sleepless  wight, 

Lodging  at  some  humble  inn 

In  the  narrow  lanes  of  life, 

When  the  dusk  and  hush  of  night 

Shut  out  the  incessant  din 

Of  daylight  and  its  toil  a.nd  strife, 

May  listen  with  a  calm  delight 

To  the  poet's  melodies, 

Till  he  hears,  or  dreams  he  hears, 

Intermingled  with  the  song, 

Thoughts  that  he  has  cherished  long  ; 

Hears  amid  the  chime  and  singing 

The  bells  of  his  own  village  ringing, 

And    wakes,  and  finds   his    slumberous 

eyes 
Wet  with  most  delicious  tears. 

Thus  dreamed  I,  as  by  night  I  lay 
In  Bruges,  at  the  Fleur-de-Ble', 
Listening  with  a  wild  delight 
To  the  chimes  that,  through  the  night, 
Rang  their  changes  from  the  Belfry 
Of  that  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 

THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

IN  the  market-place  of  Bruges  stands  the 

belfry  old  and  brown  ; 
Thrice  consumed  and  thrice  rebuilded,  still 

it  watches  o'er  the  town. 

As  the  summer  morn  was  breaking,  on  that 

lofty  tower  1  stood, 
And  the  world  threw  off  the  darkness,  like 

the  weeds  of  widowhood. 

Thick  with  towns  and  hamlets  studded, 
and  with  streams  and  vapors  gray, 

Like  a  shield  embossed  with  silver,  round 
and  vast  the  landscape  lay. 

At  my  feet  the  city  slumbered.     From  its 

chimneys,  here  and  there, 
Wreaths  of  snow-white  smoke,  ascending, 

vanished,  ghost-like,  into  air. 

Not  a  sound  rose   from  the  city  at   that 

early  morning  hour, 
But  I  heard  a  heart  of  iron  beating  in  the 

ancient  tower. 

From  their  nests  beneath  the  rafters  sang 
the  swallows  wild  and  high  ; 

And  the  world,  beneath  me  sleeping, 
seemed  more  distant  than  the  sky. 


A   GLEAM   OF   SUNSHINE 


55 


Then  most  musical  and  solemn,   bringing 

back  the  olden  times, 
With    their    strange,    unearthly    changes 

rang  the  melancholy  chimes, 

Like  the  psalms  from  some  old  cloister, 
when  the  nuns  sing  in  the  choir  ; 

And  the  great  bell  tolled  among  them,  like 
the  chanting  of  a  friar. 

Visions  of  the  days  departed,  shadowy 
phantoms  filled  my  brain  ; 

They  who  live  in  history  only  seemed  to 
walk  the  earth  again  ; 

All  the  Foresters   of   Flanders,  —  mighty 

Baldwin  Bras  de  Fer, 
Lyderick  du  Bucq  and  Cressy,  Philip,  Guy 

de  Dampierre. 

I  beheld  the  pageants  splendid  that  adorned 

those  days  of  old  ; 
Stately  dames,  like  queens  attended,  knights 

who  bore  the  Fleece  of  Gold  ; 

Lombard   and   Venetian    merchants   with 

deep-laden  argosies  ; 
Ministers  from  twenty  nations  ;  more  than 

royal  pomp  and  ease. 

I  beheld  proud  Maximilian,  kneeling  hum 
bly  on  the  ground  ; 

I  beheld  the  gentle  Mary,  hunting  with  her 
hawk  and  hound  ; 

And  her  lighted  bridal-chamber,  where  a 
duke  slept  with  the  queen, 

And  the  armed  guard  around  them,  and 
the  sword  unsheathed  between. 

I  beheld  the  Flemish  weavers,  with  Namur 

and  Juliers  bold, 
Marching  homeward  from  the  bloody  battle 

of  the  Spurs  of  Gold  ; 

Saw  the  fight  at  Minne water,  saw  the  White 

Hoods  moving  west, 
Saw  great   Artevelde  victorious  scale  the 

Golden  Dragon's  nest. 

And  again  the  whiskered  Spaniard  all  the 

land  with  terror  smote  ; 
And  again  the  wild  alarum  sounded  from 

the  tocsin's  throat  ; 


Till  the  bell  of  Ghent  responded  o'er  lagoon 

and  dike  of  sand, 
"  I  am  Roland  !    I  am  Roland  !   there   is 

victory  in  the  land  !  " 

Then  the  sound  of  drums  aroused  me.     The 

awakened  city's  roar 
Chased    the    phantoms  I  had    summoned 

back  into  their  graves  once  more. 

Hours  had  passed  away  like  minutes  ;  and, 

before  I  was  aware, 
Lo  !  the  shadow  of  the  belfry  crossed  the 

sun-illumined  square. 


A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE 

The  scene  of  this  poem  is  mentioned  in  the  poet's 
diary,  under  date  of  August  31, 1846.  "  lu  the  afternoon 
a  delicious  drive  with  F.  and  C.  through  Brookline,  by 
the  church  and  '  the  green  lane,'  and  homeward  through 
a  lovelier  lane,  with  barberries  and  wild  vines  cluster 
ing  over  the  old  stone  walls." 

THIS  is  the  place.    Stand  still,  my  steed, 

Let  me  review  the  scene, 
And  summon  from  the  shadowy  Past 

The  forms  that  once  have  been. 

The  Past  and  Present  here  unite 

Beneath  Time's  flowing  tide, 
Like  footprints  hidden  by  a  brook, 

But  seen  on  either  side. 

Here  runs  the  highway  to  the  town  ; 

There  the  green  lane  descends, 
Through  which  I  walked  to  church  with 
thee, 

O  gentlest  of  my  friends  ! 

The  shadow  of  the  linden-trees 

Lay  moving  on  the  grass  ; 
Between  them  and  the  moving  boughs, 

A  shadow,  thou  didst  pass. 

Thy  dress  was  like  the  lilies, 
And  thy  heart  as  pure  as  they  : 

One  of  God's  holy  messengers 
Did  walk  with  me  that  day. 

I  saw  the  branches  of  the  trees 
Bend  down  thy  touch  to  meet, 

The  clover-blossoms  in  the  grass 
Rise  up  to  kiss  thy  feet. 


THE   BELFRY   OF   BRUGES 


"  Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 

Of  earth  and  folly  bom  !  " 
Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 

On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn. 

Through  the  closed  blinds  the  golden  sun 

Poured  in  a  dusty  beam, 
Like  the  celestial  ladder  seen 

By  Jacob  in  his  dream. 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  wind 

Sweet-scented  with  the  hay, 
Turned   o'er   the   hymn-book's   fluttering 
leaves 

That  on  the  window  lay. 

Long  was  the  good  man's  sermon, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me  ; 
For  he  spake  of  Ruth  the  beautiful, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

Long  was  the  prayer  he  uttered, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me  ; 
For  in  my  heart  I  prayed  with  him, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

But  now,  alas  !  the  place  seems  changed  ; 

Thou  art  no  longer  here  : 
Part  of  the  sunshine  of  the  scene 

With  thee  did  disappear. 

Though  thoughts,  deep-rooted  in  my  heart, 
Like  pine-trees  dark  and  high, 

Subdue  the  light  of  noon,  and  breathe 
A  low  and  ceaseless  sigh  ; 

This  memory  brightens  o'er  the  past, 

As  when  the  sun,  concealed 
Behind  some  cloud  that  near  us  hangs, 

Shines  on  a  distant  field. 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD 

On  his  wedding  journey  in  the  summer  of  1843,  Mr. 
Longfellow  pissed  through  Springfield,  Massachusetts, 
and  vhited  the  United  States  arsenal  there,  in  com 
pany  with  Mr.  Charles  Stunner.  "  While  Mr.  Stunner 
was  endeavoring,"  says  Mr.  S.  Longfellow,  "  to  impress 
upon  the  attendant  that  the  money  expended  upon 
these  weapons  of  war  would  have  been  much  better 
spent  upon  a  great  library,  Mrs.  Longfellow  pleased  her 
husband  by  remarking  how  like  an  organ  looked  the 
ranged  and  shining  gun -barrels  which  covered  the 
wills  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  suggesting  what  mourn 
ful  music  Death  would  bring  from  them.  '  We  grew 
quite  warlike  against  war,'  she  wrote,  'and  I  urged 
H.  to  write  a  peace  poem.1"  The  poem  was  written 
some  months  later. 


THIS  is  the  Arsenal.      From  floor  to  ceil 
ing) 
Like  a  huge   organ,  rise  the  burnished 

arms  ; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  peal 
ing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah  !  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and 

dreary, 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift 

keys  ! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
W'ill  mingle  with  their   awful  sympho 
nies  ! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that   have  gone 

before  us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  ham 
mer, 

Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norse 
man's  song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 
O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar 
gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  pal 
ace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful 

din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 
Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  ser 
pent's  skin  ; 

The  tumult  of   each  sacked  and  burning 

village  ; 
The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy 

drowns  ; 
The   soldiers'  revels   in   the  midst  of  pil- 


The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns  ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched 

asunder, 
The     rattling     musketry,    the    clashing 

blade  ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 


NUREMBERG 


57 


Thou  drowuest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly 

voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world 

with  terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth  bestowed  on  camps 

and  courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts  : 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  ab 
horred  ! 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 
Would  wear  forevermore    the   curse  of 
Cain  ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  gener 
ations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then 

cease  ; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibra 
tions, 

I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say, 
"  Peace !  " 

Peace  !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  por 
tals 
The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes 

the  sides  ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


NUREMBERG 

In  a  letter  to  Freiligrath,  printed  in  the  Life,  I.  436, 
Mr.  Longfellow  describes  with  enthusiasm  a  day  at 
Nuremberg,  from  the  memory  of  which  this  poein 
sprang. 

IN  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz,  where  across 
broad  meadow-lands 

Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nu 
remberg,  the  ancient,  stands. 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint 

old  town  of  art  and  song, 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables,  like 

the  rooks  that  round  them  throng  : 

Memories  of  the  Middle  Ae^s,  when  the 
emperors,  rough  and  bold, 

Had  thoir  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time- 
defying,  centuries  old  ; 


And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted, 

in  their  uncouth  rhyme, 
That  their  gre;it  imperial  city  stretched  its 

hand  through  every  clime. 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound  with 

many  an  iron  band, 
Stands  the  mighty  linden  planted  by  Queen 

Cuniguude's  hand  ; 

On  the  square  the  oriel  window,  where  in 
old  heroic  days 

Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Maxi 
milian's  praise. 

Everywhere  I  see  around  me  rise  the  won 
drous  world  of  Art  : 

Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture 
standing  in  the  common  mart  ; 

And  above  cathedral  doorways  saints  and 

bishops  carved  in  stone, 
By  a  former  age  commissioned  as  apostles 

to  our  own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Scbald  sleeps  en 
shrined  his  holy  dust, 

And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard 
from  age  to  age  their  trust  ; 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a 

pix  of  sculpture  rare, 
Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising 

through  the  painted  air. 

Here,  when  Art  was    still  religion,  with  a 

simple,  reverent  heart, 
Lived   and    labored    Albrecht  Diirer,    the 

Evangelist  of  Art  ; 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still 

with  busy  hand, 
Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for 

the  Better  Land. 

Emigravit  is  the  inscription  on  the  tomb 
stone  where  he  lies  ; 

Dead  he  is  not,  but  departed,  —  for  the 
artist  never  dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sun 
shine  seems  more  fair, 

That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that 
he  once  has  breathed  its  air  ! 


THE   BELFRY   OF   BRUGES 


Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately, 
these  obscure  and  dismal  lanes, 

Walked  of  yore  the  Mastersingers,  chanting 
rude  poetic  strains. 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs  came 
they  to  the  friendly  guild, 

Building  nests  in  Fame's  great  temple,  as 
in  spouts  the  swallows  build. 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he 

too  the  mystic  rhyme, 
And  the  smith  his  iron  measures  hammered 

to  the  anvil's  chime  ; 

Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom 
makes  the  flowers  of  poesy  bloom 

In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinders,  in  the  tis 
sues  of  the  loom. 

Here  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-poet,  laureate 

of  the  gentle  craft, 
Wisest  of    the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  in 

huge  folios  sang  and  laughed. 

But  his  house  is  now  an  ale-house,  with  a 

nicely  sanded  floor, 
And  a  garland  in  the  window,  and  his  face 

above  the  door  ; 

Painted  by  some  humble  artist,  as  in  Adam 

Puschman's  song, 
As  the  old  man  gray  and  dove-like,  with 

his  great  beard  white  and  long. 

And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes  to 

drown  his  cark  and  care, 
Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in  the 

master's  antique  chair. 

Vanished  is  the  ancient  splendor,  and  be 
fore  my  dreamy  eye 

Wave  these  mingled  shapes  and  figures, 
like  a  faded  tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,  win  for 

thee  the  world's  regard  ; 
But  thy  painter,  Albrecht  Diirer,  and  Hans 

Sachs  thy  cobbler  bard. 

Thus,  O  Nuremberg,  a  wanderer  from  a 

region  far  away, 
As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  court-yards, 

sang  in  thought  his  careless  lay  : 


Gathering    from   the   pavement's   crevice, 

as  a  floweret  of  the  soil, 
The  nobility  of  labor,  —  the  long  pedigree 

of  toil. 


THE  NORMAN  BARON 

The  following  passage  from  Thierry  was  sent  to  Mr. 
Longfellow  by  an  unknown  correspondent,  who  sug 
gested  it  as  a  theme  for  a  poem. 

Dans  les  moments de  la  vie  ou  In  reflexion  devient  plus 
calme  et  plus  profonde,  ou  1'inte'rgt  et  1'avarice  parlent 
moins  haut  qne  la  raison,  dans  les  instants  de  chagrin 
domestique,  de  maladie,  et  de  pe'ril  de  mort,  les  nobles 
se  repentirent  de  posse"der  des  serfs,  comme  d'ime 
chose  peu  agre"able  a  Dieu,  qui  avait  cre"£  tous  les 
hommes  a  son  image.  —  Conquete  de  V 'Anglelerre. 

IN  his  chamber,  weak  and  dying, 
Was  the  Norman  baron  lying  ; 
Loud,  without,  the  tempest  thundered, 
And  the  castle-turret  shook. 

In  this  fight  was  Death  the  gainer, 
Spite  of  vassal  and  retainer, 
And  the  lands  his  sires  had  plundered, 
Written  in  the  Doomsday  Book. 

By  his  bed  a  monk  was  seated, 
Who  in  humble  voice  repeated 
Many  a  prayer  and  pater-noster, 

From  the  missal  on  his  knee  ; 

And,  amid  the  tempest  pealing, 
Sounds  of  bells  came  faintly  stealing, 
Bells,  that  from  the  neighboring  kloster 
Rang  for  the  Nativity. 

In  the  hall,  the  serf  and  vassal 

Held,  that  night,  their  Christmas  wassail  ; 

Many  a  carol,  old  and  saintly, 

Sang  the  minstrels  and  the  waits  ; 

And  so  loud  these  Saxon  gleemen 
Sang  to  slaves  the  songs  of  freemen, 
That  the  storm  was  heard  but  faintly, 
Knocking  at  the  castle-gates. 

Till  at  length  the  lays  they  chanted 
Reached  the  chamber  terror-haunted, 
Where  the  monk,  with  accents  holy, 
WThispered  at  the  baron's  ear. 

Tears  upon  his  eyelids  glistened, 
As  he  paused  awhile  and  listened, 
And  the  dying  baron  slowly 

Turned  his  weary  head  to  hear. 


RAIN   IN   SUMMER 


59 


"  Wassail  for  the  kingly  stranger 
Born  and  cradled  in  a  manger  ! 
King,  like  David,  priest,  like  Aaron, 
Christ  is  born  to  set  us  free  !  " 

And  the  lightning  showed  the  sainted 
Figures  on  the  casement  painted, 
And  exclaimed  the  shuddering  baron, 
"  Miserere,  Domine  !  " 

In  that  hour  of  deep  contrition 
He  beheld,  with  clearer  vision, 
Through  all  outward  show  and  fashion, 
Justice,  the  Avenger,  rise. 

All  the  pomp  of  earth  had  vanished, 
Falsehood  and  deceit  were  banished, 
Reason  spake  more  loud  than  passion, 
And  the  truth  wore  no  disguise. 

Every  vassal  of  his  banner, 
Every  serf  born  to  his  manor, 
All    those    wronged    and    wretched    crea 
tures, 

By  his  hand  were  freed  again. 

And,  as  on  the  sacred  missal 
He  recorded  their  dismissal, 
Death  relaxed  his  iron  features, 

And  the  monk  replied,  "  Amen  !  " 

Many  centuries  have  been  numbered 
Since  in  death  the  baron  slumbered 
By  the  convent's  sculptured  portal, 

Mingling  with  the  common  dust : 

But  the  good  deed,  through  the  ages 
Living  in  historic  pages, 
Brighter  grows  and  gleams  immortal, 
Uncons  umed  by  moth  or  rust. 


RAIN    IN    SUMMER 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

After  the  dust  and  heat, 

In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 

In  the  narrow  lane, 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout ! 


Across  the  window-pane 

It  pours  and  pours  ; 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a  muddy  tide, 

Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  rain,  the  welcome  rain  ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 

At  the  twisted  brooks  ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 

Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 

Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighboring  school 

Come  the  boys, 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 

And  commotion  ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 

Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 

Ingulfs  them  in  its  whirling 

And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide, 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  hide, 

Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain  ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand  ; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 

The  clover-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil. 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures,  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 


6o 


THE   BELFRY  OF   BRUGES 


These,  and  far  more  than  these, 

The  Poet  sees  ! 

He  can  behold 

Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air  ; 

And  from  each  ample  fold 

Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 

Scattering  everywhere 

The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 

Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told,  — 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 

For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 

Follows  the  water-drops 

Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 

Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground  ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 

On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 

Climbing  np  once  more  to  heaven, 

Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear, 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange, 

Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth, 

From   earth    to   heaven,  from    heaven   to 

earth  ; 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 
Of  things  unseen  before, 
Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 
The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 
Turning  forevermore 
In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 


TO  A  CHILD 

This  poem  was  begun  October  2,  1845,  and  on  the 
13th  of  the  next  month  Mr.  Longfellow  noted  in  his 
diary  :  "  Walked  in  the  garden  and  tried  to  finish  the 
Ode  to  a  Child ;  but  could  not  find  the  exact  exprps- 
Bions  I  wanted,  to  round  and  complete  the  whole." 
After  the  publication  of  the  volume  containing  it,  he 
wrote  :  "  The  poem  To  a  Child  and  The  Old  Clock  on 
the  Stairs  seem  to  be  the  favorites.  This  is  the  best 
answer  to  my  assailants."  Possibly  the  charge  was 
made  then  as  frequently  afterward  that  his  poetry  was 
an  echo  of  foreign  scenes.  It  is  at  any  rate  noticeable 
that  in  this  poem  he  first  strongly  expressed  that  do 
mestic  sentiment  which  was  to  be  so  conspicuous  in 
his  after  work.  It  will  be  remembered  that  he  was 
married  to  Miss  Appleton  in  July,  1843,  and  his  second 


child  was  born  at  the  time  when  he  was  writing  this 
ode.  Five  years  later  he  made  the  following  entry  in 
his  diary  :  "  Some  years  ago,  writing  an  Ode  to  a  Child, 
I  spoke  of 

The  buried  treasures  of  the  miser,  Time. 

What  was  my  astonishment  to-day,  in  reading  for  the 
first  time  in  my  Lfe  Wordsworth's  beautiful  ode  On  the 
Power  of  Sound,  to  read 

All  treasures  hoarded  by  the  miser,  Time." 

DEAR  child  !  how  radiant  on  thy  mother's 

knee, 
With     merry-making    eyes    and    jocund 

smiles, 

Thou  gazest  at  the  painted  tiles, 
Whose  figures  grace, 
With  many  a  grotesque  form  and  face, 
The  ancient  chimney  of  thy  nursery  ! 
The  lady  with  the  gay  m^caw, 
The  dancing  girl,  the  grave  bashaw 
With  bearded  lip  and  chin  ; 
And,  leaning  idly  o'er  his  gate, 
Beneath  the  imperial  fan  of  state, 
The  Chinese  mandarin. 

With  what  a  look  of  proud  command 

Thou  shakest  in  thy  little  hand 

The  coral  rattle  with  its  silver  bells, 

Making  a  merry  tune  ! 

Thousands  of  years  in  Indian  seas 

That  coral  grew,  by  slow  degrees, 

Until  some  deadly  and  wild  monsoon 

Dashed  it  on  Corornandel's  sand  ! 

Those  silver  bells 

Reposed  of  yore, 

As  shapeless  ore, 

Far  down  in  the  deep-sunken  wells 

Of  darksome  mines, 

In  some  obscure  and  sunless  place, 

Beneath  huge  Chimborazo's  base, 

Or  Potosfs  o'erhanging  pines  ! 

And  thus  for  thee,  O  little  child, 

Through  many  a  danger  and  escape, 

The  tall  ships  passed  the  stormy  cape  ; 

For  thee  in  foreign  lands  remote, 

Beneatli  a  burning,  tropic  clime, 

The  Indian  peasant,  chasing  the  wild  goat, 

Himself  as  swift  and  wild, 

In  falling,  clutched  the  frail  arbute, 

The  fibres  of  whose  shallow  root, 

Uplifted  from  the  soil,  betrayed 

The  silver  veins  beneath  it  laid, 

The  buried  treasures  of  the  miser,  Time. 

But,  lo  !  thy  door  is  left  ajar  ! 
Thou  hearest  footsteps  from  afar  ! 


TO   A   CHILD 


61 


And,  at  the  sound, 

Thou  tumest  round 

With  quick  and  questioning  eyes, 

Like  one,  who,  in  a  foreign  land, 

Beholds  on  every  hand 

Some  source  of  wonder  and  surprise  ! 

And,  restlessly,  impatiently, 

Thou  strivest,  strugglest,  to  be  free. 

The  four  walls  of  thy  nursery 

Are  now  like  prison  walls  to  thee. 

No  more  thy  mother's  smiles, 

No  more  the  painted  tiles, 

Delight   thee,   nor   the  playthings  on   the 

floor, 

That  won  thy  little,  beating  heart  before  ; 
Thou  strugglest  for  the  open  door. 

Through  these  once  solitary  halls 
Thy  pattering  footstep  falls. 
The  sound  of  thy  merry  voice 
Makes  the  old  walls 
Jubilant,  and  they  rejoice 
With  the  joy  of  thy  young  heart, 
O'er  the  light  of  whose  gladness 
No  shadows  of  sadness 
From  the  sombre  background  of  memory 
start. 

Once,  ah,  once,  within  these  walls, 
One  whom  memory  oft  recalls, 
The  Father  of  his  Country,  dwelt. 
And  yonder  meadows  broad  and  damp 
The  tires  of  the  besieging  camp 
Encircled  with  a  burning  belt. 
Up  and  down  these  echoing  stairs, 
Heavy  with  the  weight  of  cares, 
Sounded  his  majestic  tread  ; 
Yes,  within  this  very  room 
Sat  he  in  those  hours  of  gloom, 
Weary  both  in  heart  and  head. 

But  what  are  these  grave  thoughts  to  thee  ? 
Out,  out  !  into  the  open  air  ! 
Thy  only  dream  is  liberty, 
Thou  carest  little  how  or  where. 
I  see  thee  eager  at  thy  play, 
Now  shouting  to  the  apples  on  the  tree, 
With  cheeks  as  round  and  red  as  they  ; 
And  now  among  the  yellow  stalks, 
Among  the  flowering  shrubs  and  plants, 
As  restless  PS  the  bee. 
Along  the  garden  walks, 
The  tracks  of  thy  small  carriage-wheels  I 
trace  ; 


And  see  at  every  turn  how  they  efface 

Whole  villages  of  sand-roofed  tents, 

That  rise  like  golden  domes 

Above  the  cavernous  and  secret  homes 

Of  wandering  and  nomadic  tribes  of  ants. 

Ah,  cruel  little  Tamerlane, 

Who,  with  thy  dreadful  reign, 

Dost  persecute  and  overwhelm 

These  hapless  Troglodytes  of  thy  realm  ! 

What  !  tired  already  !  with  those  suppliant 

looks, 
And   voice   more   beautiful   than  a  poet's 

books 

Or  murmuring  sound  of  water  as  it  flows, 
Thou    comest    back    to    parley    with    re 
pose  ! 

This  rustic  seat  in  the  old  apple-tree, 
With  its  o'erhanging  golden  canopy 
Of  leaves  illuminate  with  autumnal  hues, 
And  shining  with  the  argent  light  of  dews, 
Shall  for  a  season  be  our  place  of  rest. 
Beneath  us,  like  an  oriole's  pendent  nest, 
From  which  the  laughing  birds  have  taken 

wing, 
By    thee    abandoned,    hangs    thy    vacant 

swing. 

Dream-like  the  waters  of  the  river  gleam  ; 
A  sailless  vessel  drops  adown  the  stream, 
And  like  it,  to  a  sea  as  wide  and  deep, 
Thou   driftest   gently   down  the   tides   of 
sleep. 

0  child  !     O  new-born  denizen 
Of  life's  great  city  !  on  thy  head 
The  glory  of  the  morn  is  shed, 
Like  a  celestial  benison  ! 

Here  at  the  portal  thou  dost  stand, 
And  with  thy  little  hand 
Thou  openest  the  mysterious  gate 
Into  the  future's  undiscovered  land. 

1  see  its  valves  expand, 
As  at  the  touch  of  Fate  ! 

Into  those  realms  of  love  and  hate, 

Into  that  darkness  blank  and  drear, 

By  some  prophetic  feeling  taught, 

I  launch  the  bold,  adventurous  thought, 

Freighted  with  hope  and  fear  ; 

As  upon  subterranean  streams, 

In  caverns  unexplored  and  dark, 

Men  sometimes  launch  a  fragile  bark, 

Laden  with  flickering  fire, 

And  watch  its  swift-receding  beams, 

Until  at  length  they  disappear, 

And  in  the  distant  dark  expire. 


62 


THE   BELFRY  OF   BRUGES 


By  what  astrology  of  fear  or  hope 

Dare  I  to  cast  thy  horoscope  ! 

Like  the  new  moon  thy  life  appears  ; 

A  little  strip  of  silver  light, 

And  widening  outward  into  night 

The  shadowy  disk  of  future  years  ; 

And  yet  upon  its  outer  rim, 

A  luminous  circle,  faint  and  dim, 

And  scarcely  visible  to  us  here, 

Rounds  and  completes  the  perfect  sphere  ; 

A  prophecy  and  intimation, 

A  pale  and  feeble  adumbration, 

Of  the  great  world  of  light,  that  lies 

Behind  all  human  destinies. 

Ah  !  if  thy  fate,  with  anguish  fraught, 
Should  be  to  wet  the  dusty  soil 
With  the  hot  tears  and  sweat  of  toilj  — 
To  struggle  with  imperious  thought, 
Until  the  overburdened  brain, 
Weary  with  labor,  faint  with  pain, 
Like  a  jarred  pendulum,  retain 
Only  its  motion,  not  its  power,  — 
Remember,  in  that  perilous  hour, 
When  most  afflicted  and  oppressed, 
From  labor  there  shall  come  forth  rest. 

And  if  a  more  auspicious  fate 

On  thy  advancing  steps  await, 

Still  let  it  ever  be  thy  pride 

To  linger  by  the  laborer's  side  ; 

With  words  of  sympathy  or  song 

To  cheer  the  dreary  march  along 

Of  the  great  army  of  the  poor, 

O'er  desert  sand,  o'er  dangerous  moor. 

Nor  to  thyself  the  task  shall  be 

Without  reward  ;  for  thou  shalt  learn 

The  wisdom  early  to  discern 

True  beauty  in  utility  ; 

As  great  Pythagoras  of  yore, 

Standing  beside  the  blacksmith's  door, 

And  hearing  the  hammers,  as  they  smote 

The  anvils  with  a  different  note, 

Stole  from  the  varying  tones,  that  hung 

Vibrant  on  every  iron  tongue, 

The  secret  of  the  sounding  wire, 

And  formed  the  seven-chorded  lyre. 

Enough  !    I  will  not  play  the  Seer  ; 
I  will  no  longer  strive  to  ope 
The  mystic  volume,  where  appear 
The  herald  Hope,  forerunning  Fear, 
And  Fear,  the  pursuivant  of  Hope. 
Thy  destiny  remains  untold  ; 
For,  like  Acestes'  shaft  of  old, 


The  swift  thought  kindles  as  it  flies, 
And  burns  to  ashes  in  the  skies. 


THE  OCCULTATION  OF  ORION 


Mr.  Longfellow  says  :  "Astronomically  speaking,  this 
title  is  incorrect ;  as  I  apply  to  a  constellation  what 
can  properly  be  applied  to  some  of  its  stare  only.  But 
my  observation  is  made  from  the  hill  of  song,  and  not 
from  that  of  science  ;  and  will,  I  trust,  be  found  suffi 
ciently  accurate  for  the  present  purpose." 

I  SAW,  as  in  a  dream  sublime, 
The  balance  in  the  hand  of  Time. 
O'er  East  and  West  its  beam  impended  ; 
And  Day,  with  all  its  hours  of  light, 
Was  slowly  sinking  out  of  sight, 
While,  opposite,  the  scale  of  Night 
Silently  with  the  stars  ascended. 

Like  the  astrologers  of  eld, 

In  that  bright  vision  I  beheld 

Greater  and  deeper  mysteries. 

I  saw,  with  its  celestial  kej^s, 

Its  chords  of  air,  its  frets  of  fire, 

The  Samian's  great  ^Eolian  lyre, 

Rising  through  all  its  sevenfold  bars, 

From  earth  unto  the  fixed  stars. 

And  through  the  dewy  atmosphere, 

Not  only  could  I  see,  but  hear, 

Its  wondrous  and  harmonious  strings, 

In  sweet  vibration,  sphere  by  sphere, 

From  Dian's  circle  light  and  near, 

Onward  to  vaster  and  wider  rings, 

Where,    chanting    through    his    beard    of 

snows, 

Majestic,  mournful,  Saturn  goes, 
And  down  the  sunless  realms  of  space 
Reverberates  the  thunder  of  his  bass. 

Beneath  the  sky's  triumphal  arch 
This  music  sounded  like  a  march, 
And  with  its  chorus  seemed  to  be 
Preluding  some  great  tragedy. 
Sirius  was  rising  in  the  east ; 
And,  slow  ascending  one  by  one, 
The  kindling  constellations  shone. 
Begirt  with  many  a  blazing  star, 
Stood  the  great  giant  Algebar, 
Orion,  hunter  of  the  beast  ! 
His  sword  hung  gleaming  by  his  side, 
And,  on  his  arm,  the  lion's  hide 
Scattered  across  the  midnight  air 
The  golden  radiance  of  its  hair. 


THE   BRIDGE 


63 


The  moon  was  pallid,  but  not  faint  ; 
And  beautiful  as  some  fair  saint, 
Serenely  moving  on  her  way 
In  hours  of  trial  and  dismay. 
As  if  she  heard  the  voice  of  God, 
Unharmed  with  naked  feet  she  trod 
Upon  the  hot  and  burning  stars, 
As  on  the  glowing  coals  and  bars, 
That  were  to  prove  her  strength  and  try 
Her  holiness  and  her  purity. 

Thus  moving  on,  with  silent  pace, 
And  triumph  in  her  sweet,  pale  fr  "e, 
She  reached  the  station  of  Orion. 
Aghast  he  stood  in  strange  alarm  ! 
And  suddenly  from  his  outstretched  arm 
Down  fell  the  red  skin  of  the  lion 
Into  the  river  at  his  feet. 
His  mighty  club  no  longer  beat 
The  forehead  of  the  bull ;  but  he 
Reeled  as  of  yore  beside  the  sea, 
When,  blinded  by  (Enopion, 
He  sought  the  blacksmith  at  his  forge, 
And,  climbing  up  the  mountain  gorge, 
Fixed  his  blank  eyes  upon  the  sun. 

Then,  through  the  silence  overhead, 

An  angel  with  a  trumpet  said, 

"  Forevermore,  forevermore, 

The  reign  of  violence  is  o'er  !  " 

And,  like  an  instrument  that  flings 

Its  music  on  another's  strings, 

The  trumpet  of  the  angel  cast 

Upon  the  heavenly  lyre  its  blast, 

And  on  from  sphere  to  sphere  the  words 

Reechoed  down  the  burning  chords,  — 

"  Forevermore,  forevermore, 

The  reign  of  violence  is  o'er  ! " 


THE  BRIDGE 

At  first  localized  as  The  Bridge  over  the  Charles,  the 
river  which  separates  Cambridge  from  Boston. 

I  STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 

And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church-tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 


And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 
Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 

The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 
Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away  ; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 

Rose  the  belated  tide, 
And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  seaweed  floated  wide. 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  oh  how  often, 

In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky  ! 

How  often,  oh  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 
Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 

O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide  ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea  ; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 

Of  care-encumbered  men, 
Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 

Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow  1 


THE   BELFRY   OF   BRUGES 


And  forever  and  forever, 
As  long  as  the  river  flows, 

As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 
As  long  as  life  has  woes  ; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 
And  its  wavering  image  here. 


TO    THE    DRIVING   CLOUD 

GLOOMY  and  dark  art  thou,  O  chief  of  the 

mighty  Omahas  ; 
Gloomy  and   dark   as   the   driving   cloud, 

whose  name  thou  hast  taken  ! 
Wrapped  in  thy  scarlet  blanket,  1  see  thee 

stalk  through  the  city's 
Narrow  and  populous  streets,  as  once   by 

the  margin  of  rivers 
Stalked  those  birds  unknown,  that  have  left 

us  only  their  footprints. 
What,  in  a  few  short  years,  will  remain  of 

thy  race  but  the  footprints  ? 

How  canst  thou  walk  these  streets,  who 
hast  trod  the  green  turf  of  the 
prairies  ? 

How  canst  thou  breathe  this  air,  who  hast 
breathed  the  sweet  air  of  the  moun 
tains  ? 

Ah  !  't  is  in  vain  that  with  lordly  looks  of 
disdain  thou  dost  challenge 

Looks  of  disdain  in  return,  and  question 
these  walls  and  these  pavements, 

Claiming  the  soil  for  thy  hunting-grounds, 
while  down-trodden  millions 

Starve  in  the  garrets  of  Europe,  and  cry 
from  its  caverns  that  they,  too, 

Have  been  created  heirs  of  the  earth,  and 
claim  its  division  ! 

Back,  then,  back  to  thy  woods  in  the  regions 
west  of  the  Wabash  ! 

There  as  a  monarch  thou  reignest.  In  au 
tumn  the  leaves  of  the  maple 

Pave  the  floors  of  thy  palace-halls  with 
gold,  and  in  summer 

Pine-trees  waft  through  its  chambers  the 
odorous  breath  of  their  branches. 

There  thou  art  strong  and  great,  a  hero,  a 
tamer  of  horses  ! 

There  thou  chasest  the  stately  stag  an  the 
banks  of  the  Elkhorn, 


Or  by  the  roar  of  the  Running- Water,  or 
where  the  Omaha 

Calls  thee,  and  leaps  through  the  wild  ra 
vine  Lke  a  brave  of  the  Blackfeet  ! 

Hark  !  what  murmurs  arise  from  the  heart 

of  those  mountainous  deserts  ? 
Is  it  the  cry  of  the  Foxes  and  Crows,  or  the 

mighty  Behemoth, 
Who,  unharmed,  on  his  tusks  once  caught 

the  bolts  of  the  thunder, 
And   now  lurks  in  his  lair  to  destroy  the 

race  of  the  red  man  ? 
Far  more  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than 

the  Crov/s  and  the  P'oxes, 
Far  more  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than 

the  tread  of  Behemoth, 
Lo  !  the   big  thunder-canoe,  that  steadily 

breasts  the  Missouri's 
Merciless  current  !  and  yonder,  afar  on  the 

prairies,  the  camp-fires 
Gleam  through  the  night  ;  and  the  cloud  of 

dust  in  the  gray  of  the  daybreak 
Marks  not  the  buffalo's  track,  nor  the  Man- 
dan's  dexterous  horse-race  ; 
It  is  a  caravan,  whitening  the  desert  where 

dwell  the  Camanches  ! 
Ha  !  how  the  breath  of  these   Saxons  and 

Celts,  like  the  blast  of  the  east-wind, 
Drifts   evermore  to   the    west   the   scanty 

smokes  of  thy  wigwams  1 


SONGS 
THE    DAY   IS    DONE 

Written  in  the  fall  of  1844  as  proem  to  The  Waif,  a 
sm^ll  volume  of  poems  selected  by  Mr.  Louglellow  and 
published  at  Christmas  of  that  year. 

THE  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist  : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG  BOOK 


Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor  ; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet. 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from   the    clouds   of   sum 
mer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start  ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY 

THE  day  is  ending, 
The  night  is  descending  ; 
The  marsh  is  frozen, 
The  river  dead. 

Through  clouds  like  ashes 
The  red  sun  flashes 
On  village  windows 
That  glimmer  red. 


The  snow  recommences  ; 
The  buried  fences 
Mark  no  longer 
The  road  o'er  the  plain  ; 

While  through  the  meadows, 
Like  fearful  shadows, 
Slowly  passes 
A  funeral  train. 

The  bell  is  pealing, 
And  every  feeling 
Within  me  responds 
To  the  dismal  knell ; 

Shadows  are  trailing, 
My  heart  is  bewailing 
And  tolling  within 
Like  a  funeral  bell. 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG 
BOOK 


Mr.  Longfellow  upon  Andersen's  Story  of  my  Life, 
noted  iu  hid  diary  :  "  Aatuuiu  always  brings  back  very 
freshly  my  autumnal  wjjurn  in  Copenhagen,  cblight- 
fully  miagled  wich  bracLig  air  and  yellow  falling  laaves. 
I  have  trie. I  to  record  tiie  impression  iu  the  song  To 
an  Old  Danish  Song  Book." 

WELCOME,  my  old  friend, 
Welcome  to  a  foreign  fireside, 
While  the  sullen  gales  of  autumn 
Shake  the  windows. 

The  ungrateful  world 
Has,  it  seems,  dealt  harshly  with  thee, 
Since,  beneath  the  skies  of  Denmark, 
First  I  met  thee. 

There  are  marks  of  age, 
There  are  thumb-marks  on  thy  margin, 
Made  by  hands  that  clasped  thee  rudely, 
At  the  alehouse. 

Soiled  and  dull  thou  art  ; 
Yellow  are  thy  time-worn  pages, 
As  the  russet,  rain-molested 
Leaves  of  autumn. 

Thou  art  stained  with  wine 
Scattered  from  hilarious  goblets, 
As  the  leaves  with  the  libations 
Of  Olympus. 


66 


THE   BELFRY   OF   BRUGES 


Yet  dost  thou  recall 

Days  departed,  half-forgotten, 

\V  lien  in  dreamy  youth  I  wandered 

By  the  Baltic,  — 

When  I  paused  to  hear 
The  old  ballad  of  King  Christian 
Shouted  from  suburban  taverns 
In  the  twilight. 

Thou  recallest  bards, 

Who,  in  solitary  chambers, 

And  with  hearts  by  passion  wasted, 

Wrote  thy  pages. 

Thou  recallest  homes 
Where  thy  songs  of  love  and  friendship 
Made  the  gloomy  Northern  winter 
Bright  as  summer. 

Once  some  ancient  Scald, 
In  his  bleak,  ancestral  Iceland, 
Chanted  staves  of  these  old  ballads 
To  the  Vikings. 

Once  in  Elsinore, 
At  the  court  of  old  King  Hamlet, 
Yorick  and  his  boon  companions 
Sang  these  ditties. 

Once  Prince  Frederick's  Guard 
Sang  them  in  their  smoky  barracks  ;  — 
Suddenly  the  English  cannon 
Joined  the  chorus  ! 

Peasants  in  the  field, 
Sailors  on  the  roaring  ocean, 
Students,  tradesmen,  pale  mechanics, 
All  have  sung  them. 

Thou  hast  been  their  friend  ; 
They,  alas  !  have  left  thee  friendless  ! 
Yet  at  least  by  one  warm  fireside 
Art  thou  welcome. 

And,  as  swallows  build 
In  these  wide,  old-fashioned  chimneys, 
So  thy  twittering  song  shall  nestle 
In  my  bosorn,  — 

Quiet,  close,  and  warm, 
Sheltered  from  all  molestation, 
And  recalling  by  their  voices 
Youth  and  travel. 


WALTER  VON  DER  VOGEL- 
WEID 

VOGELWEID  the  Minnesinger, 
When  he  left  this  world  of  ours, 

Laid  his  body  in  the  cloister, 

Under  Wiirtzburg's  minster  towers. 

And  he  gave  the  monks  his  treasures, 
Gave  them  all  with  this  behest  : 

They  should  feed  the  birds  at  noontide 
Daily  on  his  place  of  rest ; 

Saying,  "  From  these  wandering  minstrels 
I  have  learned  the  art  of  song  ; 

Let  me  now  repay  the  lessons 

They  have  taught  so  well  and  long." 

Thus  the  bard  of  love  departed  ; 

And,  fulfilling  his  desire, 
On  his  tomb  the  birds  were  feasted 

By  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Day  by  day,  o'er  tower  and  turret, 

In  foul  weather  and  in  fair, 
Day  by  day,  in  vaster  numbers, 

Flocked  the  poets  of  the  air. 

On  the  tree  whose  heavy  branches 

Overshadowed  all  the  place, 
On  the  pavement,  on  the  tombstone, 

On  the  poet's  sculptured  face, 

On  the  cross-bars  of  each  window, 

On  the  lintel  of  each  door, 
They  renewed  the  War  of  Wartburg, 

Which  the  bard  had  fought  before. 

There  they  sang  their  merry  carols, 
Sang  their  lauds  on  every  side  ; 

And  the  name  their  voices  uttered 
Was  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 

Till  at  length  the  portly  abbot 

Murmured,  "  Why  this  waste  of  food  ? 
Be  it  changed  to  loaves  henceforward 

For  our  fasting  brotherhood." 

Then  in  vain  o'er  tower  and  turret, 
From  the  walls  and  woodland  nests, 

When  the  minster  bells  rang  noontide, 
Gathered  the  unwelcome  guests. 


THE   OLD   CLOCK   ON   THE   STAIRS 


Then  in  vain,  with  cries  discordant, 
Clamorous  round  the  Gothic  spire, 

Screamed  the  feathered  Minnesingers 
For  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Time  has  long  effaced  the  inscriptions 
On  the  cloister's  funeral  stones, 

And  tradition  only  tells  us 

Where  repose  the  poet's  bones. 

But  around  the  vast  cathedral, 
By  sweet  echoes  multiplied, 

Still  the  birds  repeat  the  legend, 
And  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 


DRINKING    SONG 

INSCRIPTION    FOR    AN  ANTIQUE    PITCHER 

COME,  old  friend  !  sit  down  and  listen  ! 

From  the  pitcher,  placed  between  us, 
How  the  waters  laugh  and  glisten 

In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 

Old  Silenus,  bloated,  drunken, 

Led  by  his  inebriate  Satyrs  ; 
On  his  breast  his  head  is  sunken, 

Vacantly  he  leers  and  chatters. 

Fauns  with  youthful  Bacchus  follow  ; 

Ivy  crowns  that  brow  supernal 
As  the  forehead  of  Apollo, 

And  possessing  youth  eternal. 

Round  about  him,  fair  Bacchantes, 
Bearing  cymbals,  flutes,  and  thyrses, 

Wild  from  Naxian  groves,  or  Zante's 
Vineyards,  sing  delirious  verses. 

Thus  he  won,  through  all  the  nations, 
Bloodless  victories,  and  the  farmer 

Bore,  as  trophies  and  oblations, 

Vines  for  banners,  ploughs  for  armor. 

Judged  by  no  o'erzealous  rigor, 

Much  this  mystic  throng  expresses  : 

Bacchus  was  the  type  of  vigor, 
And  Silenus  of  excesses. 

These  are  ancient  ethnic  revels, 
Of  a  faith  long  since  forsaken  ; 

Now  the  Satyrs,  changed  to  devils, 
Frighten  mortals  wiue-o'ertaken. 


Now  to  rivulets  from  the  mountains 
Point  the  rods  of  fortune-tellers  ; 

Youth  perpetual  dwells  in  fountains,  — 
Not  in  flasks,  and  casks,  and  cellars. 

Claudius,  though  he  sang  of  flagons 

And  huge  tankards  filled  with  Rhenish, 

From  that  fiery  blood  of  dragons 
Never  would  his  own  replenish. 

Even  Redi,  though  he  chaunted 
Bacchus  in  the  Tuscan  valleys, 

Never  drank  the  wine  he  vaunted 
In  his  dithyrambic  sallies. 

Then  with  water  fill  the  pitcher 

Wreathed  about  with  classic  fables  ; 

Ne'er  Falernian  threw  a  richer 
Light  upon  Lucullus'  tables. 

Come,  old  friend,  sit  down  and  listen  I 

As  it  passes  thus  between  us, 
How  its  wavelets  laugh  and  glisten 

In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  I 


THE   OLD    CLOCK    ON    THE 
STAIRS 

The  house  commemorated  in  the  poem  ie  the  Gold 
house,  now  known  as  the  Pluukett  mansion,  in  Pitts- 
field,  Massachusetts,  the  homestead  of  Mrs.  Longfel 
low's  maternal  grandfather,  whither  Mr.  Longfellow 
went  after  his  marriage  in  the  summer  of  1843.  The 
poem  was  not  written,  however,  till  November,  1845, 
when,  under  date  of  the  12th  of  the  month,  he  wrote  in 
his  diary  :  "  Began  a  poem  on  a  clock,  with  the  words 
'  Forever,  never,'  as  the  burden  ;  suggested  by  the 
words  of  Bridaine,  the  old  French  missionary,  who  said 
of  eternity,  C^est  une  pendule  dont  le  balancier  dit  et 
red  it  sans  cesse  ces  deux  mots  settlement  dans  le  silence 
des  tombeaux,  —  Toujours,  jamais  !  Jamais,  toujours  ! 
Et  pendant  ces  effrayables  revolutions,  un  reprouve  s' 
eerie,  '  Quelle  heure  est  -  il  ? '  et  la  voix  d'un  autre 
miserable  lui  repond,  '  L'Eternite.'1  " 

SOMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw  ; 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all,  — 
11  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 


68 


THE   BELFRY   OF   BRUGES 


Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 
With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass,  — 
"Forever —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light  ; 
But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 
Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 
It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 
Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 
And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Througi  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of    changeful    time,    unchanged    it    has 

stood, 

And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe,  — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality  ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared  ; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  hoard  ; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 
There     youths     and     maidens     dreaming 

strayed  ; 

O  precious  hours  !     O  golden  prime, 
And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 
Fven  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 
Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told,  — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The    bride    came    forth   on   her   wedding 

night  ; 

There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow  ; 
And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  ! " 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead  ; 


And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"  Ah  !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again  ?  " 
As  in  the  days  Jong  since  gone  by, 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !" 

Never  here,  forever  there, 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 
And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear, — 
Forever  there,  but  never  here  ! 
The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !" 


THE    ARROW  AND  THE   SONG 

"  October  16,  1845.  Before  church,  wrote  The  Arrow 
and  the  Song,  which  came  into  my  mind  as  I  stood  with 
my  back  to  the  fire,  and  glanced  on  to  the  paper  with 
arrow's  speed.  Literally  an  improvisation.-'1 

I  SHOT  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where  ; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  1  knew  not  where  ; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song  ? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke  ; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  a<rain  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 


SONNETS 
MEZZO    CAMMIN 

Written  at  Boppard  on  the  Rhine,  August  25,  1842, 
just  before  leaving  for  home. 

HALF  of  my  life  is  gone,  and  I  have  let 
The  years  slip  from  me  and  have   not 

fulfilled 

The  aspiration  of  my  youth,  to  build 
Some  tower  of  song  with  lofty  parapet. 
Not  indolence,  nor  pleasure,  nor  the  fret 
Of  restless  passions   that  would   not  be 

stilled, 

But  sorrow,  and  a  care  that  almost  killed, 
Kept  me  from  what  I  may  accomplish 
jet; 


CURFEW 


69 


Though,  half-way  up  the  hill,  I  see  the  Past 
Lying  beneath  me  with  its  sounds   and 

sights,  — 

A  city  in  the  twilight  dim  and  vast, 
With  smoking  root's,  soft  bells,  and  gleam 
ing  lights, — 
And    hear  above   me    on   the   autumnal 

blast 

The  cataract  of   Death   far   thundering 
from  the  heights. 


THE    EVENING   STAR 

"October  30,  1845.  The  Indian  summer  still  in  its 
glory.  Wrote  the  sonnet  Hesperus  in  the  rustic  seat  of 
the  old  apple-tree."  This  sonnet,  addressed  to  his  wile, 
and  afterward  given  its  present  title,  "  is  noticeable," 
says  his  biographer,  "  as  being  the  only  love-poem  among 
Mr.  Longfellow's  verses." 

Lo  !  in  the  painted  oriel  of  the  West, 
Whose   panes  the  sunken   sun   incarna 
dines, 

Like  a  fair  lady  at  her  casement,  shines 
The  evening  star,  the  star  of   love  and 

rest ! 

And  then  anon  she  doth  herself  divest 
Of  all  her  radiant  garments,  and  reclines 
Behind  the  sombre  screen  of  yonder  pines, 
With  slumber  and  soft  dreams  of  love 

oppressed. 
O  my  beloved,  my  sweet  Hesperus  ! 

My  morning  and  my  evening  star  of  love  ! 
My  best  and  gentlest  lady  !  even  thus, 
As  that  fair  planet  in  the  sky  above, 
Dost  thou  retire  unto  thy  rest  at  night, 
And  from  thy  darkened  window  fades 
the  light. 


AUTUMN 

THOU   comest,  Autumn,   heralded   by  the 

rain, 
With    banners,  by  great  gales  incessant 

fanned, 
Brighter  than  brightest  silks  of  Samar- 

cand, 

And  stately  oxen  harnessed  to  thy  wain  ! 

Thou  standest,  like  imperial  Charlemagne, 

Upon    thy  bridge   of    gold  ;    thy   royal 

hand 
Outstretched  with  benedictions  o'er  the 

land, 
Blessing  the  farms  through  all  thy  vast 

domain  ! 


Thy  shield  is  the  red  harvest   moon,  sus 
pended 

So  long  beneath  the  heaven's  o'erhanging 
eaves  ; 

Thy  steps    are  by  the  farmer's  prayers 

attended  ; 
Like  flames  upon  an  altar  shine  the  sheaves  ; 

And,    following    thee,    in    thy    ovation 
splendid, 

Thine   almoner,   the   wind,  scatters   the 
golden  leaves  1 


DANTE 

TUSCAN,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms 
of  gloom, 

With  thoughtful  pace,  and  sad,  majestic 
eyes, 

Stern  thoughts  and  awful  from  thy  soul 
arise, 

Like  Farinata  from  his  fiery  tomb. 
Thy  sacred  song  is  like  the  trump  of  doom  ; 

Yet  in  thy  heart  what   human   sympa 
thies, 

What  soft  compassion  glows,  as  in  the 
skies 

The  tender  stars  their  clonded  lamps  re 
lume  ! 

Methinks   I   see    thee    stand   with    pallid 
cheeks 

By  Fra  Hilario  in  his  diocese, 

As    np    the    convent- walls,   in    golden 

streaks, 

The  ascending  sunbeams  mark  the  day's 
decrease  ; 

And,  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger 
seeks, 

Thy  voice   along  the   cloister   whispers 
"  Peace  !  " 


CURFEW 


SOLEMNLY,  mournfully, 
Dealing  its  dole, 

The  Curfew  Bell 
Is  beginning  to  toll. 

Cover  the  embers, 
And  put  out  the  light 


EVANGELINE 


Toil  comes  with  the  morning, 
And  rest  with  the  night. 

Dark  grow  the  windows, 
And  quenched  is  the  fire  ; 

Sound  fades  into  silence,  — 
All  footsteps  retire. 

No  voice  in  the  chambers, 
No  sound  in  the  hall ! 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all ! 


II 

The  book  is  completed, 
And  closed,  like  the  day  ; 


And  the  hand  that  has  written  it 
Lays  it  away. 

Dim  grow  its  fancies  ; 

Forgotten  they  lie  ; 
Like  coals  in  the  ashes, 

They  darken  and  die. 

Song  sinks  into  silence, 

The  story  is  told, 
The  windows  are  darkened, 

The  hearth-stone  is  cold. 

Darker  and  darker 

The  black  shadows  fall ; 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all. 


EVANGELINE 


A   TALE   OF   ACADIE 


In  Hawthorne's  American  Note-Books  is  the  following 


I.  L.  C.  heard  from  a  French  Canadian  a  story  of 
a  young  couple  in  Acadie.  On  their  marriage-day  all 
the  men  of  the  Province  were  summoned  to  assemble 
in  the  church  to  hear  a  proclamation.  When  assem 
bled,  they  were  all  seized  and  shipped  off  to  be  distrib 
uted  through  New  England,  —  among  them  the  new 
bridegroom.  His  bride  set  off  in  search  of  him  —  wan 
dered  about  New  England  all  her  life-time,  and  at  last, 
when  she  was  old,  she  found  her  bridegroom  on  his 
death-bed.  The  shock  was  so  great  that  it  killed  her 
likewise." 

This  is  the  story  as  set  down  by  the  romancer,  which 
his  friend,  Rev.  H.  L.  Conolly,  had  heard  from  a  parish 
ioner.  Mr.  Conolly  saw  in  it  a  fine  theme  for  a  ro 
mance,  but  for  some  reason  Hawthorne  was  disinclined 
to  undertake  it.  One  day  the  two  were  dining  with  Mr. 
Longfellow,  and  Mr.  Conolly  told  the  story  again  and 
wondered  that  Hawthorne  did  not  care  for  it.  "  If 
you  really  do  not  want  this  incident  for  a  tale,"  said 
Mr.  Longfellow  to  his  friend,  "  let  me  have  it  for  a 
poem."  Just  when  the  conversation  took  place  we  can 
not  say,  but  the  poem  was  begun  apparently  soon  after 
the  completion  of  the  volume,  The  Belfry  of  Bruges 
and  other  Poems,  and  published  October  30,  1847. 
Hawthorne,  who  had  taken  a  lively  interest  in  the  poem, 
wrote  a  few  days  after,  to  say  that  he  had  read  it 
"  with  more  pleasure  than  it  would  be  decorous  to 
express."  Mr.  Longfellow,  in  replying,  thanked  him 
for  a  friendly  notice  which  he  had  written  for  a  Salem 
paper,  and  added  :  "  Still  more  do  I  thank  you  for  re 
signing  to  me  that  legend  of  Acady.  This  success  I  owe 
entirely  to  you,  for  being  willing  to  forego  the  pleasure 
of  writing  a  prose  tale  which  many  people  would  have 


taken  for  poetry,  that  I  might  write  a  poem  which 
many  people  take  for  prose."    ^ — 

In  preparing  for  his  poem  Mr(Longfellow  drew  upon 
the  nearest,  most  accessible  materials,  which  at  that 
time  were  to  be  found  in  Haliburton's  An  Historical  \ 
and  Statistical  A  ccount  of  Nova  Scotia,  with  its  liberalX 
quotations  from  the  Abbe"  Raynal's  emotional  account 
of  the  French  settlers.  He  may  have  examined  Wins- 
low's  narrative  of  the  expedition  under  his  command, 
in  the  cabinet  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society, 
not  then  printed  but  since  that  time  made  easily  acces 
sible.  He  did  not  visit  Grand-Pre"  nor  the  Mississippi, 
but  trusted  to  descriptions  and  Banvard's  diorama.  At 
the  time  of  the  publication  of  Evangel ine  the  actual  his 
tory  of  the  deportation  of  the  Acadians  had  scarcely 
been  investigated.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  this 
tale  was  itself  the  cause  of  the  frequent  studies  since 
made,  studies  which  have  resulted  in  a  revision  of  the 
accepted  rendering  of  the  facts. 

Mr.  Longfellow  gave  to  a  Philadelphia  journalist  a 
reminiscence  of  his  first  notice  of  the  material  which 
was  used  in  the  conclusion  of  the  poem  :  "  I  was  pass 
ing  down  Spruce  Street  one  day  toward  my  hotel,  after 
a  walk,  when  my  attention  was  attracted  to  a  large 
building  with  beautiful  trees  about  it,  inside  of  a  high 
enclosure.1  I  walked  along  until  I  came  to  the  great 
gate,  and  then  stepped  inside,  and  looked  carefully 
over  the  place.  The  charming  picture  of  lawn,  flower 
beds,  and  shade  which  it  presented  made  an  impression 
which  has  never  left  me,  and  when  I  came  to  write 
Evangeline  I  placed  the  final  scene,  the  meeting  be 
tween  Evangeline  and  Gabriel,  and  the  death,  at  the 
poor-house,  and  the  burial  in  an  old  Catholic  grave 
yard  not  far  away,  which  I  found  by  chance  in  another 
of  my  walks." 


1  The  Pennsylvania  Hospital. 


EVANGELINE 


From  the  outset  Mr.  Longfellow  had  no  hesitation  in 
the  choice  of  a  metre.  He  had  before  experimented  in 
it  in  his  translation  of  The  Children  of  the  Lord's  Sup 
per,  and  in  his  lines  To  (he  Driving  Cloud.  While  en 
gaged  upon  Evangeline  he  chanced  upon  a  specimen 
in  Blackwood  of  a  hexameter  translation  of  the  Iliad, 
and  expressed  himself  very  emphatically  on  its  fitness. 
41  Took  down  Chapman's  Homer,"  he  writes  later, 
"  and  read  the  second  book.  Rough  enough  ;  and 
though. better  than  Pope,  how  inferior  to  the  books  in 
hexameter  in  Bl<tckn-uu<l .'  The;  English  world  is  not 
yet  awake  to  the  beauty  of  that  metre."  After  his 
poem  was  published,  he  wrote  :  "  The  public  takes 
more  kindly  to  hexameters  than  I  could  have  ima 
gined,"  and  referring  to  a  criticism  on  Evangeline  by 
Mr.  Felton,  in  which  the  metre  was  considered,  he  said  : 
"  I  am  more  than  ever  glad  that  I  chose  this  metre  for 
my  poem."  Again  he  notes  in  his  diary:  "Talked 
with  Theophilus  Parsons  about  English  hexameters; 
and  '  almost  persuaded  him  to  be  a  Christian.'  "  While 
his  mind  was  thus  dwelling  on  the  subject,  he  fell  into 
the  measure  in  his  journal  entries,  and  in  these  lines 
under  date  of  December  18,  1847. 

Soft  through  the  silent  air  descend  the  feathery  snow- 
White  are  the  distant  hills,  white  are  the  neighboring 

Only  the  marshes  are  brown,  and  the  river  rolling 

among  them 
Weareth  the  leaden  hue  seen  in  the  eyes  of  the  blind. 

Especially  interesting  is  the  experiment  which  he 
made,  while  in  the  process  of  his  work,  in  another 
metre.  "  Finished  second  canto  of  Part  II.  of  Evange 
line.  I  then  tried  a  passage  of  it  in  the  common 
rhymed  English  pentameter.  It  is  the  song  of  the 
mocking-bird :  — 


opinion  would  confirm  my  choice.  The  German  model 
which  it  follows  in  its  measure  and  the  character  of  its 
story  was  itself  suggested  by  an  earlier  idyl.  If  Doro 
thea  was  the  mother  of  Evangeline,  Luise  was  the 
mother  of  Dorothea.  And  what  a  beautiful  creation  is 
the  Acadian  maiden  !  From  the  first  line  of  the  poem, 
from  its  first  words,  we  read  as  we  would  float  down  a 
broad  and  placid  river,  murmuring  softly  against  its 
banks,  heaven  over  it,  and  the  glory  of  the  unspoiled 
wilderness  all  around,  — 

This  is  the  forest  primeval. 
The  words  are  already  as  familiar  as 

"M.r)i>iv  aeiSe,  Oed, 
or 

Arma  virumque  cano. 

The  hexameter  has  been  often  criticised,  but  I  do  not 
believe  any  other  measure  could  have  told  that  lovely 
story  with  such  effect,  as  we  feel  when  carried  along 
the  tranquil  current  of  these  brimming,  slow-moving, 
soul-satisfying  lines.  Imagine  for  one  moment  a  story 
like  this  minced  into  octosyllabics.  The  poet  knows 
better  than  his  critics  the  length  of  step  which  best  be 
fits  his  muse."  -^ 

The  publication  of  Evangeline  doubtless  marks  the  I 
period  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  greatest  accession  of  fame, 
as  it  probably  is  the  poem  which  the  majority  of  read 
ers  would  first  name  if  called  upon  to  indicate  the 
poet's  most  commanding  work.  It  was  finished  upon 
his  fortieth  birthday.  Two  days  before,  the  following 
lines  were  written  by  Mr.  Longfellow  in  his  diary :  — 


EPIGRAMME. 


Upon  a  spray  that  overhung  the  stream, 
The  mocking-bird,  awaking  from  his  dream, 
Poured  such  delirious  music  from  his  throat 
That  all  the  air  seemed  listening  to  his  note. 
Plaintive  at  first  the  song  began,  and  slow  ; 
It  breathed  of  sadness,  and  of  pain  and  woe  ; 
Then,  gathering  all  his  notes,  abroad  he  flung 
The  multitudinous  music  from  his  tongue,  — 
As,  after  showers,  a  sudden  gust  again 
Upon  the  leaves  shakes  down  the  rattling  rain." 


As  the  story  of  Evangeline  was  the  incentive  to 
historical  inquiry,  so  the  successful  use  of  the  hexame 
ter  had  much  to  do  both  with  the  revival  of  the  mea 
sure  and  with  a  critical  discussion  upon  its  value. 

"  Of  the  longer  poems  of  our  chief  singer,"  says  Dr. 
Holmes,  "I  should  not  hesitate  to  select  Evangeline  as 
the  masterpiece,  and  I  think  the  general  verdict  of 

EVANGELINE 

THIS  is  the  forest  primeval.  The  murmur 
ing  pines  and  the  hemlocks, 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green, 
indistinct  in  the  twilight, 

Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,  with  voices  sad 
and  prophetic, 

Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that 
rest  on  their  bosoms. 


Par  un  ci-devant  jeune  homme  en  approchant  de  la 
quarantaine. 

"  Sous  le  firmament 
Tout  n'est  que  changement, 

Tout  passe ;  " 
Le  cantique  le  dit, 
II  est  ainsi  6"crit 
II  est  sans  contredit, 
Tout  passe. 

O  douce  vie  humaine  ! 

O  temps  qui  nous  entraine  ' 

Destin^e  souveraine ! 

Tout  change- 
Moi  qui,  poete  reveur, 
Ne  fus  jamais  friseur. 
Je  frise,  —  oh,  quelle  horreur  I 

La  quarantaiue ! 


Loud   from  its   roclcy   cavdrns,   the  i  deep- 

vcJieedj  neighboring  ocean 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers 

the  wail  of  the  forest. 

This  is  the  forest  primeval  ;  but  where 

are  the  hearts  that  beneath  it 
Leaped  like  the  roe,  when  he!  hears  in  the  ! 
woodland   the   voice   of  the  hunts 
man? 


EVANGELINE 


Where  is  the  thatch-roofed  village,  the 
home  of  Acadian  farmers, — 

Men  whose  lives  glided  on  like  rivers  that 
water  the  woodlands, 

Darkened  by  shadows  of  earth,  but  reflect 
ing  an  image  of  heaven  ? 

Waste  are  those  pleasant  farms,  and  the 
farmers  forever  departed  ! 

Scattered  like  dust  and  leaves,  when  the 
mighty  blasts  of  October 

Seize  them,  and  whirl  them  aloft,  and 
sprinkle  them  far  o'er  the  ocean. 

Naught  but  tradition  remains  of  the  beau 
tiful  village  of  Grand-Pie'. 

Ye  who  believe  in  affection  that   hopes, 

and  endures,  and  is  patient, 
Ye  who  believe  in  the  beauty  and  strength 

of  woman's  devotion, 
List  to  the  mournful  tradition,  still  sung  by 

the  pines  of  the  forest  ; 
List  to  a  Tale  of  Love  in  Acadie,  home  of 

the  happy. 


PART   THE   FIRST 


-     •,    . 
IN  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the 

Basin  of  Minus, 
Distant,  secluded,  still,  the  little  village  of 

Grand-  Pi  6 
Lay  in  the  fruitful  valley.     Vast  meadows 

stretched  to  the  eastward, 
Giving  the    village  its   name,  and  pasture 

to  flocks  without  number. 
Dikes,  that  the  hands  of  the  farmers  had 

raised  with  labor  incessant, 
Shut  out  the  turbulent  tides  ;  but  at  stated 

seasons  the  flood-gates 
Opened,  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander 

at  will  o'er  the  meadows. 
West  and  south  there  were  fields  of  flax, 

and  orchards  and  cornfields 
Spreading  afar  andunfenced  o'er  the  plain  ; 

and  away  to  the  northward 
Blomidon   rose,  and   the    forests   old,  and 

aloft  on  the  mountains 
Sea-fogs  pitched  their  tents,  and  mists  from 

the  mighty  Atlantic 
Looked    on    the    happy    valley,   but   ne'er 

from  their  station  descended. 
There,  in  the  midst  of  its  farms,  reposed 

the  Acadian  village. 


Strongly  built  were  tlu$  houses,  with  frames 

of  oak  and  of  hemlock, 
Such  as  the  peasants  of  Normandy  built  in 

the  reign  of  the  Henries.  ^  '.jJ^A- 
Thatched  were  the  roofs,  with  dormer-will-  ' 

dows  ;  and  gables  projecting  ?\^^  - 
Over  the  basement    below   protected   and 

shaded  the  doorway. 
There  in  the  tranquil  evenings  of  summer, 

when  brightly  the  sunset 
Lighted  the  village  street,  and  gilded  the 

vanes  on  the  chimneys, 
Matrons    and   maidens   sat  in   snow-white 

caps  and  in  kirtles 
Scarlet  and  blue  and  green,  with  distaffs 

spinning  the  golden 
Flax  for  the  gossiping  looms,  whose  noisy 

shuttles  within  doors 
Mingled  their  sounds  with  the  whir  of  the 

wheels  and  the  songs  of  the  maidens. 
Solemnly  down  the  street  came  the  parish 

priest,  and  the  children 
Paused  in  their  play  to  kiss  the   hand   he 

extended  to  bless  them. 
Reverend  walked  he  among  them  ;  and  up 

rose  matrons  and  maidens, 
Hailing  his  slow  approach  with   words  of 

affectionate  welcome. 
Then  came    the    laborers   home    from  the 

field,  and  serenely  the  sun  sank 
Down  to  his   rest,  and  twilight  prevailed. 

Anon  from  the  belfry 
Softly  the  Angelus  sounded,  and  over  the 

roofs  of  the  village 
Columns  of  pale  blue  sn  oke,  like  clouds  of 

incense  ascending, 
Rose  from  a  hundred  hearths,  the  homes 

of  peace  and  contentment. 
Thus  dwelt  together  in  love  these  simple] 

Acadian  farmers,  —  -J 

Dwelt  in  the    love    of   God   and  of   man. 

Alike  were  tney  free  from 
Fear,  that  reigns  with  the  tyrant,  and  envy, 

the  vice  of  republics. 
Neither  locks  had  they  to  their  doors,  nor 

bars  to  their  windows  ; 
But  their  dwellings  were  open  as  day  and 

the  hearts  of  the  owners  ; 
There  the  richest  was  poor,  and  the  poorest! 

lived  in  abundance.  —I 

Somewhat  apart  from    the  village,   and 

nearer  the  Basin  of  Minas, 
Benedict     Bellefontaine,     the     wealthiest 
farmer  of  Grand-Pre', 


EVANGELINE 


73 


fSfc 


Dwelt  on  his  goodly  acres  ;  and  with  him, 

directiiig^liis  household, 
Gentle  Evangeline  lived,  his  child,  and  the 

pride  of  the  village^ 
StalwortK  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man 

of  seventy  winters  ; 
*  Hearty  and  hale  was  he,   an  oak  that  is 

covered  with  snow-flakes  ; 
JWhite  as  the  snow  were  his  locks,  and  his 
\' .'.''  *  •'  cheeks  as  brown  as  the  oak-leaves. 
"Fair   was   she   to  behold,  that   maiden  of 

seventeen  summers. 
Black   were   her   eyes   as    the  berry  that 

grows  on  the  thorn  by  the  wayside, 
Black,  yet  how  softly  they   gleamed   be 
neath  the  brown  shade  of  her  tresses  ! 
Sweet  was  her  breath  as  the  breath  of  kine 

that  feed  in  the  meadows. 
When  in  the  harvest  heat  she  bore  to  the 

reapers  at  noontide 
Flagons  of  home-brewed  ale,  ah  !  fair  in 

sooth  was  the  maiden. 
Fairer   was   she  when,    on  Sunday   morn, 

while  the  bell  from  its  turret 
Sprinkled  with  holy  sounds  the  air,  as  the 

priest  with  his  hyssop 
Sprinkles   the  congregation,   and   scatters 

blessings  upon  them, 
Down  the  long  street  she  passed,  with  her 

chaplet  of  beads  and  her  missal, 
Wearing  her  Norman  cap,  and  her  kirtle 

of  blue,  and  the  ear-rings, 
Brought  in  the   olden  time  from  France, 

and  since,  as  an  heirloom, 
Handed    down     from     mother    to    child, 

through  long  generations. 
But  a  celestial  brightness  —  a  more  ethe 
real  beauty  — 
Shone  on  her  face  and  encircled  her  form, 

when,  after  confession, 
Homeward  serenely  she  walked  with  God's 

benediction  upon  her. 
When  she   had  passed,  it  seemed  like  the 

ceasing  of  exquisite  music. 

Firmly  builded  with  rafters  of  oak,  the 
house  of  the  farmer 

Stood  on  the  side  of  a  hill  commanding  the 
sea  ;  and  a  shady 

Sycamore  grew  by  the  door,  with  a  wood 
bine  wreathing  around  it. 

Rudely  carved  was  the  porch,  with  seats 
beneath  ;  and  a  footpath 

Led  through  an  orchard  wide,  and  disap 
peared  in  the  meadow. 


Under  the  sycamore-tree  were  hives  over 
hung  by  a  penthouse, 

Such  as  the  traveller  sees  in  regions  remote 
by  the  roadside, 

Built  o'er  a  box  for  the  poor,  or  the  blessed 
image  of  Mary. 

Farther  down,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  was 
the  well  with  its  moss-grown 

Bucket,  fastened  with  iron,  and  near  it  a 
trough  for  the  horses. 

Shielding  the  house  from  storms,  on  the 
north,  were  the  barns  and  the  farm 
yard. 

There  stood  the  broad-wheeled  wains  and 
the  antique  ploughs  and  the  har 
rows  ; 

There  were  the  folds  for  the  sheep  ;  and 
there,  in  his  feathered  seraglio, 

Strutted  the  lordly  turkey,  and  crowed  the 
cock,  with  the  selfsame 

Voice  that  in  ages  of  old  had  startled  the 
penitent  Peter. 

Bursting  with  hay  were  the  barns,  them 
selves  a  village.  In  each  one 

Far  o'er  the  gable  projected  a  roof  of 
thatch  ;  and  a  staircase, 

Under  the  sheltering  eaves,  led  up  to  the 
odorous  coru-loft. 

There  too  the  dove-cot  stood,  with  its  meek 
and  innocent  inmates 

Murmuring  ever  of  love  ;  while  above  in 
the  variant  breezes 

Numberless  noisy  weathercocks  rattled  and 
sang  of  mutation. 

Thus,  at  peace  with  God  and  the  world, 

the  farmer  of  Grand-Pre* 
Lived  on  his  sunny  farm,  and  Evangeline 

governed  his  household. 
Many  a  youth,  as  he  knelt  in  church  and 

opened  his  missal, 
Fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  as  the  saint  of  his 

deepest  devotion  ; 
Happy  was  he  who  might  touch  her  hand 

or  the  hem  of  her  garment  ! 
Many  a  suitor  came  to  her  door,  by  the 

darkness  befriended, 
And,  as  he  knocked  and  waited  to  hear  the 

sound  of  her  footsteps, 
Knew  not  which  beat  the  louder,  his  heart 

or  the  knocker  of  iron  ; 
Or  at  the  joyous  feast  of  the  Patron  Saint 

of  the  village, 
Bolder  grew,  and  pressed  her  hand  in  the 

dance  as  he  whispered 


74 


/ 
; 

EVANGELINE 


Hurried  words  of  love,  that  seemed  a  part 

of  the  music. 
But,  among  all  who  came,  young  Gabriel 

only  was  welcome  ; 
Gabriel  Lajeunesse,  the  son  of  Basil  the 

blacksmith, 
Who  was  a  mighty  man  in  the  village,  and 

honored  of  all  men  ; 
For,  since  the  birth  of  time,  throughout  all 

ages  and  nations, 
Has  the  craft  of  the  smith  been  held  in 

repute  by  the  people. 
Basil  was  Benedict's  friend.    Their  children 

from  earliest  childhood 
Grew  up  together  as  brother  and  sister  ; 

and  Father  Felician, 
Priest  and  pedagogue  both  in  the  village, 

had  taught  them  their  letters 
Out  of  the  selfsame  book,  with  the  hymns 

of  the  church  and  the  plain-song. 
But  when   the  hymn   was    sung,  and  the 

daily  lesson  completed, 
Swiftly  they  hurried  away  to  the  forge  of 

Basil  the  blacksmith. 

There  at  the  door  they  stood,  with  wonder 
ing  eyes  to  behold  him 
Take  in  his  leathern  lap  the  hoof  of  the 

horse  as  a  plaything, 
Nailing  the  shoe  in  its  place  ;   while  near 

him  the  tire  of  the  cart-wheel 
Lay  like  a  fiery  snake,  coiled  round  in  a 

circle  of  cinders. 
Oft  on  autumnal  eves,  when  without  in  the 

gathering  darkness 
Bursting   with   light   seemed   the   smithy, 

through  every  cranny  and  crevice, 
Warm  by  the  forge  within  they  watched 

the  laboring  bellows, 
And  as  its  panting  ceased,  and  the  sparks 

expired  in  the  ashes, 
Merrily  laughed,  and  said  they  were  nuns 

going  into  the  chapel. 
Oft  on  sledges  in  winter,  as  swift  as  the 

swoop  of  the  eagle, 
Down  the  hillside  bounding,    they  glided 

away  o'er  the  meadow. 
Oft  in  the  barns  they  climbed  to  the  popu 
lous  nests  on  the  rafters, 
Seeking   with    eager   eyes  that   wondrous 

stone,  which  the  swallow 
Brings  from  the  shore  of  the  sea  to  restore 

the  sight  of  its  fledglings  ; 
Lucky  was  he  who  found  that  stone  in  the 

nest  of  the  swallow  ! 


Thus  passed  a  few  swift  years,  and  they  no 

longer  were  children. 
He  was  a  valiant  youth,  and  his  face,  like 

the  face  of  the  morning, 
Gladdened  the  earth   with   its   light,  and 

ripened  thought  into  action. 
She  was  a  woman  now,  with  the  heart  and 

hopes  of  a  woman. 
"  Sunshine    of    Saint    Eulalie "    was     she 

called  ;  for  that  was  the  sunshine 
Which,  as  the  farmers  believed,  would  load 

their  orchards  with  apples  ; 
She,  too,  would    bring   to   her    husband's 

house  delight  and  abundance, 
Filling  it  with  love  and  the  ruddy  faces  of 

children. 


II 


ir4~T 

led,  when  1 


Now  had  the   season   returned,  when  the 

nights  grow  colder  and  longer, 
And    the    retreating   sun   the   sign  of  the 

Scorpion  enters. 
Birds  of  passage  sailed  through  the  leaden 

air,  from  the  ice-bound, 
Desolate   northern   bays  to   the   shores  of 

tropical  islands. 
Harvests  were  gathered  in  ;  and  wild  with 

the  winds  of  September 
Wrestled  the  trees  of  the  forest,  as  Jacob 

of  old  with  the  angel. 
All  the  signs  foretold  a  winter   long   and 

inclement. 
Bees,  with  prophetic  instinct  of  want,  had 

hoarded  their  honey 
Till  the  hives  overflowed  ;  and  the  Indian 

hunters  asserted 
Cold  would  the  winter  be,  for  thick  was  the 

fur  of  the  foxes. 
Such  was   the   advent  of   autumn.     Then 

followed  that  beautiful  season, 
Called  by  the  pious  Acadian  peasants  the 

Summer  of  All-Saints  ! 
Filled  was  the  air  with  a  dreamy  and  magi 
cal  light  ;  and  the  landscape 
Lay  as  if  new-created  in  all  the  freshness 

of  childhood. 
Peace  seemed  to  reign  upon  earth,  and  the 

restless  heart  of  the  ocean 
Was  for  a  moment  consoled.     All  sounds 

were  in  harmony  blended. 
Voices  of  children  at  play,  the  crowing  of 

cocks  in  the  farm-yards, 


EVANGELINE 


75 


•Whir  of  wings  in  the  drowsy  air,  and  the 

cooing  of  pigeons, 
All  were  subdued  and  low  as  the  murmurs 

of  love,  and  the  great  sun 
Looked  with  the  eye  of  love  through  the 

golden  vapors  around  him  ; 
While  arrayed  in  its  robes  of  russet  and 

scarlet  and  yellow, 
Bright  with  the   sheen  of  the   dew,  each 

flittering  tree  of  the  forest 
like   the    plane-tree   the   Persian 
adorned  with  mantles  and  jewels,    i 


Now  recommenced  the  reign  of  rest  and 

affection  and  stillness. 
Day  with  its  burden  and  heat  had  departed, 

and  twilight  descending 
Brought    back    the    evening    star  to   the 

sky,    and   the  herds  to   the   home 
stead. 
Pawing  the  ground  they  came,  and  resting 

their  necks  on  each  other, 
And  with  their  nostrils  distended  inhaling 

the  freshness  of  evening. 
Foremost,  bearing   the   bell,  Evangeline's 

beautiful  heifer, 
Proud   of   her   snow-white   hide,  and    the 

ribbon  that   waved   from   her   col 
lar, 
Quietly  paced  and  slow,  as  if  conscious  of 

human  affection. 
Then   came   the   shepherd  back   with  his 

bleating  flocks  from  the  seaside, 
Where  was  their  favorite  pasture.     Behind 

them  followed  the  watch-dog, 
Patient,  full  of   importance,  and  grand  in 

the  pride  of  his  instinct, 
Walking  from  side  to  side  with  a  lordly  air, 

and  superbly 
Waving  his  bushy  tail,  and  urging  forward 

the  stragglers  ; 
Regent  of  flocks  was  he  when  the  shepherd 

slept  ;  their  protector, 
When  from  the  forest  at  night,  through 

the  starry  silence  the  wolves  howled. 
Late,  with  the    rising  moon,  returned  the 

wains  from  the  marshes, 
Laden  with  briny  hay,  that  filled  the  air 

with  its  odor. 
Cheerily  neighed  the  steeds,  with  dew  on 

their  manes  and  their  fetlocks, 
While  aloft  on  their  shoulders  the  wooden 

and  ponderous  saddles, 
Painted  with   brilliant  dyes,  and  adorned 

with  tassels  of  crimson, 


Nodded  in  bright  array,  like  hollyhocks 
heavy  with  blossoms. 

Patiently  stood  the  cows  meanwhile,  and 
yielded  their  udders 

Unto  the  milkmaid's  hand  ;  whilst  loud  and 
in  regular  cadence 

Into  the  sounding  pails  the  foaming  stream 
lets  descended. 

Lowing  of  cattle  and  peals  of  laughter 
were  heard  in  the  farm-yard, 

Echoed  back  by  the  barns.  Anon  they 
sank  into  stillness  ; 

Heavily  closed,  with  a  jarring  sound,  the 
valves  of  the  barn-doors, 

Rattled  the  wooden  bars,  and  all  for  a  sea 
son  was  silent. 

In  -  doors,  warm  by  the  wide  -  mouthed 

fireplacX  idly  the  farmer 
Sat  irThTseTBow-chair  and  watched  how  the 

flames  and  the  smoke-wreaths 
Struggled  together  like  foes  in  a  burning 

city.     Behind  him, 
Nodding  and  mocking  along  the  wall,  with 

gestures  fantastic, 
Darted  his  own  huge  shadow,  and  vanished 

away  into  darkness. 
Faces,  clumsily  carved  in  oak,  on  the  back 

of  his  arm-chair 
Laughed   in  the  flickering  light  ;  and  the 

pewter  plates  on  the  dresser 
Caught  and  reflected  the  flame,  as  shields 

of  armies  the  sunshine. 
Fragments  of  song  the  old  man  sang,  and 

carols  of  Christmas, 
Such  as  at  home,  in  the    olden   time,   his 

fathers  before  him 
Sang  in  their  Norman  orchards  and  bright 

Burgundian  vineyards. 
Close  at  her   father's  side  was  the  gentle 

Evangeline  seated, 
Spinning  flax  for  the   loom,  that  stood  in 

the  corner  behind  her. 
Silent  awhile  were  its  treadles,  at  rest  was 

its  diligent  shuttle, 
While  the  monotonous  drone  of  the  wheel, 

like  the  drone  of  a  bagpipe, 
Followed  the  old  man's  song  and  united  the 

fragments  together. 
As  in  a  church,  when  the  chant  of  the  choir 

at  intervals  ceases, 
Footfalls  are  heard  in  the  aisles,  or  words 

of  the  priest  at  the  altar, 
So,  in  each  pause  of  the  song,  with  meas 
ured  motion  the  clock  clicked. 


76 


EVANGELINE 


Thus   as  they  sat,  there    were    footsteps 

heard,  and,  suddenly  lifted, 
Sounded    the  wooden  latch,  and   the  door 

swung-  back  on  its  hinges. 
Benedict  knew  by  the  hob-nailed  shoes  it 

was  Basil  the  blacksmith, 
And  by  her  beating  heart  Evangeline  knew 

who  was  with  him. 
"Welcome!"    the    farmer   exclaimed,   as 

their  footsteps  paused  oil  the  thresh 
old, 
"  Welcome,    Basil,    my    friend !      Come, 

take  thy  place  on  the  settle 
Close  by  the  chimney-side,  which  is  always 

empty  without  thee  ; 
Take   from   the   shelf   overhead   thy   pipe 

and  the  box  of  tobacco  ; 
Never  so  much  thyself  art  thou  as    when 

through  the  curling 
Smoke  of  the  pipe  or  the  forge  thy  friendly 

and  jovial  face  gleams 
Round  and  red  as  the  harvest  moon  through 

the  mist  of  the  marshes." 
Then,  with  a   smile    of  content,    thus  an 
swered  Basil  the  blacksmith, 
Taking  with  easy  air  the  accustomed  seat 

by  the  fireside  :  — 
"Benedict   Bellefontaine,   thou     hast  ever 

thy  jest  and  thy  ballad  ! 
Ever  in  cheerfullest  mood  art  thou,  when 

others  are  filled  with 
Gloomy  forebodings  of  ill,  and  see  only  ruin 

before  them. 
Happy  art  thou,  as  if  every  day  thou  hadst 

picked  up  a  horseshoe." 
Pausing  a  moment,  to  take  the  pipe  that 

Evangeline  brought  him, 
And   with   a   coal   from    the    embers    had 

lighted,  he  slowly  continued  :  — 
\  "  Four  days  now  are  passed  since  the  Eng- 

\lish  ships  at  their  anchors 
Ride  in  the  Gaspereau's  mouth,  with  their 

cannon  pointed  against  us. 
What  their  design  may  be  is  unknown  ;  but 

all  are  commanded 
On   the    morrow   to  meet   in   the    church, 

where  his  Majesty's  mandate 
Will  be  proclaimed   as   law   in  the   land. 

Alas  !  in  the  mean  time 
Many  surmises  of  evil  alarm  the  hearts  of 

the  people." 
Then  made  answer  the  farmer  :  "  Perhaps 

some  friendlier  purpose 
Brings  these  ships  to  our  shores.     Perhaps 

the  harvests  in  England 


By  untimely  rains  or  untimelier  heat  have 

been  blighted, 
And  from  our  bursting  barns  they  would 

feed  their  cattle  and  children." 
"  Not  so  thinketh  the  folk  in  the  village," 

said,  warmly,  the  llaeksmith, 
Shaking  his  head,  as  in  doubt  ;  then,  heav 
ing  a  sigh,  he  continued  :  — 
"Louisburg   is    not    forgotten,     nor    Beau 

Sdjour,  nor  Port  Royal. 
Many  already  have  fled  to  the  forest,  and 

lurk  on  its  outskirts, 
Waiting   with  anxious  hearts  the   dubious 

fate  of  to-morrow. 

Arms  have  been  taken  from  us,  and  war 
like  weapons  of  all  kinds  ; 
Nothing  is  left  but  the  blacksmith's  sledge 

and  the  scythe  of  the  mower." 
Then   with  a  pleasant  smile  made  answer 

the  jovial  farmer  :  — 
"  Safer  are  we  unarmed,  in  the  midst  of  our 

flocks  and  our  cornfields, 
Safer  within  these  peaceful  dikes,  besieged 

by  the  ocean, 
Than  our  fathers  in  forts,  besieged  by  the 

enemy's  cannon. 
Fear  no  evil,  my  friend,  and  to-night  may 

no  shadow  of  sorrow 
Fall  on  this  house  and  hearth  ;  for  this  is 

the  night  of  the  contract. 
Built  are  the    house  and  the    barn.     The 

merry  lads  of  the  village 
Strongly  have  built  them  and  well  ;  and, 

breaking    the    glebe    round    about 

them, 
Filled  the  barn  with  hay,   and  the  house 

with  food  for  a  twelvemonth. 
Rene*  Leblanc  will  be  here  anon,  with  his 

papers  and  inkhorn. 
Shall  we  not  then  be  glad,  and  rejoice  in 

the  joy  of  our  children  ?  " 
As  apart   by  the  window  she  stood,  with 

her  hand  in  her  lover's, 
Blushing  Evangeline  heard  the  words  that 

her  father  had  spoken, 
And,  as  they  died  on  his  lips,  the  worthy 

notary  entered. 


Ill 

Bent  like  a  laboring  oar,  that  toils  in  the 

surf  of  the  ocean, 
Bent,  but  not  broken,  by  age  was  the  form 

of  the  notary  publi^  ; 


EVANGELINE 


77 


Shocks  of  yellow  hair,  like  the  silken  floss 

of  the  maize,  hung 
Over  his  shoulders  ;  his  forehead  was  high  ; 

and  glasses  with  horii  bows 
Sat  astride  on  his  nose,    with  a   look   of 

wisdom  supernal. 
Father   of   twenty   children   was    he,   arid 

more  than  a  hundred 
Children's  children  rode  on  his  knee,  and 

heard  his  great  watch  tick. 
Four  long  years  in  the  times  of  the  war 

had  he  languished  a  captive, 
Suffering  much  in  an  old  French  fort  as 

the  friend  of  the  English. 
Now,    though  warier    grown,  without   all 

guile  or  suspicion, 
Ripe  in  wisdom  was  he,  but  patient,  and 

simple,  and  childlike. 
He  was  beloved  by  all,  and  most  of  all  by 

the  children  ; 
For  he  told  them  tales  of  the  Loup-garou 

in  the  forest, 
And  of  the  goblin  that  came  in  the  night 

to  water  the  horses, 
And  of  the  white  Le'tiche,  the  ghost  of  a 

child  who  unchristened 
Died,  and  was  doomed  to  haunt  unseen  the 

chambers  of  children  ; 
And  how  on  Christmas  eve  the  oxen  talked 

in  the  stable, 
And  how  the  fever  was  cured  by  a  spider 

shut  up  in  a  nutshell, 

And   of   the    marvellous   powers   of  four- 
leaved  clover  and  horseshoes, 
With  whatsoever  else  was  writ  in  the  lore 

of  the  village. 
Then  up  rose  from  his  seat  by  the  fireside 

Basil  the  blacksmith, 
Knocked   from    his    pipe   the   ashes,   and 

slowly  extending  his  ri^ht  hand, 
"Father  Leblanc,"    he   exclaimed,    "  thou 

hast  heard  the  talk  in  the  village, 
And,  perchance,   canst  tell  us  some  news 

of  these  ships  and  their  errand." 
Then  with  modest  demeanor  made  answer 

the  notary  public,  — 
"  Gossip  enough  have  I  heard,  in  sooth,  yet 

am  never  the  wiser  ; 
And  what  their  errand  may  be  I  know  not 

better  than  others. 
Yet  am  I  not  of  those  who  imagine  some 

evil  intention 
Brings  them  here,  for  we  are  at   peace  ; 

and  why  then  molest  us  ?  " 


"  God's   name  ! "   shouted    the   hasty   and 

somewhat  irascible  blacksmith  ; 
"  Must  we  in  all  things  look  for  the  how, 

and  the  why,  and  the  wherefore  ? 
Daily  injustice  is  done,  and  might  is   the 

right  of  the  strongest  !  " 
But  without  heeding  his  warmth,  continued 

the  notary  public,  — 
"Man   is   unjust,   but   God   is   just  ;  and    | 

finally  justice 

^Triumphs  ;  and  well  I  remember  a  story, 
,  that  often  consoled  me, 

When  as  a  captive  I  lay  in  the  old  French 

fort  at  Port  Royal." 
This  was  the  old  man's  favorite  tale,  and 

he  loved  to  repeat  it 
When  his  neighbors  complained  that  any 

injustice  was  done  them. 
"  Once  in  an  ancient  city,  whose  name  I  no 

longer  remember, 
Raised  aloft  on  a  column,  a  brazen  statue 

of  Justice 
Stood  in  the  public  square,  upholding  the 

scales  in  its  left  hand, 
And  in  its  right  a  sword,  as  an  emblem 

that  justice  presided 
Over  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  the  hearts 

and  homes  of  the  people. 
Even  the  birds  had  built  their  nests  in  the 

scales  of  the  balance, 
Having  no  fear  of  the  sword  that  flashed 

in  the  sunshine  above  them. 
But  in  the  course  of  time  the  laws  of  the 

land  were  corrupted  ; 
Might  took  the  place  of  right,  and  the  weak 

were  oppressed,  and  the  mighty 
Ruled  with  an  iron  rod.     Then  it  chanced 

in  a  nobleman's  palace 
That  a  necklace  of   pearls  was  lost,  and 

erelong  a  suspicion 
Fell  on  an  orphan  girl  who  lived  as  a  maid 

in  the  household. 
She,  after  form  of  trial  condemned  to  die 

on  the  scaffold, 
Patiently  met  her  doom  at  the  foot  of  the 

statue  of  Justice. 
As  to  her  Father  in  heaven  her  innocent 

spirit  ascended, 
Lo  !  o'er  the  city  a  tempest  rose  ;  and  the 

bolts  of  the  thunder 
Smote  the  statue   of  bronze,  and  hurled  in 

wrath  from  its  left  hand 
Down  on  the  pavement  below  the  clattering 

scales  of  the  balance, 


EVANGELINE 


And  in  the  hollow  thereof  was  found  the 
nest  of  a  magpie, 

Into  whose  clay-built  walls  the  necklace  of 
pearls  was  inwoven." 

Silenced,  but  not  convinced,  when  the  story 
was  ended,  the  blacksmith 

Stood  like  a  man  who  fain  would  speak, 
but  findeth  no  language  ; 

All  his  thoughts  were  congealed  into  lines 
on  his  face,  as  the  vapors 

Freeze  in  fantastic  shapes  on  the  window- 
panes  in  the  winter. 

Then  Evangeline  lighted  the  brazen  lamp 

on  the  table, 
Filled,  till  it  overflowed,  the  pewter  tankard 

with  home-brewed 
Nut-brown    ale,   that   was   famed   for   its 

strength    in    the  village  of  Grand- 

Pre"; 
While  from  his  pocket  the  notary  drew  his 

papers  and  inkhorn, 
Wrote  with  a  steady  hand  the  date  and  the 

age  of  the  parties, 
Naming  the  dower  of  the  bride  in  flocks  of 

sheep  and  in  cattle. 
Orderly  all  things  proceeded,  and  duly  and 

well  were  completed, 
And  the  great  seal  of  the  law  was  set  like 

a  sun  on  the  margin. 
Then  from  his  leathern  pouch  the  farmer 

threw  on  the  table 
Three   times   the   old   man's  fee   in  solid 

pieces  of  silver  ; 
And  the   notary  rising,   and   blessing   the 

bride  and  the  bridegroom, 
Lifted  aloft  the  tankard  of  ale  and  drank 

to  their  welfare. 
Wiping  the  foam  from  his  lip,  he  solemnly 

bowed  and  departed, 
While  in  silence  the  others  sat  and  mused 

by  the  fireside, 
Till  Evangeline  brought  the  draught-board 

out  of  its  corner. 
Soon  was   the   game   begun.     In  friendly 

contention  the  old  men 
Laughed  at  each  lucky  hit,  or  unsuccessful 

manoeuvre, 
Laughed  when  a  man  was  crowned,  or  a 

breach  was  made  in  the  king-row. 
Meanwhile  apart,  in  the  twilight  gloom  of 

a  window's  embrasure, 
Sat  the  lovers,  and  whispered  together,  be 
holding  the  moon  rise 


Over  the  pallid  sea,  and  the  silvery  mists 
of  the  meadows. 

Silently  one  by  one,  in  the  infinite  meadows 
of  heaven, 

Blossomed  the  lovely  stars,  the  forget-me- 
nots  of  the  angels. 

Thus  was  the  evening  passed.     Anon  the 

bell  from  the  belfry 

Rang  out  the  hour  of  nine,  the  village  cur 
few,  and  straightway 
Rose  the  guests  and  departed  ;  and  silence 

reigned  in  the  household. 
Many  a  farewell   word   and   sweet  good 
night  on  the  door-step 
Lingered  long  in  Evangeline's  heart,  and 

filled  it  with  gladness. 
Carefully  then  were  covered   the   embers 

that  glowed  on  the  hearth-stone, 
And   on   the   oaken   stairs   resounded   the 

tread  of  the  farmer. 
Soon   with   a   soundless   step   the   foot   of 

Evangeline  followed. 
Up  the  staircase  moved  a  luminous  space 

in  the  darkness, 
Lighted  less  by  the  lamp  than  the  shining 

face  of  the  maiden. 
Silent  she  passed  the  hall,  and  entered  the 

door  of  her  chamber. 
Simple  that  chamber  was,  with  its  curtains 

of  white,  and  its  clothes-press 
Ample  and  high,  on  whose  spacious  shelves 

were  carefully  folded 
Linen   and  woollen   stuffs,  by  the  hand  of 

Evangeline  woven. 
This   was   the   precious   dower  she  would 

bring  to  her  husband  in  marriage, 
Better  than  flocks  and  herds,  being  proofs 

of  her  skill  as  a  housewife. 
Soon  she    extinguished   her  lamp,  for  the 

mellow  and  radiant  moonlight 
Streamed  through  the  windows,  and  lighted 

the    room,   till    the    heart    of    the 

maiden 

Swelled   and   obeyed   its   power,   like   the 
-^         tremulous  tides  of  the  ocean. 
(Ah  !  she  was  fair,  exceeding  fair  to  behold, 

as  she  stood  with 
Naked   snow-white   feet   on   the  gleaming 

floor  of  her  chamber  !j 
Little  she  dreamed  that  below,  among  the 

trees  of  the  orchard, 
Waited    her   lover  and   watched    for   the. 

gleam  of  her  lamp  and  her  shadow.^ 


EVANGELINE 


79 


Yet  were  her  thoughts  of  him,  and  at  times 

a  feeling  of  sadness 
Passed  o'er  her  soul,  as  the  sailing  shade  of 

clouds  in  the  moonlight 
Flitted  across  the  floor  and  darkened  the 

room  for  a  moment. 
And,  as  she  gazed  from  the  window,  she 

saw  serenely  the  moon  pass 
Forth  from  the  folds  of  a  cloud,  and  one 

star  follow  her  footsteps, 
As  out  of  Abraham's  tent  young  Ishmael 

wandered  with  Hagar  ! 


IV 


Pleasantly  rose  next  morn  the  sun  on  the 

village  of  Grand-Prd. 
Pleasantly  gleamed  in  the  soft,  sweet  air 

the  Basin  of  Minas, 

Where  the  ships,  with  their  wavering  shad 
ows,  were  riding  at  anchor. 
Life  had  long  been  astir  in  the  village,  and 

clamorous  labor 
Knocked  with  its   hundred   hands   at   the 

golden  gates  of  the  morning. 
Now   from   the  country  around,  from  the 

farms  and  neighboring  hamlets, 
Came   in  their  holiday  dresses   the   blithe 

Acadian  peasants. 
Many  a  glad  good-morrow  and  jocund  laugh 

from  the  young  folk 
Made  the  bright  air  brighter,  as  up  from 

the  numerous  meadows, 
Where  no  path  could  be  seen  but  the  track 

of  wheels  in  the  greensward, 
Group  after  group  appeared,  and  joined,  or 

passed  on  the  highway. 
Long  ere  noon,  in  the  village  all  sounds  of 

labor  were  silenced. 
Thronged  were   the  streets   with   people  ; 

and  noisy  groups  at  the  house-doors 
Sat  in  the  cheerful  sun,  and  rejoiced  and 

gossiped  together. 
Every  house  was   an  inn,  where  all  were 

welcomed  and  feasted  ; 
For  with  this  simple  people,  who  lived  like 

brothers  together, 
All  things  were  held  in  common,  and  what 

one  had  was  another's. 
Yet    under    Benedict's      roof     hospitality 

seemed  more  abundant  : 
For  Evangeline  stood  among  the  guests  of 

her  father  ; 


Bright  was  her  face  with  smiles,  and  words 

of  welcome  and  gladness 
Fell  from  her  beautiful  lips,  and  blessed 

the  cup  as  she  gave  it. 

Under  the  open  sky,  in  the  odorous  air  of 

the  orchard, 
Stript  of  its  golden  fruit,   was  spread  the 

feast  of  betrothal. 
There  in  the  shade  of  the  porch  were  the 

priest  and  the  notary  seated  ; 
There  good  Benedict  sat,  and  sturdy  Basil 

the  blacksmith. 

Not  far  withdrawn  from  these,  by  the  cider- 
press  and  the  beehives, 
Michael  the  fiddler  was   placed,  with  the 

gayest  of  hearts  and  of  waistcoats. 
Shadow   and   light  from  the  leaves  alter 
nately  played  on  his  snow-white 
Hair,  as  it  waved  in   the  wind  ;   and   the 

jolly  face  of  the  fiddler 
Glowed  like  a  living  coal  when  the  ashes 

are  blown  from  the  embers. 
Gayly   the  old  man   sang    to  the   vibrant 

sound  of  his  fiddle, 
Tous  les  Bourgeois   de    Chartres,    and    Le 

Carillon  de  Dunquerque, 
And  anon  with  his  wooden  shoes  beat  time 

to  the  music. 
Merrily,  merrily  whirled  the  wheels  of  the 

dizzying  dances 
Under  the  orchard-trees  and  down  the  path 

to  the  meadows  ; 
Old  folk  and  young  together,  and  children 

mingled  among  them. 
Fairest  of  all  the  maids   was  Evangeline, 

Benedict's  daughter  ! 
Noblest  of  all  the  youths  was  Gabriel,  son 

of  the  blacksmith  ! 

"\  -A/J 


So  passed  the  morning  away 
with  a  summons  sonorous 


A/yv- 

i,y.     And  lo  ! 


Sounded  the  bell  from  its  tower,  and  over 

the  meadows  a  drum  beat. 
Thronged    erelong   was   the   church    with 

men.     Without,  in  the  churchyard, 
Waited   the   women.     They   stood   by  the 

graves,  and  hung  on  the  headstones 
Garlands  of  autumn-leaves  and  evergreens 

fresh  from  the  forest. 
Then  came  the  guard  from  the  ships,  and 

marching  proudly  among  them 
Entered  the  sacred  portal.     With  loud  and 

dissonant  clangor 


80 


EVANGELINE 


Echoed  the  sound  of   their  brazen  drums 

from  ceiling  and  casement,  — 
Echoed   a   moment   only,    and   slowly  the 

ponderous  portal 
Closed,  and  in  silence  the  crowd   awaited 

the  will  of  the  soldiers. 
Then  uprose  their  commander,  and  spake 

from  the  steps  of  the  altar, 
Holding  aloft  in  his  hands,  with  its  seals, 

the  royal  commission. 
"  You  are  convened  this  day,"  he  said,  "by 

his  Majesty's  orders. 
Clement  and   kind  has  he  been  ;  but  how 

you  have  answered  his  kindness, 
Let  your  own  hearts  reply  !     To  my  nat 
ural  make  and  my  temper 
Painful  the  task  is  I  do,  which  to  you   I 

know  must  be  grievous. 
Yet  must  I  bow  and  obey,  and  deliver  the 

will  of  our  monarch  ; 
Namely,  that  all  your  lands,  and  dwellings, 

and  cattle  of  all  kinds 
Forfeited  be  to  the  crown  ;  and   that  you 

yourselves  from  this  province 
Be  transported  to  other  lands.     God  grant 

you  may  dwell  there 
Ever   as    faithful   subjects,    a  happy   and 

peaceable  people  ! 
Prisoners  now  I  declare  you  ;  for  such  is 

his  Majesty's  pleasure  !  " 
As,  when  the  air  is  serene  in  sultry  solstice 

of  summer, 
Suddenly  gathers  a  storm,  and  the  deadly 

sling  of  the  hailstones 
Beats  down  the  farmer's  corn  in  the  field 

and  shatters  his  windows, 
Hiding  the  sun,  and  strewing  the  ground 

with  thatch  from  the  house-roofs, 
Bellowing  fly  the  herds,  and  seek  to  break 

their  enclosures  ; 
So  on  the  hearts  of  the  people  descended  the 

words  of  the  speaker. 
Silent  a  moment  they  stood  in  speechless 

wonder,  and  then  rose 
Louder  and  ever  louder  a  wail  of  sorrow 

and  anger, 
And,  by  one  impulse  moved,  they  madly 

rushed  to  the  door-way. 
Vain  was  the  hope  of  escape  ;  and  cries 

and  fierce  imprecations 
Rang     through     the    house    of     prayer  ; 

and  high  o'er  the  heads  of  the  oth 
ers 
Rose,  with  his  arms  uplifted,  the  figure  of 

Basil  the  blacksmith, 


As,  on  a  stormy  sea,  a  spar  is  tossed  by  the 

billows. 
Flushed  was  his  face  and  distorted  with 

passion  ;  and  wildly  he  shouted,  — ' 
"  Down  with  the  tyrants  of  England  !  we 

never  have  sworn  them  allegiance  !  i ' 
Death  to  these  foreign  soldiers,  who  seize 

on  our  homes  and  our  harvests  !  " 
More  he   fain  would  have   said,   but   the 

merciless  hand  of  a  soldier 
Smote  him  upon  the  mouth,  and  dragged 

him  down  to  the  pavement. 

In  the  midst  of  the  strife  and  tumult  of 

angry  contention, 
Lo  !  the  door  of  the  chancel  opened,  and 

Father  Felician 
Entered,  with  serious  mien,  and  ascended 

the  steps  of  the  altar. 
Raising  his  reverend  hand,  with  a  gesture 

he  awed  into  silence 
All   that  clamorous   throng  ;  and  thus  he 

spake  to  his  people  ; 
Deep  were  his  tones  and  solemn  ;  in  accents 

measured  and  mournful 
Spake  he,  as,  after  the  tocsin's  alarum,  dis 
tinctly  the  clock  strikes. 
"  What  is  this  that  ye  do,  my  children  ? 

what  madness  has  seized  you  ? 
Forty   years   of   my   life   have   I   labored 

among  you,  and  taught  you, 
Not  in  word  alone,  but  in  deed,  to  love  one 

another  ! 
Is  this   the  fruit  of  my  toils,  of  my  vigils 

and  prayers  and  privations  ? 
Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  all  lessons  of 

love  and  forgiveness  ? 
This  is  the  house  of  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

and  would  you  profane  it 
Thus  with  violent  deeds  and  hearts  over 
flowing  with  hatred  ? 
Lo  !  where  the  crucified  Christ  from  his 

cross  is  gazing  upon  you  ! 
See  !  in  those  sorrowful  eyes  what  meek 
ness  and  holy  compassion  ! 
Hark !    how   those    lips    still   repeat  the 

prayer,  *  O  Father,  forgive  them  ! ' 
Let  us  repeat  that  prayer  in  the  hour  when 

the  wicked  assail  us, 
Let  us  repeat  it  now,  and  say,  '  O  Father, 

forgive  them  ! '  " 
Few  were  his  words  of  rebuke,  but  deep  in 

the  hearts  of  his  people 
Sank  they,  and  sobs  of  contrition  succeeded 

the  passionate  outbreak, 


EVANGELINE 


While  they  repeated  his  prayer,  and  said, 
"  O  Father,  forgive  them  !  " 

Then  came  the    evening   service.     The 

tapers  gleamed  from  the  altar. 
Fervent  and  deep  was  the  voice   of    the 

priest,  and  the  people  responded, 
Not  with  their  lips  alone,  but  their  hearts  ; 

and  the  Ave  Maria 
Sang  they,   and  fell  on  their   knees,    and 

their  souls,  with  devotion  translated, 
Rose  on  the  ardor  of  prayer,  like  Elijah 

ascending  to  heaven. 

Meanwhile  had  spread  in  the  village  the 

tidings  of  ill,  and  on  all  sides 
Wandered,   wailing,   from  house  to  house 

the  women  and  children. 
Long  at  her  father's  door  Evangeline  stood, 

with  her  right  hand 
Shielding  her  eyes  from  the  level  rays  of 

the  sun,  that,  descending, 
Lighted  the  village  street  with  mysterious 

splendor,  and  roofed  each 
Peasant's  cottage  with  golden  thatch,  and 

emblazoned  its  windows. 
Long  within  had  been  spread  the    snow- 
white  cloth  on  the  table  ; 
There   stood   the   wheaten   loaf,    and   the 

honey  fragrant  with  wild-flowers  ; 
There    stood    the    tankard    of    ale,    and 

the  cheese  fresh  brought  from  the 

dairy, 
And,  at  the  head  of  the  board,  the  great 

arm-chair  of  the  farmer. 
Thus  did  Evangeline  wait  at  her  father's 

door,  as  the  sunset 
Threw  the  long  shadows  of  trees  o'er  the 

broad  ambrosial  meadows. 
Ah  !  on  her  spirit  within  a  deeper  shadow 

had  fallen, 
And  from  the  fields  of  her  soul  a  fragrance 

celestial  ascended,  — 
(C!harity,    meekness,   love,    and    hope,   and 

x^    forgiveness,  and  patience  ! 
Then,  all-forgetful  of  self,  she  wandered 

into  the  village, 

Cheering  with  looks  and  words  the  mourn 
ful  hearts  of  the  women, 
As  o'er  the  darkening  fields  with  lingering 

steps  they  departed, 
Urged  by  their  household    cares,  and  the 

weary  feet  of  their  children. 
Down   sank    the    great    red    sun,    and    in 

golden,  glimmering  vapors 


81 


Veiled  the  light  of  his  face,  like  the 
Prophet  descending  from  Sinai. 

Sweetly  over  the  village  the  bell  of  the 
Angelus  sounded. 

Meanwhile,  amid  the  gloom,  by  the 
church  Evangeline  lingered. 

All  was  silent  within  ;  and  in  vain  at  the 
door  and  the  windows 

Stood  she,  and  listened  and  looked,  till, 
overcome  by  emotion, 

"  Gabriel !  "  cried  she  aloud  with  tremulous 
voice  ;  but  no  answer 

Came  from  the  graves  of  the  dead,  nor  the 
gloomier  grave  of  the  living. 

Slowly  at  length  she  returned  to  the  tenant- 
less  house  of  her  father. 

Smouldered  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  on  the 
board  was  the  supper  untasted, 

Empty  and  drear  was  each  room,  and 
haunted  with  phantoms  of  terror. 

Sadly  echoed  her  step  on  the  stair  and  the 
floor  of  her  chamber. 

In  the  dead  of  the  night  she  heard  the  dis 
consolate  rain  fall 

Loud  on  the  withered  leaves  of  the  syca 
more-tree  by  the  window. 

Keenly  the  lightning  flashed  ;  and  the  voice 
of  the  echoing  thunder 

Told  her  that  God  was  in  heaven,  and  gov 
erned  the  world  he  created  ! 

Then  she  remembered  the  tale  she  had 
heard  of  the  justice  of  Heaven  ; 

Soothed  was  her  troubled  soul,  and  she 
peacefully  slumbered  till  morning. 


Four  times  the  sun  had  risen  and  set  ;  and 

now  on  the  fifth  day 
Cheerily  called  the  cock  to  the    sleeping 

maids  of  the  farm-house. 
Soon  o'er  the  yellow  fields,  in  silent  and 

mournful  procession, 
Came  from  the  neighboring   hamlets  and 

farms  the  Acadian  women, 
Driving  in    ponderous  wains  their  house 
hold  goods  to  the  sea-shore, 
Pausing   and   looking   back   to  gaze  once 

more  on  their  dwellings, 
Ere   they   were    shut   from   sight  by   the 

winding  road  and  the  woodland. 
Close  at  their  sides  their  children  ran,  and 

urged  on  the  oxen, 


x    v 


82 


EVANGELINE 


While  in  their  little  hands  they  clasped 
some  fragments  of  playthings. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  they  hur 
ried  ;  and  there  on  the  sea-beach 

Piled  in  confusion  lay  the  household  goods 
of  the  peasants. 

All  day  long  between  the  shore  and  the 
ships  did  the  boats  ply  ; 

All  day  long  the  wains  came  laboring  down 
from  the  village. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was 
near  to  his  setting, 

Echoed  far  o'er  the  fields  came  the  roll  of 
drums  from  the  churchyard. 

Thither  the  women  and  children  thronged. 
On  a  sudden  the  church-doors 

Opened,  and  forth  came  the  guard,  and 
marching  in  gloomy  procession 

Followed  the  long-imprisoned,  but  patient, 
Acadian  farmers. 

Even  as  pilgrims,  who  journey  afar  from 
their  homes  and  their  country, 

Sing  as  they  go,  and  in  singing  forget  they 
are  weary  and  wayworn, 

So  with  songs  on  their  lips  the  Acadian 
peasants  descended 

Down  from  the  church  to  the  shore,  amid 
their  wives  and  their  daughters. 

Foremost  the  young  men  came  ;  and,  raising 
together  their  voices, 

Sang  with  tremulous  lips  a  chant  of  the 
Catholic  Missions  :  — 

"  Sacred  heart  of  the  Saviour  !  O  inex 
haustible  fountain  ! 

Fill  our  hearts  this  day  with  strength  and 
submission  and  patience  !  " 

Then  the  old  men,  as  they  marched,  and 
the  women  that  stood  by  the  way 
side 

Joined  in  the  sacred  psalm,  and  the  birds 
in  the  sunshine  above  them 

Mingled  their  notes  therewith,  like  voices 
of  spirits  departed. 

^~y 

Half-way  down  to  the  shore  Evangeline 
waited  in  silence, 

Not  overcome  with  grief,  but  strong  in  the 
hour  of  affliction,  — 

Calmly  and  sadly  she  waited,  until  the  pro 
cession  approached  her, 

And  she  beheld  the  face  of  Gabriel  pale 
with  emotion. 

Tears  then  filled  her  eyes,  and,  eagerly  run 
ning  to  meet  him, 


Clasped  she  his  hands,  and  laid  her  head  on 

his  shoulder,  and  whispered,  — 
"  Gabriel  !    be  of  good  cheer  !    for  if  we 

love  one  another 
Nothing,  in  truth,  can  harm  us,  whatever 

mischances  may  happen  ! " 
Smiling  she  spake  these  words  ;  then  sud 
denly  paused,  for  her  father 
Saw  she   slowly  advancing.      Alas  !   how 

changed  was  his  aspect ! 
Gone  was  the  glow  from  his  cheek,  and  the 

fire  from  his  eye,  and  his  footstep 
Heavier   seemed   with   the   weight  of  the 

heavy  heart  in  his  bosom. 
But  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh,  she  clasped 

his  neck  and  embraced  him, 
Speaking  words  of  endearment  where  words 

of  comfort  availed  not. 
Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  moved  on 

that  mournful  procession. 

There  disorder  prevailed,  and  the  tumult 

and  stir  of  embarking. 
Busily  plied  the  freighted  boats  ;    and  in 

the  confusion 
Wives  were  torn  from  their  husbands,  and 

mothers,  too  late,  saw  their  children 
Left  on  the  land,  extending  their  arms,  with 

wildest  entreaties. 
So   unto   separate   ships   were    Basil   and 

Gabriel  carried, 
While  in  despair  on  the  shore  Evangeline 

stood  with  her  father. 
Half  the  task  was  not  done  when  the  sun 

went  down,  and  the  twilight 
Deepened  and  darkened   around  ;   and  in 

haste  the  refluent  ocean 
Fled  away  from  the  shore,  and  left  the  line 

of  the  sand-beach 
Covered  with  waifs  of  the  tide,  with  kelp 

and  the  slippery  sea-weed. 
Farther  back  in  the  midst  of  the  household 

goods  and  the  wagons, 
Like  to  a  gypsy  camp,  or  a  leaguer  after  a 

battle, 

All  escape  cut  off  by  the  sea,  and  the  senti 
nels  near  them, 
Lay  encamped  for  the  night  the  houseless 

Acadian  farmers. 
Back  to  its  nethermost  caves  retreated  the 

bellowing  ocean, 
Dragging   adown   the   beach   the    rattling 

pebbles,  and  leaving 
Inland  and  far  up  the  shore  the  stranded 

boats  of  the  sailors. 


EVANGELINE 


Then,  as  the  night  descended,  the  herds 
returned  from  their  pastures  ; 

Sweet  was  the  moist  still  air  with  the  odor 
of  milk  from  their  udders  ; 

Lowing  they  waited,  and  long,  at  the  well- 
known  bars  of  the  farm-yard,  — 

Waited  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  voice 
and  the  hand  of  the  milk-maid. 

Silence  reigned  in  the  streets  ;  from  the 
church  no  Angelus  sounded, 

Rose  no  smoke  from  the  roofs,  and  gleamed 
no  lights  from  the  windows. 

But  on  the  shores  meanwhile  the  even 
ing  fires  had  been  kindled, 
Built  of  the  drift-wood  thrown  on  the  sands 

from  wrecks  in  the  tempest. 
Round  them  shapes  of  gloom  and  sorrowful 

faces  were  gathered, 
Voices  of  women  were  heard,  and  of  men, 

and  the  crying  of  children. 
Onward  from  fire  to  fire,  as  from  hearth  to 

hearth  in  his  parish, 
Wandered   the   faithful    priest,    consoling 

and  blessing  and  cheering, 
Like  unto  shipwrecked  Paul   on   Melita's 

desolate  sea-shore. 
Thus  he  approached  the  place  where  Evan- 

geline  sat  with  her  father, 
And  in  the  flickering  light  beheld  the  face 

of  the  old  man, 
Haggard  and  hollow  and  wan,  and  without 

either  thought  or  emotion, 
E'en  as  the  face  of  a  clock  from  which  the 

hands  have  been  taken. 
Vainly  Evangeline  strove  with  words  and 

caresses  to  cheer  him, 
Vainly  offered  him  food  ;    yet  he  moved 

not,  he  looked  not,  he  spake  not, 
But,  with  a  vacant  stare,  ever  gazed  at  the 

flickering  fire-light. 
"  Benedicite  I "   murmured    the    priest,    in 

tones  of  compassion. 
More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  his  heart 

was  full,  and  his  accents 
Faltered   and   paused   on   his  lips,  as  the 

feet  of  a  child  on  a  threshold, 
Hushed  by  the  scene  he  beholds,  and  the 

awful  presence  of  sorrow. 
Silently,  therefore,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the 

head  of  the  maiden, 
Raising  his  tearful  eyes  to  the  silent  stars 

that  above  them 
Moved   on   their  way,  unperturbed  by  the 

wrongs  and  sorrows  of  mortals. 


Then  sat  he   down   at   her  side,  and  they 
wept  together  in  silence. 

Suddenly  rose  from  the  south  a  light,  as 

in  autumn  the  blood-red 
Moon  climbs  the  crystal  walls  of  heaven, 

and  o'er  the  horizon 
Titan-like  stretches  its  hundred  hands  upon 

the  mountain  and  meadow, 
Seizing  the  rocks  and  the  rivers  and  piling 

huge  shadows  together. 
Broader  and  ever  broader  it  gleamed  on 

the  roofs  of  the  village, 
Gleamed  on  the  sky  and  sea,  and  the  ships 

that  lay  in  the  roadstead. 
Columns    of    shining    smoke  uprose,   and 

flashes  of  flame  were 
Thrust  through  their  folds  and  withdrawn, 

like  the  quivering  hands  of  a  martyr. 
Then  as  the  wind  seized  the  gleeds  and  the 

burning  thatch,  and,  uplifting, 
Whirled   them   aloft  through     the  air,  at 

once  from  a  hundred  house-tops 
Started  the  sheeted  smoke  with  flashes  of 

flame  intermingled. 

These  things  beheld  in  dismay  the  crowd 

on  the  shore  and  on  shipboard. 
Speechless  at  first  they  stood,   then   cried 

aloud  in  their  anguish, 
"  We  shall  behold  no  more  our  homes  in 

the  village  of  Grand-Pre  !  " 
Loud  on  a  sudden  the  cocks  began  to  crow 

in  the  farm-yards, 
Thinking  the  day  had  dawned  ;  and  anon 

the  lowing  of  cattle 

Came  on  the  evening  breeze,  by  the  bark 
ing  of  dogs  interrupted. 
Then  rose  a  sound  of  dread,  such  as  startles 

the  sleeping  encampments 
Far  in  the  western  prairies  or  forests  that 

skirt  the  Nebraska, 
When  the  wild  horses  affrighted  sweep  by 

with  the  speed  of  the  whirlwind, 
Or  the  loud  bellowing  herds  of  buffaloes 

rush  to  the  river. 
Such  was  the  sound  that  arose  on  the  night, 

as  the  herds  and  the  horses 
Broke  through  their  folds  and  fences,  and 

madly  rushed  o'er  the  meadows. 

Overwhelmed  with  the  sight,  yet  speech 
less,  the  priest  and  the  maiden 
Gazed  on  the  scene  of  terror  that  reddened 
and  widened  before  them  ; 


84 


EVANGELINE 


— 


And  as  they  turned  at  length  to  speak 
to  their  silent  companion, 

Lo  !  from  his  seat  he  had  fallen,  and 
stretched  abroad  on  the  sea-shore 

Motionless  lay  his  form,  from  which  the 
soul  had  departed. 

Slowly  the  priest  uplifted  the  lifeless  head, 
and  the  maiden 

Knelt  at  her  father's  side,  and  wailed  aloud 
in  her  terror. 

Then  in  a  swoon  she  sank,  and  lay  with  her 
head  on  his  bosom. 

Through  the  long  night  she  lay  in  deep,  ob 
livious  slumber  ; 

And  when  she  awoke  from  the  trance,  she 
beheld  a  multitude  near  her. 

Faces  of  friends  she  beheld,  that  were 
mournfully  gazing  upon  her, 

Pallid,  with  tearful  eyes,  and  looks  of  sad 
dest  compassion. 

Still  the  blaze  of  the  burning  village  illu 
mined  the  landscape, 

Reddened  the  sky  overhead,  and  gleamed 
on  the  faces  around  her, 

And  like  the  day  of  doom  it  seemed  to  her 
wavering  senses. 

Then  a  familiar  voice  she  heard,  as  it  said 
to  the  people,  — 

"  Let  ns  bury  him  here  by  the  sea.  When 
a  happier  season 

Brings  us  again  to  our  homes  from  the  un 
known  land  of  our  exile, 

Then  shall  his  sacred  dust  be  piously  laid 
in  the  churchyard." 

Such  were  the  words  of  the  priest.  And 
there  in  haste  by  the  sea-side, 

Having  the  glare  of  the  burning  village 
for  funeral  torches, 

But  without  bell  or  book,  they  buried  the 
farmer  of  £rrand-Pre. 

And  as  the  voice  of  the  priest  repeated  the 
service  of  sorrow, 

Lo  !  with  a  mournful  sound,  like  the  voice 
of  a  vast  congregation, 

Solemnly  answered  the  sea,  and  mingled  its 
roar  with  the  dirges. 

'T  was  the  returning  tide,  that  afar  from 
the  waste  of  the  ocean, 

With  the  first  dawn  of  the  day,  came  heav 
ing  and  hurrying  landward. 

Then  recommenced  once  more  the  stir  and 
noise  of  embarking  ; 

And  with  the  ebb  of  the  tide  the  ships 
sailed  out  of  the  harbor, 

Leaving  behind  them  the  dead  on  the  shore, 
and  the  village  in  ruins. 


PART  THE  SECOND 
1 

IJU^. 

MANY  a  weary  year  had  passed  since  the 

burning  of  Grand-Pre', 
When  on  the  falling  tide  the  freighted  ves 
sels  departed, 
Bearing  a  nation,  with  all   its   household 

gods,  into  exile, 

Exile  without  an  end,  and  without  an  ex 
ample  in  story. 
Far  asunder,  on  separate  coasts,  the  Aca- 

dians  landed  ; 
Scattered  were  they,    like  flakes  of  snow, 

when    the   wind    from    the   north 
east 
Strikes  aslant  through  the  fogs  that  darken 

the  Banks  of  Newfoundland. 
Friendless,  homeless,  hopeless,  they  wan 
dered  from  city  to  city, 
From  the  cold  lakes  of  the  North  to  sultry 

Southern  savannas,  — 
From  the  bleak  shores  of  the  sea  to  the 

lands  where  the  Father  of  Waters 
Seizes  the  hills  in  his  hands,  and  drags  them 

down  to  the  ocean, 
Deep  in  their  sands  to  bury  the  scattered 

bones  of  the  mammoth. 
Friends  they  sought  and  homes  ;  and  many, 

despairing,  heart-broken, 
Asked  of  the  earth  but  a  grave,  and  no 

longer  a  friend  nor  a  fireside. 
Written  their  history  stands  on  tablets  of 

stone  in  the  churchyards. 
Long  among  them  was  seen  a  maiden  who 

waited  and  wandered,  ,  7 

Lowly  and  meek  in  spirit,  and   patiently 
r— -        suffering  all  things.  / 

JFair  was  she  and  young  :  but,  alas  !  before 

her  extended, 
Dreary  and  vast  and  silent,  the  desert  of 

life,  with  its  pathway 
Marked  by  the  graves  of  those  wrho  had 

sorrowed  and  suffered  before  her, 
Passions  long  extinguished,  and  hopes  long 

dead  and  abandoned, 
As  the  emigrant's  way  o'er  the  Western 

desert  is  marked  by 
Camp-fires  long  consumed,  and  bones  that 

bleach  in  the  sunshine. 
Something  there  was  in  her  life  incomplete, 

imperfect,  unfinished  ; 
As  if  a  morning  of  June,  with  all  its  music 

and  sunshiiioj[ 


EVANGELINE 


Suddenly  paused  in  the  sky,  and,  fading, 

slowly  descended 
Into  the  east  again,  from  whence  it  late 

had  arisen. 
Sometimes    she    lingered   in    towns,    till, 

urged  by  the  fever  within  her, 
Urged  by  a  restless  longing,   the  hunger 

and  thirst  of  the  spirit, 
She  would   commence   again   her   endless 

search  and  endeavor  ; 
Sometimes    in   churchyards    strayed,   and 

gazed   on    the   crosses    and    tomb 
stones, 
Sat  by  some  nameless  grave,  and  thought 

that  perhaps  in  its  bosom 
He  was  already  at  rest,  and  she  longed  to 

slumber  beside  him. 

Sometimes  a  rumor,  a  hearsay,  an  inartic 
ulate  whisper, 
Came    with   its   airy  hand    to   point    and 

beckon  her  forward. 
Sometimes  she  spake  with  those  who  had 

seen  her  beloved  and  known  him, 
But  it  was  long  ago,  in  some  far-off  place 

or  forgotten. 
"  Gabriel    Lajeunesse  !  "   they   said  ;  "  Oh 

yes  !  we  have  seen  him. 
He   was   with  Basil   the    blacksmith,  and 

both  have  gone  to  the  prairies  ; 
Coureurs-des-Bois   are   they,   and  famous 

hunters  and  trappers." 
"  Gabriel  Lajeunesse  !  "  said  others  ;  "  Oh 

yes  !  we  have  seen  him. 
He   is    a   Voyageur   in    the    lowlands   of 

Louisiana." 
Then  would  they  say,  "  Dear  child  !  why 

dream  and  wait  for  him  longer  ? 
Are    there   not   other    youths   as   fair    as 

Gabriel?  others 
Who  have  hearts  as  tender  and  true,  and 

spirits  as  loyal  ? 
Here  is  Baptiste  Leblanc,  the  notary's  son, 

who  has  loved  thee 
Many  a  tedious  year  ;  come,  give  him  thy 

hand  and  be  happy  ! 
Thou  art  too  fair  to  be  left  to  braid  St. 

Catherine's  tresses." 

Then  would  Evangeline   answer,   serenely 
ff^          but  sadly,  "  I  cannot  ! 
(  Whither  my  heart  has  gone,  there  follows 

my  hand,  and  not  elsewhere. 
For  when   the    heart   goes  before,  like    a 

lamp,  and  illumines  the  pathway, 
Many  things  are  made  clear,  that  else  lie 

hidden  in  darkness  j' 


Thereupon  the  priest,  her  friend  and  father- 
confessor, 

Said,  with  a  smile,  "  O  daughter  !  thy  God 
r->»         thus  speaketh  within  thee  ! 
(Talk   not    of    wasted    affection,    affection 

never  was  wasted  ; 
If  it  enrich  not  the  heart  of  another,  its 

waters,  returning 
Back  to  their  springs,  like  the  rain,  shall 

fill  them  full  of  refreshment  ; 
That  which  the  fountain  sends  forth  returns 

again  to  the  fountain. 

Patience  ;   accomplish   thy   labor ;  accom 
plish  thy  work  of  affection  ! 
Sorrow  and  silence  are  strong,  and  patient 

endurance  is  godlike. 
Therefore  accomplish  thy  labor  of  love,  till 

the  heart  is  made  godlike, 
Purified,  strengthened,  perfected,  and  ren- 

l^jiered  more  worthy  of  heaven  !  " 
Cheered  by  the  good  man's  words,  Evange- 

line  labored  and  waited. 
Still  in  her  heart  she  heard  the  funeral  dirge 

of  the  ocean, 
But    with    its  sound    there   was    mingled 

a  voice    that    whispered,   "  Despair 

not!" 
Thus  did  that  poor  soul  wander  in  want  and 

cheerless  discomfort, 
Bleeding,  barefooted,  over  the  shards  and 

thorns  of  existence. 

Let  me  essay,  O  Muse  !  to  follow  the  wan 
derer's  footsteps  ;  —  |  Q^CJ 
Not     through    each     devious    path,    each 

changeful  year  of  existence, 
But   as  a   traveller   follows   a   streamlet's  .^-.  • 

course  through  the  valley  : 
Far  from  its  margin  at  times,  and  seeing 

the  gleam  of  its  water 
Here  and  there,  in  some  open  space,  and  at 

intervals  only  ; 
Then  drawing  nearer   its    banks,  through 

sylvan  glooms  that  conceal  it, 
Though  he  behold  it  not,  he  can  hear  its 

continuous  murmur  ; 
Happy,  at  length,  if  he  find  the  spot  where 

it  reaches  an  outlet. 


It  was  the  month  of  May.     Far  down  the 

Beautiful  River, 
Past  the  Ohio  shore  and  past  the  mouth  of 

the  Wabash, 


86 


EVANGELINE 


Into  the  golden  stream  of  the  broad  and 
swift  Mississippi, 

Floated  a  cumbrous  boat,  that  was  rowed 
by  Acadian  boatmen. 

It  was  a  band  of  exiles  :  a  raft,  as  it  were, 
from  the  shipwrecked 

Nation,  scattered  along  the  coast,  now 
floating  together, 

Bound  by  the  bonds  of  a  common  belief  and 
a  common  misfortune  ; 

Men  and  women  and  children,  who,  guided 
by  hope  or  by  hearsay, 

Sought  for  their  kith  and  their  kin  among 
the  few-acred  farmers 

On  the  Acadian  coast,  and  the  prairies  of 
fair  Opelonsas. 

With  them  Evangeline  went,  and  her  guide, 
the  Father  Felician. 

Onward  o'er  sunken  sands,  through  a  wil 
derness  sombre  with  forests, 

Day  after  day  they  glided  adown  the  turbu 
lent  river  ; 

Night  after  night,  by  their  blazing  fires, 
encamped  on  its  borders. 

Now  through  rushing  chutes,  among  green 
islands,  where  plumelike 

Cotton-trees  nodded  their  shadowy  crests, 
they  swept  with  the  current, 

Then  emerged  into  broad  lagoons,  where 
silvery  sand-bars 

Lay  in  the  stream,  and  along  the  wimpling 
waves  of  their  margin, 

Shining  with  snow  -  white  plumes,  large 
flocks  of  pelicans  waded. 

Level  the  landscape  grew,  and  along  the 
shores  of  the  river, 

Shaded  by  china-trees,  in  the  midst  of  lux 
uriant  gardens, 

Stood  the  houses  of  planters,  with  negro- 
cabins  and  dove-cots. 

They  were  approaching  the  region  where 
reigns  perpetual  summer, 

Where  through  the  Golden  Coast,  and 
groves  of  orange  and  citron, 

Sweeps  with  majestic  curve  the  river  away 
to  the  eastward. 

They,  too,  swerved  from  their  course  ;  and 
entering  the  Bayou  of  Plaque- 
mine, 

Soon  were  lost  in  a  maze  of  sluggish  and 
devious  waters, 

Which,  like  a  network  of  steel,  extended  in 
every  direction. 

Over  their  heads  the  towering  and  tene 
brous  boughs  of  the  cypress 


Met  in  a  dusky  arch,  and  trailing  mosses 

in  mid-air 
Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls 

of  ancient  cathedrals. 
Deathlike  the  silence  seemed,  and  unbroken, 

save  by  the  herons 

Home  to  their  roosts  in  the  cedar-trees  re 
turning  at  sunset, 
Or  by  the  owl,  as  he  greeted  the  moon  with 

demoniac  laughter. 
Lovely  the  moonlight  was  as  it  glanced  and 

gleamed  on  the  water, 
Gleamed  on  the  columns  of   cypress   and 

cedar  sustaining  the  arches, 
Down  through  whose  broken  vaults  it  fell 
/—»          as  through  chinks  in  a  ruin. 
Dreamlike,  and  indistinct,  and  strange  were 

all  things  around  them  ; 
And  o'er  their  spirits  there  came  a  feeling 

of  wonder  and  sadness,  — 
Strange  forebodings  of  ill,  unseen  and  that 

cannot  be  compassed. 
As,  at  the  tramp  of  a  horse's  hoof  on  the 

turf  of  the  prairies, 
Far  in  advance  are  closed  the  leaves  of  the 

shrinking  mimosa, 

So,  at  the  hoof-beats  of  fate,  with  sad  fore 
bodings  of  evil, 
Shrinks  and  closes  the  heart,  ere  the  stroke 

of  doom  has  attained  iL\ 
But  Evangeline's  heart  was>-§ustained  by  a 

vision,  that  faintly 
Floated  before  her  eyes,  and  beckoned  her 

on  through  the  moonlight. 
It   was  the  thought  of  her  brain  that  as 
sumed  the  shape  of  a  phantom. 
Through  those  shadowy  aisles  had  Gabriel 

wandered  before  her, 
And  every  stroke  of  the  oar  now  brought 

him  nearer  and  nearer. 

Then  in  his  place,  at  the  prow  of  the 
boat,  rose  one  of  the  oarsmen, 

And,  as  a  signal  sound,  if  others  like  them 
peradventure 

Sailed  on  those  gloomy  and  midnight 
streams,  blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle. 

Wild  through  the  dark  colonnades  and  cor 
ridors  leafy  the  blast  rang, 

Breaking  the  seal  of  silence,  and  giving 
tongues  to  the  forest. 

Soundless  above  them  the  banners  of  moss 
just  stirred  to  the  music. 

Multitudinous  echoes  awoke  and  died  in 
the  distance, 


EVANGELINE 


Over  the  watery  floor,  and  beneath  the  re 
verberant  branches  ; 

But  not  a  voice  replied  ;  no  answer  came 
from  the  darkness  ; 

And,  when  the  echoes  had  ceased,  like  a 
sense  of  pain  was  the  silence. 

Then  Evangeline  slept  ;  but  the  boatmen 
rowed  through  the  midnight, 

Silent  at  times,  then  singing  familiar  Cana 
dian  boat-songs, 

Such  as  they  sang  of  old  on  their  own  Aca 
dian  rivers, 

While  through  the  night  were  heard  the 
mysterious  sounds  of  the  desert, 

Far  off,  —  indistinct,  —  as  of  wave  or  wind 
in  the  forest, 

Mixed  with  the  whoop  of  the  crane  and 
the  roar  of  the  grim  alligator. 

(  Thus  ere  another  noon  they  emerged 
from  the  shades  ;  and  before  them 

Lay,  in  the  golden  sun,  the  lakes  of  the 
Atchafalaya. 

Water-lilies  in  myriads  rocked  on  the 
slight  undulations 

Made  by  the  passing  oars,  and,  resplendent 
in  beauty,  the  lotus 

Lifted  ker  golden  crown  above  the  heads 
of  the  boatmen. 

Faint  was  the  air  with  the  odorous  breath 
of  magnolia  blossoms, 

And  with  the  heat  of  noon  ;  and  number 
less  sylvan  islands, 

Fragrant  and  thickly  embowered  with  bios-] 
sorning  hedges  of  roses,  ""^ 

Near  to  whose  shores  they  glided  along, 
invited  to  slumber. 

Soon  by  the  fairest  of  these  their  weary 
oars  were  suspended. 

Under  the  boughs  of  Wachita  willows,  that 
grew  by  the  margin, 

Safely  their  boat  was  moored  ;  and  scat 
tered  about  on  the  greensward, 

Tired  with  their  midnight  toil,  the  weary 
travellers  slumbered. 

Over  them  vast  and  high  extended  the  cope 
of  a  cedar. 

Swinging  from  its  great  arms,  the  trumpet- 
flower  and  the  grapevine 

Hung  their  ladder  of  ropes  aloft  like  the 
ladder  of  Jacob, 

On  whose  pendulous  stairs  the  angels 
ascending,  descending, 

Were  the  swift  humming-birds,  that  flitted 
from  blossom  to  blossom. 


Such  was  the  vision  Evangeline  saw  as  she 

slumbered  beneath  it. 
Filled  was   her  heart  with  love,  and  the 

dawn  of  an  opening  heaven 
Lighted  her  soul  in  sleep  with  the  glory  of 

regions  celestial. 

NN  ¥&+t  *    K-«YS  Boefe  •iW*^ 
Nearer,   and    ever    nearer,    among  the 

numberless  islands, 
Darted  a  light,  swift  boat,  that  sped  away 

o'er  the  water, 
Urged  on  its  course  by  the  sinewy  arms  of 

hunters  and  trappers. 
Northward  its  prow  was  turned,  to  the  land 

of  the  bison  and  beaver. 
At  the  helm  sat  a  youth,  with  countenance 

thoughtful  and  careworn. 
Dark  and  neglected  locks  overshadowed  his 

brow,  and  a  sadness 
Somewhat  beyond  his  years  on  his  face  was 

legibly  written. 

Gabriel  was  it,  who,  weary  with  waiting,  un 
happy  and  restless, 
Sought  in    the  Western  wilds  oblivion  of 

self  and  of  sorrow. 
Swiftly  they  glided  along,  close  under  the 

lee  of  the  island, 
But  by  the   opposite  bank,  and  behind  a 

screen  of  palmettos, 
So  that  they  saw  not  the  boat,  where  it  lay 

concealed  in  the  willows  ; 
All  undisturbed  by  the  dash  of  their  oars, 

and  unseen,  were  the  sleepers. 
Angel  of  God  was  there  none  to  awaken 

the  slumbering  maiden. 
Swiftly  they  glided  away,  like  the  shade  of 

a  cloud  on  the  prairie. 
After  the  sound  of  their  oars  on  the  tholes 

had  died  in  the  distance, 
As  from  a  magic  trance  the  sleepers  awoke, 

and  the  maiden 
Said  with  a  sigh  to  the  friendly  priest,  "  O 

Father  Felician  ! 
Something  says  in  my  heart  that  near  me 

Gabriel  wanders. 
Is  it  a  foolish  dream,  an  idle  and  vague 

superstition  ? 
Or  has  an  angel  passed,  and  revealed  the 

truth  to  my  spirit  ?  " 
Then,  with  a  blush,  she  added,  "  Alas  for 

my  credulous  fancy  ! 
Unto  ears  like  thine  such  words  as  these 

have  no  meaning." 
But  made  answer  the  reverend  man,  and 

he  smiled  as  he  answered,  — 


88 


EVANGELINE 


"  Daughter,  thy  words  are  not  idle  ;  nor  are 

they  to  ine  without  meaning. 
\  Feeling  is  deep  and  still ;    and  the  word 

that  floats  on  the  surface 
Is  as  the  tossing  buoy,  that  betrays  where 

the  anchor  is  hidden. 
Therefore  trust  to  thy  heart,  and  to  what 

the  world  calls  illusions^ 
Gabriel  truly  is  near  thee  ;  for  not  far  away 

to  the  southward, 
On  the  banks  of  the  Teche,  are  the  towns 

of  St.  Maur  and  St.  Martin. 
There  the  long-wandering  bride   shall  be 

given  again  to  her  bridegroom, 
There   the   long-absent   pastor  regain   his 

flock  and  his  sheepfold. 
Beautiful  is  the  land,  with  its  prairies  and 

forests  of  fruit-trees  ; 
Under  the  feet  a  garden  of  flowers,  and  the 

bluest  of  heavens 
Bending  above,  and  resting  its  dome  on  the 

walls  of  the  forest. 
They  who  dwell  there  have  named  it  the 

Eden  of  Louisiana  ! " 

With  these  words  of  cheer  they  arose  and 
p.  continued  their  journey. 

I  Softly   the  evening  came.     The  sun  from 

the  western  horizon 
Like  a  magician  extended  his  golden  wand 

o'er  the  landscape  ; 
Twinkling  vapors  arose  ;  and  sky  and  water 

and  forest 
Seemed  all  on  fire  at  the  touch,  and  melted 

and  mingled  together.] 
Hanging  between  two  skies,  a  cloud  with 

edges  of  silver, 
Floated  the  boat,  with  its  dripping  oars,  on 

the  motionless  water. 

Filled   was  Evangeline's  heart   with  inex 
pressible  sweetness. 
Touched   by   the   magic  spell,  the   sacred 

fountains  of  feeling 
Glowed  with  the  light  of  love,  as  the  skies 

and  waters  around  her. 
Then  from  a  neighboring  thicket  the  mock 
ing-bird,  wildest  of  singers, 
Swinging  aloft  on  a  willow  spray  that  hung 

o'er  the  water, 
Shook  from  his  little  throat  such  floods  of 

delirious  music, 
That   the    whole   air   and   the   woods  and 

the  waves  seemed  silent  to  listen. 
Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones  and  sad  : 

then  soaring  to  madness 


Seemed  they  to  follow  or  guide  the  revel 

of  frenzied  Bacchantes. 
Single  notes  were  then  heard,  in  sorrowful, 

low  lamentation  ; 
Till,    having  gathered   them   all,  he  flung 

them  abroad  in  derision, 
As  when,  after   a  storm,  a  gust   of   wind 

through  the  tree-tops 
Shakes  down  the  rattling  rain  in  a  crystal 

shower  on  the  branches. 
With  such  a  prelude  as   this,   and   hearts 

that  throbbed  with  emotion, 
Slowly    they  entered  the  Teche,  where  it 

flows  through  the  green  Opelousas, 
And,   through  the   amber  air,   above   the 

crest  of  the  woodland, 
Saw  the  column  of  smoke  that  arose  from 

a  neighboring  dwelling  ;  — 
Sounds  of  a  horn  they  heard,  and  the  dis 
tant  lowing  of  cattle. 

Ill 

Near  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  o'ershad- 
owed  by  oaks,  from  whose  branches 

Garlands  of  Spanish  moss  and  of  mystic 
mistletoe  flaunted, 

Such  as  the  Druids  cut  down  with  golden 
hatchets  at  Yule-tide, 

Stood,  secluded  and  still,  the  house  of  the 
herdsman.  A  garden 

Girded  it  round  about  with  a  belt  of  luxuri 
ant  blossoms, 

Filling  the  air  with  fragrance.  The  house 
itself  was  of  timbers 

Hewn  from  the  cypress-tree,  and  carefully 
fitted  together. 

Large  and  low  was  the  roof;  and  on  slender 
columns  supported, 

Rose- wreathed,  vine-encircled,  a  broad  and 
spacious  veranda, 

Haunt  of  the  humming-bird  and  the  bee, 
extended  around  it. 

At  each  end  of  the  house,  amid  the  flowers 
of  the  garden, 

Stationed  the  dove-cots  were,  as  love's  per 
petual  symbol, 

Scenes  of  endless  wooing,  and  endless  con 
tentions  of  rivals. 

Silence  reigned  o'er  the  place.  The  line  of 
shadow  and  sunshine 

Ran  near  the  tops  of  the  trees  ;  but  the 
house  itself  was  in  shadow, 

And  from  its  chimney-top,  ascending  and 
slowly  expanding 


EVANGELINE 


89 


Into  the  evening  air,  a  thin  blue  column  of 
smoke  rose. 

In  the  rear  of  the  house,  from  the  garden 
gate,  ran  a  pathway 

Through  the  great  groves  of  oak  to  the 
skirts  of  the  limitless  prairie, 

Into  whose  sea  of  flowers  the  sun  was 
slowly  descending. 

Full  in  his  track  of  light,  like  ships  with 
shadowy  canvas 

Hanging  loose  from  their  spars  in  a  motion 
less  calm  in  the  tropics, 

Stood  a  cluster  of  trees,  with  tangled  cord 
age  ^of  grape-vines. 

1  'I 

Just  where  the  woodlands  met  the  flowery 
surf  of  the  prairie, 

Mounted  upon  his  horse,  with  Spanish  sad 
dle  and  stirrups, 

Sat  a  herdsman,  arrayed  in  gaiters  and 
doublet  of  deerskin. 

Broad  and  brown  was  the  face  that  from 
under  the  Spanish  sombrero 

Gazed  on  the  peaceful  scene,  with  the 
lordly  look  of  its  master. 

Round  about  him  were  numberless  herds 
of  kine,  that  were  grazing 

Quietly  in  the  meadows,  and  breathing  the 
vapory  freshness 

That  uprose  from  the  river,  and  spread 
itself  over  the  landscape. 

Slowly  lifting  the  horn  that  hung  at  his  side, 
and  expanding 

Fully  his  broad,  deep  chest,  he  blew  a  blast, 
that  resounded 

Wildly  and  sweet  and  far,  through  the  still 
damp  air  of  the  evening. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  grass  the  long  white 
horns  of  the  cattle 

Rose  like  flakes  of  foam  on  the  adverse  cur 
rents  of  ocean. 

Silent  a  moment  they  gazed,  then  bellow 
ing  rushed  o'er  the  prairie, 

And  the  whole  mass  became  a  cloud,  a 
shade  in  the  distance. 

Then,  as  the  herdsman  turned  to  the 
house,  through  the  gate  of  the  gar 
den 

Saw  he  the  forms  of  the  priest  and  the 
maiden  advancing  to  meet  him. 

Suddenly  down  from  his  horse  he  sprang 
in  amazement,  and  forward 

Rushed  with  extended  arms  and  exclama 
tions  of  wonder  ; 


When  they  beheld  his  face,  they  recognized 

Basil  the  blacksmith. 
Hearty   his   welcome    was,    as  he  led   his 

guests  to  the  garden. 
There    in  an  arbor   of   roses  with  endless 

question  and  answer 
Gave  they  vent  to  their  hearts,  and  renewed 

their  friendly  embraces, 
Laughing  and  weeping  by  turns,  or  sitting 

silent  and  thoughtful. 
Thoughtful,  for  Gabriel  came  not  ;  and  now 

dark  doubts  and  misgivings 
Stole  o'er   the  maiden's  heart  ;  and  Basil, 

somewhat  embarrassed, 
Broke  the  silence  and  said,  "  If  you  came 

by  the  Atchafalaya, 
How  have   you   nowhere   encountered  my 

Gabriel's  boat  on  the  bayous  ?  " 
Over  Evangeline's   face  at   the    words   of 

Basil  a  shade  passed. 
Tears  came   into   her   eyes,  and  she  said, 

with  a  tremulous  accent, 
"  Gone  ?  is  Gabriel  gone  ?  "  and,  conceal 
ing  her  face  on  his  shoulder, 
All  her  o'erburdened  heart  gave  way,  and 

she  wept  and  lamented. 
Then  the  good  Basil  said,  —  and  his  voice 

grew  blithe  as  he  said  it,  — 
"  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  child  ;  it  is  only  to 
day  he  departed. 
Foolish  boy  !  he  has  left  me  alone  with  my 

herds  and  my  horses. 
Moody  and  restless  grown,  and  tried  and 

troubled,  his  spirit 
Could   no  longer  endure  the  calm  of  this 

quiet  existence, 

Thinking  ever  of  thee,  uncertain  and  sor 
rowful  ever, 
Ever  silent,  or  speaking  only  of  thee  and  his 

troubles, 
He  at  length  had  become  so  tedious  to  men 

and  to  maidens, 

Tedious   even  to  me,  that  at  length  I  be 
thought  me,  and  sent  him 
Unto  the  town  of  Adayes  to  trade  for  mules 

with  the  Spaniards. 
Thence  he  will  follow  the  Indian  trails  to 

the  Ozark  Mountains, 
Hunting  for  furs  in  the  forests,  on  rivers 

trapping  the  beaver. 
Therefore  be  of  good  cheer  ;  we  will  follow 

the  fugitive  lover  ; 
He  is  not  far  on  his  way,  and  the  Fates  and 

the  streams  are  against  him. 


EVANGELINE 


Up  and  away  to-morrow,  and  through  the 

red  dew  of  the  morning 
We  will   follow  him  fast,  and  bring   him 

back  to  his  prison." 

Then  glad  voices  were  heard,  and  up 
from  the  banks  of  the  river, 

Borne  aloft  on  his  comrades'  arms,  came 
Michael  the  fiddler. 

Long  under  Basil's  roof  had  he  lived  like  a 
god  on  Olympus, 

Having  no  other  care  than  dispensing 
music  to  mortals. 

Far  renowned  was  he  for  his  silver  locks 
and  his  fiddle. 

"Long  live  Michael,"  they  cried,  "our 
brave  Acadian  minstrel !  " 

As  they  bore  him  aloft  in  triumphal  pro 
cession  ;  and  straightway 

Father  Felician  advanced  with  Evangeline, 
greeting  the  old  man 

Kindly  and  oft,  and  recalling  the  past, 
while  Basil,  enraptured, 

Hailed  with  hilarious  joy  his  old  compan 
ions  and  gossips, 

Laughing  loud  and  long,  and  embracing 
mothers  and  daughters. 

Much  they  marvelled  to  see  the  wealth  of 
the  ci-devant  blacksmith, 

All  his  domains  and  his  herds,  and  his  pa 
triarchal  demeanor  ; 

Much  they  marvelled  to  hear  his  tales  of 
the  soil  and  the  climate, 

And  of  the  prairies,  whose  numberless  herds 
were  his  who  would  take  them  ; 

Each  one  thought  in  his  heart,  that  he,  too, 
would  go  and  do  likewise. 

Thus  they  ascended  the  steps,  and  crossing 
the  breezy  veranda, 

Entered  the  hall  of  the  house,  where  al 
ready  the  supper  of  Basil 

Waited  his  late  return  ;  and  they  rested 
and  feasted  together. 

Over  the  joyous  feast  the  sudden  dark 
ness  descended. 

All  was  silent  without,  and,  illuming  the 
landscape  with  silver, 

Fair  rose  the  dewy  moon  and  the  myriad 
stars  ;  but  within  doors, 

Brighter  than  these,  shone  the  faces  of 
friends  in  the  glimmering  lamp 
light. 

Then  from  his  station  aloft,  at  the  head  of 
the  table,  the  herdsman 


Poured  forth  his  heart  and  his  wine  to 
gether  in  endless  profusion. 

Lighting  his  pipe,  that  was  filled  with  sweet 
Natchitoches  tobacco, 

Thus  he  spake  to  his  guests,  who  listened, 
and  smiled  as  they  listened  :  — 

"  Welcome  once  more,  my  friends,  who 
long  have  been  friendless  and  home 
less, 

Welcome  once  more  to  a  home,  that  is 
better  perchance  than  the  old  one  ! 

Here  no  hungry  winter  congeals  our  blood 
like  the  rivers  ; 

Here  no  stony  ground  provokes  the  wrath 
of  the  farmer. 

Smoothly  the  ploughshare  runs  through 
the  soil,  as  a  keel  through  the  wa 
ter. 

All  the  year  round  the  orange-groves  are 
in  blossom  ;  and  grass  grows 

More  in  a  single  night  than  a  whole  Cana 
dian  summer. 

Here,  too,  numberless  herds  run  wild  and 
unclaimed  in  the  prairies  ; 

Here,  too,  lands  may  be  had  for  the  asking, 
and  forests  of  timber 

With  a  few  blows  of  the  axe  are  hewn  and 
framed  into  houses. 

After  your  houses  are  built,  and  your  fields 
are  yellow  with  harvests, 

No  King  George  of  England  shall  drive 
you  away  from  your  homesteads, 

Burning  your  dwellings  and  barns,  and 
stealing  your  farms  and  your 
cattle." 

Speaking  these  words,  he  blew  a  wrathful 
cloud  from  his  nostrils, 

While  his  huge,  brown  hand  came  thunder 
ing  down  on  the  table, 

So  that  the  guests  all  started  ;  and  Father 
Felician,  astounded, 

Suddenly  paused,  with  a  pinch  of  snuff 
half-way  to  his  nostrils. 

But  the  brave  Basil  resumed,  and  his 
words  were  milder  and  gayer  :  — 

"Only  beware  of  the  fever,  my  friends, 
beware  of  the  fever  ! 

For  it  is  not  like  that  of  our  cold  Acadian 
climate, 

Cured  by  wearing  a  spider  hung  round 
one's  neck  in  a  nutshell !  " 

Then  there  were  voices  heard  at  the  door, 
and  footsteps  approaching 

Sounded  upon  the  stairs  and  the  floor  of 
the  breezy  veranda. 


EVANGELINE 


It  was  the  neighboring  Creoles  and  small 

Acadian  planters, 
Who  had  been  summoned  all  to  the  house 

of  Basil  the  Herdsman. 
Merry  the  meeting  was  of   ancient  com 
rades  and  neighbors  : 
Friend   clasped  friend   in   his   arms  ;  and 

they  who  before  were  as  strangers, 
Meeting  in    exile,    became  straightway  as 

friends  to  each  other, 
Drawn  by  the  gentle  bond  of  a  common 

country  together. 
But  in  the   neighboring   hall  a  strain  of 

music,  proceeding 
From  the  accordant  strings  of   Michael's 

melodious  fiddle, 
Broke  up  all  further  speech.     Away,  like 

children  delighted, 
All    things    forgotten    beside,   they   gave 

themselves  to  the  maddening 
Whirl  of  the  giddy  dance,  as  it  swept  and 

swayed  to  the  music, 
Dreamlike,  with  beaming  eyes  and  the  rush 

of  fluttering  garments. 

Meanwhile,  apart,  at  the   head   of  the 

hall,  the  priest  and  the  herdsman 
Sat,  conversing  together  of  past  and  present 

and  future  ; 
While  Evangeline  stood  like  one  entranced, 

for  within  her 
Olden  memories  rose,  and  loud  in  the  midst 

of  the  music 
Heard  she  the  sound  of  the  sea,  and  an 

irrepressible  sadness 
Came  o'er  her  heart,  and  unseen  she  stole 

forth  into  the  garden. 
Beautiful  was  the  night.    Behind  the  black 

wall  of  the  forest, 
Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose  the 

moon.     On  the  river 
Fell  here  and  there  through  the  branches  a 

tremulous  gleam  of  the  moonlight, 
Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a  dark 
ened  and  devious  spirit. 
Nearer  and  round  about  her,  the  manifold 

flowers  of  the  garden 
Poured  out  their  souls  in  odors,  that  were 

their  prayers  and  confessions 
Unto  the  night,  as  it  went  its  way,  like  a 

silent  Carthusian. 
Fuller  of  fragrance  than  they,  and  as  heavy 

with  shadows  and  night-dews, 
Hung  the  heart  of  the  maiden.     The  calm 

and  the  magical  moonlight 


Seemed  to  inundate  her  soul  with  indefin 
able  longings, 
As,  through  the  garden-gate,  and  beneath 

the  shade  of  the  oak-trees, 
Passed  she  along  the  path  to  the  edge  of 

the  measureless  prairie. 
Silent  it  lay,  with  a  silvery  haze  upon  it, 

and  fire-flies 
Gleamed  and  floated  away  in  mingled  and 

infinite  numbers. 
Over  her  head  the  stars,  the  thoughts  of 

God  in  the  heavens, 
Shone  on  the  eyes  of  man,  who  had  ceased 

to  marvel  and  worship, 
Save  when  a  blazing  comet  was  seen  on  the 

walls  of  that  temple, 
As   if   a  hand  had  appeared  and  written 

upon  them,  "  Upharsin." 
And  the  soul  of  the  maiden,  between  the 

stars  and  the  fire-flies, 
Wandered  alone,  and  she  cried,  "  O  Gabriel! 

O  my  beloved  ! 
Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  I  cannot 

behold  thee  ? 
Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  thy  voice 

does  not  reach  me  ? 
Ah!  how  often  thy  feet  have  trod  this  path 

to  the  prairie  ! 
Ah  !  how  often  thine  eyes  have  looked  on 

the  woodlands  around  me  ! 
Ah  !  how  often  beneath  this  oak,  returning 

from  labor, 
Thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest,  and  to  dream 

of  me  in  thy  slumbers  ! 
When  shall  these  eyes  behold,  these  arms 

be  folded  about  thee  ?  " 
Loud  and  sudden  and  near  the  notes  of  a 

whippoorwill  sounded 
Like   i 


through  the  neighboring  thickets, 
Farther   and   farther  away   it  flouted  and 

dropped  into  silence. 

"  Patience  !  "  whispered  the  oaks  from  orac 
ular  caverns  of  darkness  : 
And,  from  the  moonlit  meadow,  a  sigh  re 
sponded,  "  To-morrow  ! " 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  day ;  and  all  the 

flowers  of  the  garden 
Bathed   his  shining  feet  with  their   tears, 

and  anointed  his  tresses 
With  the  delicious  balm  that  they  bore  in 

their  vases  of  crystal. 
"  Farewell !  "  said  the  priest,  as  he  stood  at 

the  shadowy  threshold ; 


EVANGELINE 


"  See  that  you  bring  us  the  Prodigal  Son 
from  his  fasting  and  famine, 

And,  too,  the  Foolish  Virgin,  who  slept  when 
the  bridegroom  was  coming." 

"  Farewell  !  "  answered  the  maiden,  and, 
smiling,  with  Basil  descended 

Down  to  the  river's  brink,  where  the  boat 
men  already  were  waiting. 

Thus  beginning  their  journey  with  morn 
ing,  and  sunshine,  and  gladness, 

Swiftly  they  followed  the  flight  of  him  who 
was  speeding  before  them, 

Blown  by  the  blast  of  fate  like  a  dead  leaf 
over  the  desert. 

Not  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  yet  the  day 
that  succeeded, 

Found  they  the  trace  of  his  course,  in  lake 
or  forest  or  river, 

Nor,  after  many  days,  had  they  found  him  ; 
but  vague  and  uncertain 

Rumors  alone  were  their  guides  through  a 
wild  and  desolate  country  ; 

Till,  at  the  little  inn  of  the  Spanish  town  of 
Adayes, 

Weary  and  worn,  they  alighted,  and  learned 
from  the  garrulous  landlord, 

That  on  the  day  before,  with  horses  and 
guides  and  companions, 

Gabriel  left  the  village,  and  took  the  road 
of  the  prairies. 

IV 

Far  in  the  West  there  lies  a  desert  land, 

where  the  mountains 
Lift,  through  perpetual  snows,  their   lofty 

and  luminous  summits. 
Down    from   their   jagged,   deep    ravines, 

where  the  gorge,  like  a  gateway, 
Opens  a  passage  rude  to  the  wheels  of  the 

emigrant's  wagon, 
Westward  the  Oregon  flows  and  the  Walle- 

way  and  Owyhee. 
Eastward,  with  devious  course,  among  the 

Wind-river  Mountains, 
Through  the    Sweet- water  Valley  precipi 
tate  leaps  the  Nebraska  ; 
And  to  the  south,  from  Fontaine-qui-bout 

and  the  Spanish  sierras, 
Fretted  with  sands  and   rocks,  and  swept 

by  the  wind  of  the  desert, 
Numberless  torrents,  with  ceaseless  sound, 

descend  to  the  ocean, 
Like  the  great  chords  of   a  harp,  in  loud 

and  solemn  vibrations. 


Spreading  between  these  streams   are  the 

wondrous,  beautiful  prairies  ; 
Billowy  bays  of  grass  ever  rolling  in  shadow 

and  sunshine, 
Bright  with  luxuriant  clusters  of  roses  and 

purple  amorphas. 
Over  them  wandered  the  buffalo  herds,  and 

the  elk  and  the  roebuck  ; 
Over  them  wandered  the  wolves,  and  herds 

of  riderless  horses  ; 
Fires  that  blast  and  blight,  and  winds  that 

are  weary  with  travel  ; 
Over  them  wander  the  scattered  tribes  of 

Ishmael's  children, 
Staining  the  desert  with  blood  ;  and  above 

their  terrible  war-trails 
Circles  and  sails  aloft,  .on  pinions  majestic, 

the  vulture, 
Like  the   implacable   soul   of    a    chieftain 

slaughtered  in  battle, 
By  invisible   stairs    ascending  and   scaling 

the  heavens. 
Here  and  there  rise  smokes  from  the  camps 

of  these  savage  marauders  ; 
Here  and  there  rise  groves  from  the  mar 
gins  of  swift-running  rivers  ; 
And  the  grim,  taciturn  bear,  the  anchorite 

monk  of  the  desert, 
Climbs  down  their  dark  ravines  to  dig  for 

roots  by  the  brook-side, 
And  over  all  is  the  sky,  the  clear  and  crys 
talline  heaven, 
Like  the  protecting  hand  of  God  inverted 

above  them. 

Into  this  wonderful  land,  at  the  base  of 

the  Ozark  Mountains, 
Gabriel  far  had  entered,  with  hunters  and 

trappers  behind  him. 
Day  after  day,  with  their  Indian  guides,  the 

maiden  and  Basil 
Followed  his  flying  steps,  and  thought  each 

day  to  o'ertake  him. 
Sometimes  they  saw,  or  thought  they  saw, 

the  smoke  of  his  camp-fire 
Rise  in  the  morning  air  from  the  distant 

plain  ;  but  at  nightfall, 
When    they   had   reached   the   place   they 

found  only  embers  and  ashes. 
And,  though  their  hearts  were  sad  at  times 

and  their  bodies  were  weary, 
Hope  still  guided  them  on,    as  the   magic 

Fata  Morgana 

Showed  them  her  lakes  of    light,  that  re 
treated  and  vanished  before  them. 


EVANGELINE 


93 


Once,  as  they  sat  by  their  evening  fire, 

there  silently  entered 
Into  their   little  camp  an  Indian  woman, 

whose  features 
Wore  deep  traces  of  sorrow,  and  patience 

as  great  as  her  sorrow. 
She  was  a  Shawnee  woman  returning  home 

to  her  people, 
From   the  far-off   hunting-grounds  of  the 

cruel  Camanches, 
Where  her  Canadian  husband,  a  Coureur- 

des-Bois,  had  been  murdered. 
Touched  were   their  hearts   at    her  story, 

and  warmest   and   friendliest   wel 
come 
Gave  they,  with  words  of  cheer,  and  she 

sat  and  feasted  among  them 
On  the  buffalo-meat  and  the  venison  cooked 

on  the  embers. 
But  when  their  meal  was  done,  and  Basil 

and  all  his  companions, 
Worn  with  the  long  day's  march  and  the 

chase  of  the  deer  and  the  bison, 
Stretched  themselves  on  the  ground,  and 

slept  where  the  quivering  fire-light 
Flashed  on  their  swarthy  cheeks,  and  their 

forms  wrapped  up  in  their  blankets, 
Then  at  the  door  of  Evangeline's  tent  she 

sat  and  repeated 
Slowly,  with  soft,  low  voice,  and  the  charm 

of  her  Indian  accent, 
All  the  tale  of  her  love,  with  its  pleasures, 

and  pains,  and  reverses. 
Much  Evangeline  wept  at  the  tale,  and  to 

know  that  another 
Hapless  heart  like  her  own  had  loved  and 

had  been  disappointed. 
Moved  to  the  depths  of  her  soul  by  pity 

and  woman's  compassion, 
Yet  in  her  sorrow  pleased  that  one  who  had 

suffered  was  near  her, 

She  in  turn  related  her  love  and  all  its  dis 
asters. 
Mute  with  wonder  the  Shawnee  sat,  and 

when  she  had  ended 

Still  was  mute  ;  but  at  length,  as  if  a  mys 
terious  horror 
Passed  through  her  brain,  she  spake,  and 

repeated  the  tale  of  the  Mowis  ; 
Mowis,  the  bridegroom  of  snow,  who  won 

and  wedded  a  maiden, 
But,  when   the    morning   came,  arose  and 

passed  from  the  wigwam, 
Fading  and  melting  away  and  dissolving 

into  the  sunshine, 


Till  she  beheld  him  no  more,  though  she 
followed  far  into  the  forest. 

Then,  in  those  sweet,  low  tones,  that  seemed 
like  a  weird  incantation, 

Told  she  the  tale  of  the  fair  Lilinau,  who 
was  wooed  by  a  phantom, 

That  through  the  pines  o'er  her  father's 
lodge,  in  the  hush  of  the  twilight, 

Breathed  like  the  evening  wind,  and  whis 
pered  love  to  the  maiden, 

Till  she  followed  his  green  and  waving 
plume  through  the  forest, 

And  nevermore  returned,  nor  was  seen 
again  by  her  people. 

Silent  with  wonder  and  strange  surprise, 
Evangeline  listened 

To  the  soft  flow  of  her  magical  words,  till 
the  region  around  her 

Seemed  like  enchanted  ground,  and  her 
swarthy  guest  the  enchantress. 

Slowly  over  the  tops  of  the  Ozark  Moun 
tains  the  moon  rose, 

Lighting  the  little  tent,  and  with  a  mys 
terious  splendor 

Touching  the  sombre  leaves,  and  embracing 
and  filling  the  woodland. 

With  a  delicious  sound  the  brook  rushed 
by,  and  the  branches 

Swayed  and  sighed  overhead  in  scarcely 
audible  whispers. 

Filled  with  the  thoughts  of  love  was  Evan 
geline's  heart,  but  a  secret, 

Subtile  sense  crept  in  of  pain  and  indefinite 
terror, 

As  the  cold,  poisonous  snake  creeps  into 
the  nest  of  the  swallow. 

It  was  no  earthly  fear.  A  breath  from  the 
region  of  spirits 

Seemed  to  float  in  the  air  of  night  ;  and 
she  felt  for  a  moment 

That,  like  the  Indian  maid,  she,  too,  was 
pursuing  a  phantom. 

With  this  thought  she  slept,  and  the  fear 
and  the  phantom  had  vanished. 

Early  upon  the  morrow  the  march  was 

resumed  ;  and  the  Shawnee 
Said,  as  they  journeyed   along,  "On   the 

western  slope  of  these  mountains 
Dwells  in  his  little  village  the  Black  Robe 

chief  of  the  Mission. 
Much  he  teaches  the  people,  and  tells  them 

of  Mary  and  Jesus. 
Loud  laugh  their  hearts  with  joy,  and  weep 

with  pain,  as  they  hear  him." 


94 


EVANGELINE 


Then,  with  a  sudden  and  secret  emotion, 
Evangeline  answered, 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  Mission,  for  there  good 
tidings  await  us  !  " 

Thither  they  turned  their  steeds  ;  and  be 
hind  a  spur  of  the  mountains, 

Just  as  the  sun  went  down,  they  heard  a 
murmur  of  voices, 

And  in  a  meadow  green  and  broad,  by  the 
bank  of  a  river, 

Saw  the  tents  of  the  Christians,  the  tents 
of  the  Jesuit  Mission. 

Under  a  towering  oak,  that  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  village, 

Knelt  the  Black  Robe  chief  with  his  chil 
dren.  A  crucifix  fastened 

High  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  over 
shadowed  by  grapevines, 

Looked  with  its  agonized  face  on  the  multi 
tude  kneeling  beneath  it. 

This  was  their  rural  chapel.  Aloft,  through 
the  intricate  arches 

Of  its  aerial  roof,  arose  the  chant  of  their 
vespers, 

Mingling  its  notes  with  the  soft  susurrus 
and  sighs  of  the  branches. 

Silent,  with  heads  uncovered,  the  travellers, 
nearer  approaching, 

Knelt  on  the  swarded  floor,  and  joined  in 
the  evening  devotions. 

But  when  the  service  was  done,  and  the 
benediction  had  fallen 

Forth  from  the  hands  of  the  priest,  like  seed 
from  the  hands  of  the  sower, 

Slowly  the  reverend  man  advanced  to  the 
strangers,  and  bade  them 

Welcome  ;  and  when  they  replied,  he  smiled 
with  benignant  expression, 

Hearing  the  homelike  sounds  of  his  mother- 
tongue  in  the  forest, 

And,  with  words  of  kindness,  conducted 
them  into  his  wigwam. 

There  upon  mats  and  skins  they  reposed, 
and  on  cakes  of  the  maize-ear 

Feasted,  and  slaked  their  thirst  from  the 
water-gourd  of  the  teacher. 

Soon  was  their  story  told  ;  and  the  priest 
with  solemnity  answered :  — 

"  Not  six  suns  have  risen  and  set  since 
Gabriel,  seated 

On  this  mat  by  my  side,  where  now  the 
maiden  reposes, 

Told  me  this  same  sad  tale  ;  then  arose 
and  continued  his  journey!  " 


Soft  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  he 

spake  with  an  accent  of  kindness  ; 
But  on  Evangeline's  heart  fell  his  words  as 

in  winter  the  snow-flakes 
Fall  into  some  lone  nest  from  which  the 

birds  have  departed. 
"  Far  to  the  north  he  has  gone,"  continued 

the  priest  ;  "  but  in  autumn, 
When  the  chase  is  done,  will  return  again 

to  the  Mission." 
Then  Evangeline  said,  and  her  voice  was 

meek  and  submissive, 
"  Let  me  remain  with  thee,  for  my  soul  is 

sad  and  afflicted." 
So  seemed  it  wise  and  well  unto  all ;  and 

betimes  on  the  morrow, 
Mounting  his  Mexican  steed,  with  his  Indian 

guides  and  companions, 
Homeward  Basil  returned,  and  Evangeline 

stayed  at  the  Mission. 

Slowly,  slowly,  slowly  the  days  succeeded 

each  other,  — 
Days  and  weeks  and  months  ;  and  the  fields 

of  maize  that  were  springing 
Green  from  the  ground  when  a  stranger 

she  came,  now  waving  above  her, 
Lifted    their    slender   shafts,    with   leaves 

interlacing,  and  forming 
Cloisters  for  mendicant  crows  and  granaries 

pillaged  by  squirrels. 
Then  in  the  golden  weather  the  maize  was 

husked,  and  the  maidens 
Blushed  at  each  blood-red  ear,  for  that  be 
tokened  a  lover, 
But  at  the  crooked  laughed,  and  called  it  a 

thief  in  the  corn-field. 
Even   the    blood -red   ear    to   Evangeline 

brought  not  her  lover. 
"  Patience  !  "  the  priest  would  say  ;  "  have 

faith,    and   thy  prayer  will  be  an 
swered  ! 
Look  at  this  vigorous  plant  that  lifts  its 

head  from  the  meadow, 
See  how  its  leaves  are  turned  to  the  north, 

as  true  as  the  magnet  ; 
This  is  the  compass-flower,  that  the  finger 

of  God  has  planted 
Here  in  the  houseless  wild,  to  direct  the 

traveller's  journey 
Over  the  sea-like,  pathless,  limitless  waste 

of  the  desert. 
Such  in   the  soul  of  man   is   faith.     The 

blossoms  of  passion, 


EVANGELINE 


95 


Gay  and  luxuriant  flowers,  are  brighter  and 

fuller  of  fragrance, 
But  they  beguile  us,  and  lead  us  astray,  and 

their  odor  is  deadly. 
Only  this  humble  plant  can  guide  us  here, 

and  hereafter 
Crown  us  with  asphodel  flowers,  that  are 

wet  with  the  dews  of  nepenthe." 

So  came  the  autumn,  and  passed,  and  the 

winter,  —  yet  Gabriel  came  not  ; 
Blossomed  the  opening  spring,  and  the  notes 

of  the  robin  and  bluebird 
Sounded  sweet  upon  wold  and  in  wood,  yet 

Gabriel  came  not. 
But  on  the  breath  of  the  summer  winds  a 

rumor  was  wafted 
Sweeter  than  song  of  bird,  or  hue  or  odor 

of  blossom. 
Far  to  the  north  and  east,  it  said,  in  the 

Michigan  forests, 
Gabriel  had  his  lodge  by  the  banks  of  the 

Saginaw  River. 
And,  with  returning  guides,  that  sought  the 

lakes  of  St.  Lawrence, 
Saying  a   sad   farewell,  Evangeline   went 

from  the  Mission. 

When  over  weary  ways,  by  long  and  peril 
ous  marches, 
She  had  attained  at  length  the  depths  of 

the  Michigan  forests, 
Found  she  the  hunter's  lodge  deserted  and 

fallen  to  ruin  ! 

Thus  did  the  long  sad  years   glide  on, 
and  in  seasons  and  places 

Divers  and  distant  far  was  seen  the  wan 
dering  maiden  ;  — 

Now  in  the  Tents  of  Grace  of  the  meek 
Moravian  Missions, 

Now  in  the  noisy  camps  and  the  battle-fields 
of  the  army, 

Now  in   secluded   hamlets,  in  towns   and 
populous  cities. 

Like  a  phantom  she  came,  and  passed  away 

unremembered. 

-   (Fair  was   she   and   young,  when  in   hope 
began  the  long  journey  ; 

Faded  was  she  and  old,  when  in  disappoint 
ment  it  ended. 

Each  succeeding  year  stole  something  away 
from  her  beauty, 

Leaving  behind  it,  broader  and  deeper,  the 
gloom  and  the  shadow. '• 


Then  there  appeared  and  spread  faint 
streaks  of  gray  o'er  her  forehead, 

Dawn  of  another  life,  that  broke  o'er  her 
earthly  horizon, 

As  in  the  eastern  sky  the  first  faint  streaks, 
of  the  morning. 


In  that  delightful  land  which  is  washed  by 

the  Delaware  waters, 
Guarding   in   sylvan   shades   the   name  of 

Penn  the  apostle, 
Stands  on  the  banks  of  its  beautiful  stream 

the  city  he  founded. 
There  all  the  air  is  balm,  and  the  peach  is 

the  emblem  of  beauty, 
And  the  streets  still  reecho  the  names  of 

the  trees  of  the  forest, 
As  if  they  fain  would  appease  the  Dryads 

whose  haunts  they  molested. 
There  from  the  troubled  sea  had  Evange 
line  landed,  an  exile, 
Finding  among  the  children  of  Penn  a  home 

and  a  country. 
There  old  Rene'   Leblanc   had   died  ;   and 

when  he  departed, 
Saw  at  his  side  only  one  of  all  his  hundred 

descendants. 
Something  at  least  there  was  in  the  friendly 

streets  of  the  city, 
Something   that   spake   to  her   heart,  and 

made  her  no  longer  a  stranger  ; 
And  her  ear  was  pleased  with  the  Thee  and 

Thou  of  the  Quakers, 
For  it  recalled  the  past,  the  old  Acadian 

country, 
Where  all  men  were  equal,  and  all  were 

brothers  and  sisters. 

So,  when  the  fruitless  search,  the  disap 
pointed  endeavor, 
Ended,  to  recommence  no  more  upon  earth, 

uncomplaining, 
Thither,  as  leaves  to  the  light,  were  turned 

her  thoughts  and  her  footsteps. 
As  from  the  mountain's  top  the  rainy  mists 

of  the  morning 

Roll  away,  and  afar  we  behold  the  land 
scape  below  us, 
Sun-illumined,  with  shining  rivers  and  cities 

and  hamlets, 
So  fell  the  mists  from   her  mind,  and  she 

saw  the  world  far  below  her, 


96 


EVANGELINE 


Dark  no  longer,  but  all  illumined  with  love  ; 
and  the  pathway 

Which  she  had  climbed  so  far,  lying  smooth 
and  fair  in  the  distance. 

Gabriel  was  not  forgotten.  Within  her 
heart  was  his  image, 

Clothed  in  the  beauty  of  love  and  youth,  as 
last  she  beheld  him, 

Only  more  beautiful  made  by  his  death-like 
silence  and  absence. 

Into  her  thoughts  of  him  time  entered  not, 
for  it  was  not. 

Over  him  years  had  no  power  ;  he  was  not 
changed,  but  transfigured  ; 

He  had  become  to  her  heart  as  one  who  is 
dead,  and  not  absent  ; 

Patience  and  abnegation  of  self,  and  devo 
tion  to  others, 

This  was  the  lesson  a  life  of  trial  and  sor 
row  had  taught  her. 

So  was  her  love  diffused,  but,  like  to  some 
odorous  spices, 

Suffered  no  waste  nor  loss,  though  filling 
the  air  with  aroma. 

Other  hope  had  she  none,  nor  wish  in  life, 
but  to  follow 

Meekly,  with  reverent  steps,  the  sacred 
feet  of  her  Saviour. 

Thus  many  years  she  lived  as  a  Sister  of 
Mercy  ;  frequenting 

Lonely  and  wretched  roofs  in  the  crowded 
lanes  of  the  city, 

Where  distress  and  want  concealed  them 
selves  from  the  sunlight, 

Where  disease  and  sorrow  in  garrets  lan 
guished  neglected. 

Night  after  night,  when  the  world  was 
asleep,  as  the  watchman  repeated 

Loud,  through  the  gusty  streets,  that  all 
was  well  in  the  city, 

High  at  some  lonely  window  he  saw  the 
light  of  her  taper. 

Day  after  day,  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as 
slow  through  the  suburbs 

Plodded  the  German  farmer,  with  flowers 
and  fruits  for  the  market, 

Met  he  that  meek,  pale  face,  returning  home 
from  its  watchings. 

Then  it  came  to  pass  that  a  pestilence 

fell  on  the  city, 
Presaged  by    wondrous  signs,  and  mostly 

by  flocks  of  wild  pigeons, 
Darkening   the    sun  in    their   flight,   with 

naught  in  their  craws  but  an  acorn. 


And,  as   the  tides  of  the  sea  arise  in  the 

month  of  September, 
Flooding  some  silver  stream,  till  it  spreads 

to  a  lake  in  the  meadow, 
So  death  flooded  life,  and,  o'erflowing  its 

natural  margin, 
Spread    to    a    brackish    lake,  the    silver 

stream  of  existence. 
Wealth  had  no  power  to  bribe,  nor  beauty 

to  charm,  the  oppressor  ; 
But  all  perished  alike  beneath  the  scourge 

of  his  anger  ;  — 
Only,  alas  !    the  poor,   who    had   neither 

friends  nor  attendants, 
Crept  away  to  die  in  the  almshouse,  home 

of  the  homeless. 
Then  in  the  suburbs  it  stood,  in  the  midst 

of  meadows  and  woodlands  ;  — 
Now  the  city  surrounds  it  ;  but  still,  with 

its  gateway  and  wicket 
Meek,  in  the  midst  of  splendor,  its  humble 

walls  seemed  to  echo 
Softly  the  words  of  the  Lord  :    "  The  poor 

ye  always  have  with  you." 
Thither,  by  night  and   by  day,  came   the 

Sister  of  Mercy.     The  dying 
Looked  up  into  her  face,  and  thought,  in 
deed,  to  behold  there 

Gleams  of  celestial  light  encircle  her  fore 
head  with  splendor, 
Such  as  the  artist  paints  o'er  the  brows  of 

saints  and  apostles, 
Or  such  as  hangs  by  night  o'er  a  city  seen 

at  a  distance. 
Unto  their  eyes  it  seemed  the  lamps  of  the 

city  celestial, 
Into  whose  shining    gates    erelong    their 

spirits  would  enter. 

Thus,  on  a  Sabbath  morn,  through  the 
streets,  deserted  and  silent, 

Wending  her  quiet  way,  she  entered  the 
door  of  the  almshouse. 

Sweet  on  the  summer  air  was  the  odor  of 
flowers  in  the  garden  ; 

And  she  paused  on  her  way  to  gather  the 
fairest  among  them, 

That  the  dying  once  more  might  rejoice  in 
their  fragrance  and  beauty. 

Then,  as  she  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  cor 
ridors,  cooled  by  the  east-wind, 

Distant  and  soft  on  her  ear  fell  the  chimes 
from  the  belfry  of  Christ  Church, 

While,  intermingled  with  these,  across  the 
meadows  were  wafted 


EVANGELINE 


97 


Sounds    of    psalms,    that    were    sung    by 

the  Swedes  in  their  church  at  Wi- 

caco. 
Soft  as  descending  wings  fell  the  calm  of 

the  hour  on  her  spirit  : 
Something  within  her  said,  "  At  length  thy 

trials  are  ended  ;  " 
And,  with  light  in  her  looks,  she  entered 

the  chambers  of  sickness. 
Noiselessly   moved    about    the   assiduous, 

careful  attendants, 
Moistening  the  feverish  lip,  and  the  aching 

brow,  and  in  silence 
Closing  the  sightless  eyes  of  the  dead,  and 

concealing  their  faces, 
Where  on  their  pallets  they  lay,  like  drifts 

of  snow  by  the  roadside. 
Many  a  languid  head,  upraised  as  Evange- 

line  entered, 
Turned  on  its  pillow  of  pain  to  gaze  while 

she  passed,  for  her  presence 
Fell  on  their  hearts  like  a  ray  of  the  sun  on 

the  walls  of  a  prison. 
And,  as  she    looked  around,  she  saw  how 

Death,  the  consoler, 
Laying  his  hand  upon  many  a  heart,  had 

healed  it  forever. 
Many  familiar  forms  had  disappeared  in  the 

night  time  ; 
Vacant  their  places  were,  or  filled  already 

by  strangers. 

Suddenly,  as  if  arrested  by  fear  or  a  feel 
ing  of  wonder, 

Still  she  stood,  with  her  colorless  lips  apart, 
while  a  shudder 

Ran  through  her  frame,  and,  forgotten, 
the  flowerets  dropped  from  her  fin 
gers, 

And  from  her  eyes  and  cheeks  the  light 
and  bloom  of  the  morning. 

Then  there  escaped  from  her  lips  a  cry  of 
such  terrible  anguish, 

That  the  dying  heard  it,  and  started  up 
from  their  pillows. 

On  the  pallet  before  her  was  stretched  the 
form  of  an  old  man. 

Long,  and  thin,  and  gray  were  the  locks 
that  shaded  his  temples  ; 

But,  as  he  lay  in  the  morning  light,  his 
face  for  a  moment 

Seemed  to  assume  once  more  the  forms  of 
its  earlier  manhood  ; 

So  are  wont  to  be  changed  the  faces  of 
those  who  are  dying. 


Hot  and  red  on   his  lips  still   burned   the 

flush  of  the  fever, 
As  if  life,  like  the  Hebrew,  with  blood  had 

besprinkled  its  portals, 
That  the    Angel   of   Death  might  see  the 

sign,  and  pass  over. 
Motionless,  senseless,    dying,  he   lay,    and 

his  spirit  exhausted 

Seemed  to  be  sinking   down  through  infi 
nite  depths  in  the  darkness, 
Darkness   of   slumber   and   death,  forever 

sinking  and  sinking. 

Then  through  those  realms  of  shade,  in  mul 
tiplied  reverberations, 
Heard  he  that  cry  of  pain,  and  through  the 

hush  that  succeeded 
Whispered  a  gentle  voice,  in  accents  tender 

and  saint-like, 
"  Gabriel  !  O  my  beloved  !  "  and  died  away 

into  silence. 
Then  he  beheld,  in  a  dream,  once  more  the 

home  of  his  childhood  ; 
Green      Acadian    meadows,    with    sylvan 

rivers  among  them, 
Village,  and  mountain,  and  woodlands  ;  and, 

walking  under  their  shadow, 
As  in  the  days  of   her  youth,  Evangeline 

rose  in  his  vision. 
Tears  came  into  his  eyes  ;  and  as  slowly  he 

lifted  his  eyelids, 
Vanished  the  vision  away,  but  Evangeline 

knelt  by  his  bedside. 
Vainly  he  strove  to  whisper  her  name,  for 

the  accents  unuttered 
Died  on  his  lips,  and  their  motion  revealed 

what  his  tongue  would  have  spoken. 
Vainly  he  strove  to  rise  ;  and  Evangeline, 

kneeling  beside  him, 
Kissed  his  dying  lips,  and  laid  his  head  on 

her  bosom. 

Sweet  was  the  light  of  his  eyes  ;  but  it  sud 
denly  sank  into  darkness, 
As  when  a  lamp  is  blown  out  by  a  gust  of 

wind  at  a  casement. 

All  was  ended  now,  the  hope,  and  the 
fear,  and  the  sorrow, 

All  the  aching  of  heart,  the  restless,  unsat 
isfied  longing, 

All  the  dull,  deep  pain,  and  constant  an 
guish  of  patience  ! 

And,  as  she  pressed  once  more  the  lifeless 
head  to  her  bosom, 

Meekly  she  bowed  her  own,  and  murmured, 
"  Father,  I  thank  thee  ! " 


98 


THE   SEASIDE   AND   THE   FIRESIDE 


Still  stands  the  forest  primeval ;  but  far 
away  from  its  shadow, 

Side  by  side,  in  their  nameless  graves,  the 
lovers  are  sleeping. 

Under  the  humble  walls  of  the  little  Catho 
lic  churchyard, 

In  the  heart  of  the  city,  they  lie,  unknown 
and  unnoticed. 

Daily  the  tides  of  life  go  ebbing  and  flow 
ing  beside  them, 

Thousands  of  throbbing  hearts,  where 
theirs  are  at  rest  and  forever, 

Thousands  of  aching  brains,  where  theirs 
no  longer  are  busy, 

Thousands  of  toiling  hands,  where  theirs 
have  ceased  from  their  labors, 

Thousands  of  weary  feet,  where  theirs  have 
completed  their  journey  ! 


Still  stands  the  forest  primeval ;  but  un 
der  the  shade  of  its  branches 

Dwells  another  race,  with  other  customs 
and  language. 

Only  along  the  shore  of  the  mournful  and 
misty  Atlantic 

Linger  a  few  Acadian  peasants,  whose  fa- 
.  thers  from  exile 

Wandered  back  to  their  native  land  to  die 
in  its  bosom. 

In  the  fisherman's  cot  the  wheel  and  the 
loom  are  still  busy  ; 

Maidens  still  wear  their  Norman  caps  and 
their  kirtles  of  homespun, 

And  by  the  evening  fire  repeat  Evangeline's 
story, 

While  from  its  rocky  caverns  the  deep- 
voiced,  neighboring  ocean 

Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers 
the  wail  of  the  forest. 


THE    SEASIDE   AND   THE   FIRESIDE 


After  the  publication  of  Evangeline,  there  was  a  pe 
riod  when  Mr.  Longfellow's  mood  was  not  a  poetic  one. 
He  pleased  himself  with  writing  the  tale  of  Kavanagh, 
but  there  are  frequent  laments  in  his  diary  at  his  un 
productiveness  ;  that  the  golden  days  of  October,  usu 
ally  so  fruitful  in  verse,  faded  away  and  left  no  lines 
written  ;  that  his  growing  fame  brought  him  numberless 
interruptions,  and  that  the  routine  of  his  college  work 
was  becoming  intolerable.  Now  and  then  a  poem  came 
to  him,  and  he  even  made  headway  with  a  dramatic 
romance  of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.,  but  abandoned  the 
work  finally.  It  was  two  years  after  finishing  Evan- 
geline  before  he  had  accumulated  sufficient  material 
to  warrant  him  in  planning  a  new  volume  of  poems. 
The  Seaside  and  the  Fireside  was  published  in  Novem 
ber,  1849,  with  The  Building  of  the  Ship  as  the  leading 
piece. 

The  form  of  the  poem  was  clearly  suggested  by 
Schiller's  Song  of  the  Bell,  which  has  more  than  once 
served  poets  as  a  model.  Schiller  may  be  said  to  have 
introduced  a  new  artistic  form,  and  Mr.  Longfellow,  in 
adopting  the  general  scheme,  showed  his  apprehension 
of  its  capacity  by  the  skill  with  which  he  moved  from 
one  passage  to  another,  using  the  short  lines  to  express 
the  quicker,  more  sudden,  or  hurried  action,  the  longer 
to  indicate  lingering,  moderate  action  or  reflection. 
The  oratorical  character  of  the  poem,  so  to  speak,  has 
always  caught  the  ear,  and  it  is  interesting  to  read  in 
the  poet's  diary  shortly  after  the  publication  of  the 
book,  this  entry  :  — 

"  February  12,  1850.  In  the  evening  Mrs.  Kemble 
read  before  the  Mercantile  Library  Association,  to  an 
audience  of  more  than  three  thousand,  portions  of  As 
You  Like  It  ;  then  The  Building  of  the  Ship,  standing 
out  upon  the  platform,  book  in  hand,  trembling,  palpi 
tating,  and  weeping,  and  giving  every  word  its  true 
weight  and  emphasis.  She  prefaced  the  recital  by  a 
few  words,  to  this  effect ;  that  when  she  first  saw  the 
poem,  she  desired  to  read  it  before  a  Boston  audience  ; 


and  she  hoped  she  would  be  able  to  make  every  word 
audible  to  that  great  multitude." 

By  this  graceful  action  Mrs.  Kemble  may  well  have 
thrown  into  concrete  form  the  lines  with  which  Mr. 
Longfellow  closed  the  sonnet  commemorating  her  read 
ings,  — 

O  happy  Poet  ! .  .  . 

How  must  thy  listening  spirit  now  rejoice 

To  be  interpreted  by  such  a  voice  ! 

But  it  is  to  be  suspected  that  the  vast  multitude  was 
stirred  to  its  depths  not  so  much  by  the  artistic  com 
pleteness  of  the  rendition,  as  by  the  impassioned  burst 
with  which  the  poem  closes,  and  which  fell  upon  no 
listless  ears  hi  the  deep  agitation  of  the  eventful  year 
1850.  Mr.  Noah  Brooks  in  his  paper  on  Lincoln^s  Im 
agination  (Scribner's  Monthly,  August,  1879)  mentions 
that  he  found  the  President  one  day  attracted  by  these 
stanzas,  quoted  in  a  political  speech.  "  Knowing  the 
whole  poem,"  he  adds,  "as  one  of  my  early  exercises 
in  recitation,  I  began,  at  his  request,  with  the  descrip 
tion  of  the  launch  of  the  ship,  and  repeated  it  to  the 
end.  As  he  listened  to  the  last  lines,  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  and  his  cheeks  were  wet.  He  did  not  speak 
for  some  minutes,  but  finally  said,  with  simplicity  :  '  It 
is  a  wonderful  gift  to  be  able  to  stir  men  like  that.'  " 
Dr.  William  Everett,  in  his  remarks  before  the  Massa 
chusetts  Historical  Society,  after  the  death  of  Mr. 
Longfellow,  called  attention  to  the  striking  contrast  in 
these  spirited,  hopeful  lines  to  Horace's  timid,  trem 
ulous  0  navis. 

In  his  diary,  under  date  of  March  23,  1850,  Mr.  Long 
fellow  writes  :  "  Cast  lead  flat-irons  for  the  children,  to 
their  great  delight.  C.  in  great  and  joyous  excitement, 
which  he  showed  by  the  most  voluble  speech.  E. 
showed  his  only  in  his  eyes,  and  looked  on  in  silence. 
The  casting  was  to  them  as  grand  as  the  casting  of  a 
bell  to  grown-up  children.  Why  not  write  for  them  a 
Song  of  the  Lead  Flat-Iron  f  " 


THE   BUILDING  OF  THE   SHIP 


99 


DEDICATION 

As  one  who,  walking  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
Hears   round    about   him    voices   as   it 

darkens, 
And  seeing  not  the  forms  from  which  they 

come, 

Pauses  from  time  to  time,  and  turns  and 
hearkens  ; 

So  walking  here  in  twilight,  O  my  friends  ! 
I  hear  your  voices,  softened  by  the  dis 
tance, 

And  pause,  and  turn  to  listen,  as  each  sends 
His    words   of  friendship,  comfort,  and 
assistance. 

If  any  thought  of  mine,  or  sung  or  told, 
Has  ever  given  delight  or  consolation, 

Ye  have  repaid  me  back  a  thousand-fold, 
By  every  friendly  sign  and  salutation. 

Thanks   for  the  sympathies  that  ye    have 

shown  ! 
Thanks  for  each  kindly  word,  each  silent 

token, 

That  teaches  me,  when  seeming  most  alone, 
Friends  are  around  us,  though  no  word 
be  spoken. 

t  Kind   messages,   that  pass  from   land   to 

land  ; 
Kind  letters,  that  betray  the  heart's  deep 

history, 

In  which  we  feel  the  pressure  of  a  hand,  — 
One  touch  of  fire,  —  and  all  the  rest  is 
mysteryjl 

The  pleasant  books,  that  silently  among 
Our   household  treasures    take  familiar 

places, 
And  are  to  us  as  if  a  living  tongue 

Spake  from  the  printed  leaves  or  pictured 
faces  ! 

Perhaps  on  earth  I  never  shall  behold, 
With  eye  of  sense,  your  outward  form 

and  semblance  ; 

Therefore  to  me  ye  never  will  grow  old, 
But  live  forever  young  in  my  remem 
brance  ! 

Never  grow  old,  nor  change,  nor  pass  away  ! 
Your  gentle  voices  will  flow  on  forever, 


When  life  grows  bare  and  tarnished  with 

decay, 

As  through  a  leafless  landscape  flows  a 
river. 

Not  chance  of  birth  or  place  has  made  us 

friends, 
Being  oftentimes  of  different  tongues  and 

nations, 

But  the  endeavor  for  the  selfsame  ends, 
With  the  same  hopes,  and  fears,  and  as 
pirations. 

Therefore  I  hope  to  join  your  seaside  walk, 
Saddened,  and  mostly  silent,  with  emo 
tion  ; 

Not  interrupting  with  intrusive  talk 

The  grand,  majestic  symphonies  of  ocean. 

Therefore  I  hope,  as  no  unwelcome  guest, 
At  your  warm  fireside,  when  the  lamps 

are  lighted, 
To   have    my   place    reserved   among    the 

rest, 

Nor  stand   as  one   unsought   and   unin 
vited  ! 


BY  THE  SEASIDE 
THE  BUILDING  OF   THE   SHIP 

"  BUILD  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master  ! 

Stanch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  !  " 

The  merchant's  word 

Delighted  the  Master  heard  ; 

For  his  heart  was  in   his  work,  and   the 

heart 

Giveth  grace  unto  every  Art. 
A  quiet  smile  played  round  his  lips, 
As  the  eddies  and  dimples  of  the  tide 
Play  round  the  bows  of  ships, 
That  steadily  at  anchor  ride. 
And  with  a  voice  that  was  full  of  glee, 
He  answered,  "  Erelong  we  will  launch 
A  vessel  as  goodly,  and  strong,  and  stanch, 
As  ever  weathered  a  wintry  sea  !  " 
And  first  with  nicest  skill  and  art, 
Perfect  and  finished  in  every  part, 
A  little  model  the  Master  wrought, 
Which  should  be  to  the  larger  plan 
What  the  child  is  to  the  man, 


100 


THE   SEASIDE   AND   THE   FIRESIDE 


Its  counterpart  in  miniature  ; 
That  with  a  hand  more  swift  and  sure 
The  greater  labor  might  be  brought 
To  answer  to  his  inward  thought. 
And  as  he  labored,  his  mind  ran  o'er 
The  various  ships  that  were  built  of  yore, 
And  above  them  all,  and  strangest  of  all 
Towered  the  Great  Harry,  crank  and  tall, 
Whose  picture  was  hanging  on  the  wall, 
With  bows  and  stern  raised  high  in  air, 
And  balconies  hanging  here  and  there, 
And  signal  lanterns  and  flags  afloat, 
And  eight  round  towers,  like  those   that 

frown 

From  some  old  castle,  looking  down 
Upon  the  drawbridge  and  the  moat. 
And  he  said  with  a  smile,  "  Our  ship,  I  wis, 
Shall  be  of  another  form  than  this  1  " 
It  was  of  another  form,  indeed  ; 
Built  for  freight,  and  yet  for  speed, 
A  beautiful  and  gallant  craft  ; 
Broad  in  the  beam,  that  the  stress  of  the 

blast, 

Pressing  down  upon  sail  and  mast, 
Might  not  the  sharp  bows  overwhelm  ; 
Broad  in  the  beam,  but  sloping  aft 
With  graceful  curve  and  slow  degrees, 
That  she  might  be  docile  to  the  helm, 
And  that  the  currents  of  parted  seas, 
Closing  behind,  with  mighty  force, 
Might  aid  and  not  impede  her  course. 

In  the  ship-yard  stood  the  Master, 
With  the  model  of  the  vessel, 
That  should  laugh  at  all  disaster, 
And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  ! 

Covering  many  a  rood  of  ground, 

Lay  the  timber  piled  around  ; 

Timber  of  chestnut,  and  elm,  and  oak, 

And  scattered  here  and  there,  with  these, 

The  knarred  and  crooked  cedar  knees  ; 

Brought  from  regions  far  away, 

From  Pascagoula's  sunny  bay/ 

And  the  banks  of  the  roaring  Roanoke  ! 

Ah  !  what  a  wondrous  thing  it  is 

To  note  how  many  wheels  of  toil 

One  thought,  one  word,  can  set  in  motion  ! 

There  's  not  a  ship  that  sails  the  ocean, 

But  every  climate,  every  soil, 

Must  bring  its  tribute,  great  or  small, 

And  help  to  build  the  wooden  wall ! 

The  sun  was  rising  o'er  the  sea, 
And  long  the  level  shadows  lay, 
As  if  they,  too,  the  beams  would  be 


Of  some  great,  airy  argosy, 

Framed  and  launched  in  a  single  day. 

That  silent  architect,  the  sun, 

Had  hewn  and  laid  them  every  one, 

Ere  the  work  of  man  was  yet  begun. 

Beside  the  Master,  when  he  spoke, 

A  youth,  against  an  anchor  leaning, 

Listened,  to  catch  his  slightest  meaning. 

Only  the  long  waves,  as  they  broke 

In  ripples  on  the  pebbly  beach, 

Interrupted  the  old  man's  speech. 

Beautiful  they  were,  in  sooth, 

The  old  man  and  the  fiery  youth  ! 

The  old  man,  in  whose  busy  brain 

Many  a  ship  that  sailed  the  main 

Was  modelled  o'er  and  o'er  again  ;  — 

The  fiery  youth,  who  was  to  be 

The  heir  of  his  dexterity, 

The  heir  of  his  house,  and  his  daughter's 

hand, 
When  he   had   built   and   launched   from 

land 
What  the  elder  head  had  planned. 

"  Thus,"  said  he,  "  will  we  build  this  ship  ! 

Lay  square  the  blocks  upon  the  slip, 

And  follow  well  this  plan  of  mine. 

Choose  the  timbers  with  greatest  care  ; 

Of  all  that  is  unsound  beware  ; 

For  only  what  is  sound  and  strong 

To  this  vessel  shall  belong. 

Cedar  of  Maine  and  Georgia  pine 

Here  together  shall  combine. 

A  goodly  frame,  and  a  goodly  fame, 

And  the  UNION  be  her  name  ! 

For  the  day  that  gives  her  to  the  sea 

Shall  give  my  daughter  unto  thee  !  " 

The  Master's  word 

Enraptured  the  young  man  heard  ; 

And  as  he  turned  his  face  aside, 

With  a  look  of  joy  and  a  thrill  of  pride 

Standing  before 

Her  father's  door, 

He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride, 

The  sun  shone  on  her  golden  hair, 

And  her   cheek  was    glowing  fresh  and 

fair, 
With  the  breath  of  morn  and  the  soft  sea 

air. 

Like  a  beauteous  barge  was  she, 
Still  at  rest  on  the  sandy  beach, 
Just  jeyond  the  billow's  reach  ; 
But  he 
Was  the  restless,  seething,  stormy  sea  ! 


THE   BUILDING  OF   THE   SHIP 


101 


Ah,  how  skilful  grows  the  hand 
That  obeyeth  Love's  command  ! 
It  is  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain, 
That  to  the  highest  doth  attain, 
And  he  who  followeth  Love's  behest 
Far  excelleth  all  the  rest ! 

Thus  with  the  rising  of  the  sun 

Was  the  noble  task  begun, 

And  soon  throughout  the  ship-yard's  bounds 

Were  heard  the  intermingled  sounds 

Of  axes  and  of  mallets,  plied 

With  vigorous  arms  on  every  side  ; 

Plied  so  deftly  and  so  well, 

That,  ere  the  shadows  of  evening  fell, 

The  keel  of  oak  for  a  noble  ship, 

Scarfed  and  bolted,  straight  and  strong, 

Was  lying  ready,  and  stretched  along 

The  blocks,  well  placed  upon  the  slip. 

Happy,  thrice  happy,  every  one 

Who  sees  his  labor  well  begun, 

And  not  perplexed  and  multiplied, 

By  idly  waiting  for  time  and  tide  ! 

And  when  the  hot,  long  day  was  o'er, 

The  young  man  at  the  Master's  door 

Sat  with  the  maiden  calm  and  still, 

And  within  the  porch,  a  little  more 

Removed  beyond  the  evening  chill, 

The  father  sat,  and  told  them  tales 

Of  wrecks  in  the  great  September  gales, 

Of  pirates  coasting  the  Spanish  Main, 

And  ships  that  never  came  back  again, 

The  chance  and  change  of  a  sailor's  life, 

Want  and  plenty,  rest  and  strife, 

His  roving  fancy,  like  the  wind, 

That   nothing   can   stay  and   nothing   can 

bind, 

And  the  magic  charm  of  foreign  lands, 
With  shadows  of  palms,  and  shining  sands, 
Where  the  tumbling  surf, 
O'er  the  coral  reefs  of  Madagascar, 
Washes  the  feet  of  the  swarthy  Lascar, 
As  he  lies  alone  and  asleep  on  the  turf. 
And  the  trembling  maiden  held  her  breath 
At  the  tales  of  that  awful,  pitiless  sea, 
With  all  its  terror  and  mystery, 
The  dim,  dark  sea,  so  like  unto  Death, 
That  divides  and  yet  unites  mankind  ! 
And    whenever    the    old    man   paused,    a 

gleam 
From  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  would  awhile 

illume 

The  silent  group  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
And  thoughtful  faces,  as  in  a  dream  ; 


And  for  a  moment  one  might  mark 
What  had  been  hidden  by  the  dark, 
That  the  head  of  the  maiden  lay  at  rest, 
Tenderly,  on  the  young  man's  breast  1 

Day  by  day  the  vessel  grew, 

With  timbers  fashioned  strong  and  true, 

Stemson  and  keelson  and  sternson-knee, 

Till,  framed  with  perfect  symmetry, 

A  skeleton  ship  rose  up  to  view  ! 

And  around  the  bows  and  along  the  side 

The  heavy  hammers  and  mallets  plied, 

Till  after  many  a  week,  at  length, 

Wonderful  for  form  and  strength, 

Sublime  in  its  enormous  bulk, 

Loomed  aloft  the  shadowy  hulk  ! 

And  around  it  columns  of  smoke,  upwreath- 

ing> 

Rose  from  the  boiling,  bubbling,  seething 

Caldron,  that  glowed, 

And  overflowed 

With  the  black  tar,  heated  for  the  sheath 
ing. 

And  amid  the  clamors 

Of  clattering  hammers, 

He  who  listened  heard  now  and  then 

The  song  of  the  Master  and  his  men  :  — 

"  Build  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master, 
Stanch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 

That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  !  " 

With  oaken  brace  and  copper  band, 

Lay  the  rudder  on  the  sand, 

That,  like  a  thought,  should  have  control 

Over  the  movement  of  the  whole  ; 

And  near  it  the  anchor,  whose  giant  hand 

Would  reach  down  and  grapple  with  the 

land, 

And  immovable  and  fast 
Hold  the  great  ship  against  the  bellowing 

blast  ! 

And  at  the  bows  an  image  stood, 
By  a  cunning  artist  carved  in  wood, 
With  robes  of  white,  that  far  behind 
Seemed  to  be  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
It  was  not  shaped  in  a  classic  mould, 
Not  like  a  Nymph  or  Goddess  of  old, 
Or  Naiad  rising  from  the  water, 
But  modelled   from   the  Master's  daugh 
ter ! 

On  many  a  dreary  and  misty  night, 
'Twill  be  seen  by  the  rays  of  the  signal 
light, 


102 


THE   SEASIDE  AND   THE   FIRESIDE 


Speeding  along  through  the  rain  and  the 

dark, 

Like  a  ghost  in  its  snow-white  sark, 
The  pilot  of  some  phantom  bark, 
Guiding  the  vessel,  in  its  flight, 
By  a  path  none  other  knows  aright ! 

Behold,  at  last, 
Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 
Is  swung  into  its  place  ; 
Shrouds  and  stays 
Holding  it  firm  and  fast ! 

Long  ago, 

In  the  deer-haunted  forests  of  Maine, 
When  upon  mountain  and  plain 
Lay  the  snow, 

They  fell,  —  those  lordly  pines  ! 
Those  grand,  majestic  pines  ! 
'Mid  shouts  and  cheers 
The  jaded  steers, 
Panting  beneath  the  goad, 
Dragged  down  the  weary,  winding  road 
Those  captive  kings  so  straight  and  tall, 
To  be  shorn  of  their  streaming  hair, 
And  naked  and  bare, 
To  feel  the  stress  and  the  strain 
Of  the  wind  and  the  reeling  main, 
Whose  roar 

Would  remind  them  forevermore 
Of  their  native  forests  they  should  not  see 
again. 

And  everywhere 
The  slender,  graceful  spars 
Poise  aloft  in  the  air, 
And  at  the  mast-head, 
White,  blue,  and  red, 
A  flag  unrolls  the  stripes  and  stars. 
Ah  !  when  the  wanderer,  lonely,  friendless, 
In  foreign  harbors  shall  behold 
That  flag  unrolled, 
'T  will  be  as  a  friendly  hand 
Stretched  out  from  his  native  land, 
Filling  his  heart  with  memories  sweet  and 
endless  ! 

All  is  finished  !  and  at  length 

Has  come  the  bridal  day 

Of  beauty  and  of  strength. 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched  ! 

With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched, 

And  o'er  the  bay, 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  dight, 

The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 


The  ocean  old, 
Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled, 
Paces  restless  to  and  fro, 
Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 
His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest  ; 
And  far  and  wide, 
With  ceaseless  flow, 
His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 
He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 
There  she  stands, 
With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 
Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay, 
In  honor  of  her  marriage  day, 
Her   snow-white   signals  fluttering,  blend 
ing* 

Round  her  like  a  veil  descending, 
Ready  to  be 
The  bride  of  the  gray  old  sea. 

On  the  deck  another  bride 
Is  standing  by  her  lover's  side. 
Shadows  from  the  flags  and  shrouds, 
Like  the  shadows  cast  by  clouds, 
Broken  by  many  a  sudden  fleck, 
Fall  around  them  on  the  deck. 

The  prayer  is  said, 
The  service  read, 

The  joyous  bridegroom  bows  his  head  ; 
And  in  tears  the  good  old  Master 
Shakes  the  brown  hand  of  his  son, 
Kisses  his  daughter's  glowing  cheek 
In  silence,  for  he  cannot  speak, 
And  ever  faster 

Down  his  own  the  tears  begin  to  run. 
The  worthy  pastor  — 
The  shepherd  of  that  wandering  flock, 
That  has  the  ocean  for  its  wold, 
That  has  the  vessel  for  its  fold, 
Leaping  ever  from  rock  to  rock  — 
Spake,  with  accents  mild  and  clear, 
Words  of  warning,  words  of  cheer, 
But  tedious  to  the  bridegroom's  ear. 
He  knew  the  chart 
Of  the  sailor's  heart, 
All  its  pleasures  and  its  griefs, 
All  its  shallows  and  rocky  reefs, 
All  those  secret  currents,  that  flow 
With  such  resistless  undertow, 
And  lift  and  drift,  with  terrible  force, 
The  will  from  its  moorings  and  its  course. 
Therefore      he     spake,     and     thus     said 
he:  — 


SEAWEED 


103 


"  Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 

Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 

Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound, 

Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 

And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies, 

And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink, 

As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 

Ah  !  it  is  not  the  sea, 

It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 

Now  touching  the  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 

Ah  !  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 

Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 

We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 

The   Fortunate     Isles,  on   whose    shining 

beach 
The   sights   we    see,   and    the   sounds   we 

hear, 
Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear  !  " 

Then  the  Master, 

With  a  gesture  of  command, 

Waved  his  hand  ; 

And  at  the  word, 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard, 

All  around  them  and  below, 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

And  see  !  she  stirs  ! 

She   starts,  —  she   moves,  —  she  seems  to 

feel 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel, 
And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 
With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 
She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms  ! 

And  lo  !  from  the  assembled  crowd 

There  rose  a  shout,  prolonged  and  loud, 

That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say, 

"  Take  her,  O  bridegroom,  old  and  gray, 

Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms, 

With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms  ! " 

How  beautiful  she  is  !     How  fair 
She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  press 
Her  form  with  many  a  soft  caress 
Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care  ! 
Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O  ship  ! 


Through  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer! 
The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 
Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 
O  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 
And  safe  from  all  adversity 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be  ! 
For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 
Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust  ; 
And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still  survives  ! 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State  ! 
Sail  on,  O  UNION,  strong  and  great ! 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  ! 
We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  ! 
Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 
'T  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock  ; 
'T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 
And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 
In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 
In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 
Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea  ! 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,   our  prayers,  our 

tears, 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee,  —  are  all  with  thee  ! 


SEAWEED 

WHEN  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 

Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks 

From  Bermuda's  reefs  ;  from  edges 

Of  sunken  ledges, 
In  some  far-off,  bright  Azore  ; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador  ; 


104 


THE   SEASIDE   AND   THE   FIRESIDE 


From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 

The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides  ; 
And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas  ;  — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main  ; 
Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 

Of  sandy  beaches, 
All  have  found  repose  again. 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soul,  erelong 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 
Floats  some  fragment  of  a  song  : 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted, 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth  ; 
From  the  Hashing  surf,  whose  vision 

Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth  ; 

From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavor 

That  forever 

Wrestle  with  the  tides  of  Fate  ; 
From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating  waste  and  desolate  ;  — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 

Currents  of  the  restless  heart  ; 
Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depart. 


CHRYSAOR 

In  the  first  edition  of  The  Seaside  and  the  Fireside 
this  poem  bore  the  title  of  The  Evening  Star. 

JUST  above  yon  sandy  bar, 

As  the  day  grows  fainter  and  dimmer, 
Lonely  and  lovely,  a  single  star 

Lights  the  air  with  a  dusky  glimmer. 

Into  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Falls  the  trail  of  its  golden  splendor, 


And  the  gleam  of  that  single  star 
Is  ever  refulgent,  soft,  and  tender. 

Chrysaor,  rising  out  of  the  sea, 

Showed  thus  glorious  and  thus  emulous, 
Leaving  the  arms  of  Callirrhoe, 

Forever  tender,  soft,  and  tremulous. 

Thus  o'er  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Trailed  the  gleam  of  his  falchion  brightly; 

Is  it  a  God,  or  is  it  a  star 

That,  entranced,  I  gaze  on  nightly  ! 


THE    SECRET  OF  THE  SEA 

AH  !  what  pleasant  visions  haunt  me 

As  I  gaze  upon  the  sea  ! 
All  the  old  romantic  legends, 

All  my  dreams,  come  back  to  me. 

Sails  of  silk  and  ropes  of  sandal, 
Such  as  gleam  in  ancient  lore  ; 

And  the  singing  of  the  sailors, 
And  the  answer  from  the  shore  ! 

Most  of  all,  the  Spanish  ballad 
Haunts  me  oft,  and  tarries  long, 

Of  the  noble  Count  Arnaldos 
And  the  sailor's  mystic  song. 

Like  the  long  waves  on  a  sea-beach, 
Where  the  sand  as  silver  shines, 

With  a  soft,  monotonous  cadence, 
Flow  its  unrhymed  lyric  lines  ;  — 

Telling  how  the  Count  Arnaldos, 
With  his  hawk  upon  his  hand, 

Saw  a  fair  and  stately  galley, 
Steering  onward  to  the  land  ;  — 

How  he  heard  the  ancient  helmsman 
Chant  a  song  so  wild  and  clear, 

That  the  sailing  sea-bird  slowly 
Poised  upon  the  mast  to  hear, 

Till  his  soul  was  full  of  longing, 

And  he  cried,  with  impulse  strong, — 

"  Helmsman  !  for  the  love  of  heaven, 
Teach  me,  too,  that  wondrous  song  !  " 

"  Wouldst  thou,"  —  so  the  helmsman  an 
swered, 
"  Learn  the  secret  of  the  sea  ? 


SIR   HUMPHREY   GILBERT 


105 


Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 
Comprehend  its  mystery  !  " 

In  each  sail  that  skims  the  horizon, 
In  each  landward-blowing  breeze, 

I  behold  that  stately  galley, 
Hear  those  mournful  melodies  ; 

Till  my  soul  is  full  of  longing 

For  the  secret  of  the  sea, 
And  the  heart  of  the  great  ocean 

Sends  a  thrilling  pulse  through  me. 


TWILIGHT 


T, 


THE  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 
The  wind  blows  wild  and  free, 

And  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 

But  in  the  fisherman's  cottage 
There  shines  a  ruddier  light, 

And  a  little  face  at  the  window 
Peers  out  into  the  night. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 

As  if  those  childish  eyes 
Were  locking  into  the  darkness 

To  see  some  form  arise. 

And  a  woman's  waving  shadow 

Is  passing  to  and  fro, 
Now  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 

What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  bleak  and  wild, 

As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 
Tell  to  that  little  child  ? 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak, 

As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother 
Drive  the  color  from  her  cheekjft 


SIR   HUMPHREY   GILBERT 

SOUTHWARD  with  fleet  of  ice 
Sailed  the  corsair  Death  ; 


Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast, 

And  the  east- wind  was  his  breath. 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 

Glisten  in  the  sun  ; 
On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide, 

Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run. 

His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 

Dripped  with  silver  rain  ; 
But  where  he  passed  there  were  cast 

Leaden  shadows  o'er  the  main. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed  ; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  he  bore, 
Then,  alas  !  the  land-wind  failed. 

Alas  !  the  land-wind  failed, 
And  ice-cold  grew  the  night  ; 

And  nevermore,  on  sea  or  shore, 
Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light. 

He  sat  upon  the  deck, 

The  Book  was  in  his  hand  ; 
"  Do  not  fear  !  Heaven  is  as  near," 

He  said,  "  by  water  as  by  land  ! " 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night, 

Without  a  signal's  sound, 
Out  of  the  sea,  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 

The  moon  and  the  evening  star 
Were  hanging  in  the  shrouds  ; 

Every  mast,  as  it  passed, 

Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  clouds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize, 
At  midnight  black  and  cold  ! 

As  of  a  rock  was  the  shock  ; 

Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 

Southward  through  day  and  dark, 
They  drift  in  close  embrace, 

With  mist  and  rain,  o'er  the  open  main  ; 
Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place. 

Southward,  forever  southward, 
They  drift  through  dark  and  day  ; 

And  like  a  dream,  in  the  Gulf -Stream 
Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 


io6 


THE   SEASIDE   AND   THE   FIRESIDE 


THE    LIGHTHOUSE 

THE  rocky  ledge  runs  far  into  the  sea, 
And  on  its  outer  point,  some  miles  away, 

The  Lighthouse  lifts  its  massive  masonry, 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  of  cloud  by  day. 

Even  at  this  distance  I  can  see  the  tides, 
Upheaving,  break  unheard  along  its  base, 

A  speechless  wrath,  that  rises  and  subsides 
In  the  white  lip  and  tremor  of  the  face. 

And  as  the  evening  darkens,  lo  !  how  bright, 
Through  the  deep  purple  of  the  twilight 

air, 

Beams  forth  the  sudden  radiance  of  its  light 
With  strange,  unearthly  splendor  in  the 
glare  ! 

Not  one  alone  ;  from  each  projecting  cape 
And  perilous  reef  along  the  ocean's  verge, 

Starts  into  life  a  dim,  gigantic  shape, 
Holding  its  lantern  o'er  the  restless  surge. 

Like  the  great  giant  Christopher  it  stands 
Upon  the  brink  of  the  tempestuous  wave, 

Wading  far  out  among  the  rocks  and  sands, 
The  night-o'ertaken  mariner  to  save. 

And  the  great  ships  sail  outward  and  return, 
Bending   and   bowing   o'er   the   billowy 

swells, 
And  ever  joyful,  as  they  see  it  burn, 

They   wave   their   silent   welcomes   and 
farewells. 

They  come  forth  from  the  darkness,  and 

their  sails 

Gleam  for  a  moment  only  in  the  blaze, 
And  eager  faces,  as  the  light  unveils, 

Gaze  at  the  tower,  and  vanish  while  they 
gaze. 

The  mariner  remembers  when  a  child, 
On  his  first  voyage,  he  saw  it  fade  and 
sink  ; 

And  when,  returning  from  adventures  wild, 
He  saw  it  rise  again  o'er  ocean's  brink. 

Steadfast,  serene,  immovable,  the  same 
Year  after  year,  through  all  the  silent 
night 

Burns  on  f  orevermore  that  quenchless  flame, 
Shines  on  that  inextinguishable  light  ! 


It  sees  the  ocean  to  its  bosom  clasp 

The  rocks  and  sea-sand  with  the  kiss  of 
peace  ; 

It  sees  the  wild  winds  lift  it  in  their  grasp, 
And  hold  it  up,  and  shake  it  like  a  fleece. 

The  startled  waves  leap  over  it  ;  the  storm 
Smites  it  with  all  the  scourges  of  the  rain, 

And  steadily  against  its  solid  form 

Press  the  great  shoulders  of  the  hurri 
cane. 

The  sea-bird  wheeling  round  it,  with  the 

din 

Of  wings  and  winds  and  solitary  cries, 
Blinded  and  maddened  by  the  light  within, 
Dashes   himself   against  the   glare,  and 
dies. 

A  new  Prometheus,  chained  upon  the  rock, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  the  fire  of  Jove, 

It   does   not   hear   the   cry,  nor  heed  the 

shock, 
But  hails  the  mariner  with  words  of  love. 

"Sail  on!"  it  says,    "sail  on,  ye  stately 

ships  ! 
And  with  your  floating  bridge  the  ocean 

span  ; 

Be  mine  to  guard  this  light  from  all  eclipse, 
Be    yours   to   bring    man    nearer    unto 
man  !  " 


THE   FIRE    OF  DRIFT-WOOD 


DEVEREUX  FARM,  NEAR  MARBLEHEAD 

"September  29,  1846.  A  delicious  drive  with  F. 
through  Maiden  and  Lynn  to  Marblehead,  to  visit  E. 
W.  at  the  Devereux  Farm  by  the  sea-side.  Drove 
across  the  beautiful  sand.  What  a  delicious  scene ! 
The  ocean  in  the  sunshine  changing  from  the  silvery 
hue  of  the  thin  waves  upon  the  beach,  through  the 
lighter  and  the  deeper  green,  to  a  rich  purple  in  the 
horizon.  We  recalled  the  times  past,  and  the  days 
when  we  were  at  Nahant.  The  Devereux  Farm  is 
by  the  sea,  some  miles  from  Lynn.  An  old-fashioned 
farm-house,  with  low  rooms,  and  narrow  windows 
rattling  in  the  sea-breeze."  From  this  visit  sprang  the 
poem  that  follows.  In  a  letter  in  1879  to  a  correspond 
ent  who  had  raised  a  matter-of-fact  objection,  Mr.  Long 
fellow  readily  admitted  that  the  harbor  and  lighthouse, 
which  he  visited  the  same  day,  could  not  be  seen  from 
the  windows  of  the  f  arm-house. 

WE  sat  within  the  farm-house  old, 
Whose  windows,  looking  o'er  the  bay, 

Gave  to  the  sea-breeze  damp  and  cold 
An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 


RESIGNATION 


107 


Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port, 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town, 
The  lighthouse,  the  dismantled  fort, 

The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 

We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room  ; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight, 
Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 

We  spake  of  many  a  vanished  scene, 
Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been, 
And   who   was   changed,   and   who  was 
dead ,; 

/And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends, 

When  first  they  feel,  with  secret  pain, 
Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  ends, 
And  never  can  be  one  again  ^ 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart, 
That  words  are  powerless  to  express, 

And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 
Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 

^The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 

Had    something    strange,    I   could    but 

mark  ; 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A  mournful  rustling  in  the  dark.y 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips, 
As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 

Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships, 
The  flames  would  leap  and  then  expire. 

And,  as  their  splendor  flashed  and  failed, 
We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main, 

Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. 

The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames, 
The  ocean,  roaring  up  the  beach, 

The  gusty  blast,  the  bickering  flames, 
All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech  ; 

Until  they  made  themselves  a  part 
Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain, 

The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 
That  send  no  answers  back  again. 

f  O  flames    that    glowed !     O    hearts   that 

yearned  ! 
They  were  indeed  too  much  akin, 


The  drift-wood  fire  without  that  burned, 
The   thoughts   that  burned  and    glowed 
within.  \ 

BY  THE   FIRESIDE 
RESIGNATION 

Written  in  the  autumn  of  1848,  after  the  death  of  his 
little  daughter  Fanny.  There  is  a  passage  in  the  poet's 
diary,  under  date  of  November  12,  in  which  he  says  : 
' '  I  feel  very  sad  to-day.  I  miss  very  much  my  dear  lit 
tle  Fanny.  An  inappeasable  longing  to  see  her  comes 
over  me  at  times,  which  I  can  hardly  control." 

THERE  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and 
tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient  !    These  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and 
vapors  ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is   no   Death  !     What  seems   so   is 
transition  ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead,  —  the  child  of  our  affec 
tion,  — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  pro 
tection, 
And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclu 
sion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollu 
tion, 
She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 


roS 


THE   SEASIDE   AND   THE   FIRESIDE 


Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air  ; 
Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk   with  her,  and  keep  un 
broken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking    that   our   remembrance,  though 

unspoken, 
May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her  ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child  ; 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the 
ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


THE    BUILDERS 

ALL  are  architects  of  Fate, 

Working  in  these  walls  of  Time  ; 

Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is,  or  low  ; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best  ; 
And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise, 
Time  is  with  materials  filled  ; 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 

Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

Truly  shape  and  fashion  these  ; 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between  ; 
Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 

Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 


In  the  elder  days  of  Art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 
Each  minute  and  unseen  part  ; 

For  the  Gods  see  everywhere. 

Let  us  do  our  work  as  well, 
Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen  ; 

Make  the  house,  where  Gods  may  dwell, 
Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean. 

Else  our  lives  are  incomplete, 
Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 

Broken  stairways,  where  the  feet 
Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 

Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure, 
With  a  firm  and  ample  base  ; 

And  ascending  and  secure 

Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place. 

Thus  alone  can  we  attain 

To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 

Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain, 
And  one  boundless  reach  of  sky. 


SAND    OF    THE    DESERT    IN    AN 
HOUR-GLASS 

A   HANDFUL  of   red   sand, .  from   the  hot 
clime 

Of  Arab  deserts  brought, 
Within  this  glass  becomes  the  spy  of  Time, 

The  minister  of  Thought. 

How  many  weary  centuries  has  it  been 

About  those  deserts  blown  ! 
How  many  strange  vicissitudes  has  seen, 

How  many  histories  known  ! 

Perhaps  the  camels  of  the  Ishmaelite 
Trampled  and  passed  it  o'er, 

When  into  Egypt  from  the  patriarch's  sight 
His  favorite  son  they  bore. 

Perhaps  the  feet  of  Moses,  burnt  and  bare, 
Crushed  it  beneath  their  tread, 

Or  Pharaoh's  flashing  wheels  into  the  air 
Scattered  it  as  they  sped  ; 

Or  Mary,  with  the  Christ  of  Nazareth 

Held  close  in  her  caress, 
Whose  pilgrimage   of  hope  and  love   and 
faith 

Illumed  the  wilderness  ; 


KING   WITLAF'S    DRINKING-HORN. 


109 


Or  anchorites  beneath  Engaddi's  palms 

Pacing  the  Dead  Sea  beach, 
And  singing  slow  their  old  Armenian  psalms 

In  half-articulate  speech  ; 

Or  caravans,  that  from  Bassora's  gate 
With  westward  steps  depart ; 

Or  Mecca's  pilgrims,  confident  of  Fate, 
And  resolute  in  heart  ! 

These  have  passed  over  it,  or  may  have 
passed  ! 

Now  in  this  crystal  tower 
Imprisoned  by  some  curious  hand  at  last, 

It  counts  the  passing  hour. 

And   as  I  gaze,   these    narrow  walls   ex 
pand  ;  — 

Before  my  dreamy  eye 
Stretches  the  desert  with  its  shifting  sand, 

Its  unimpeded  sky. 

And  borne  aloft  by  the  sustaining  blast, 

This  little  golden  thread 
Dilates  into  a  column  high  and  vast, 

A  form  of  fear  and  dread. 

And  onward,  and  across  the  setting  sun, 

Across  the  boundless  plain, 
The  column  and  its  broader  shadow  run, 

Till  thought  pursues  in  vain. 

The  vision  vanishes  !     These  walls  again 

Shut  out  the  lurid  sun, 
Shut  out  the  hot,  immeasurable  plain  ; 

The  half-hour's  sand  is  run  1 


THE   OPEN   WINDOW 

The  old  house  by  the  lindens  is  what  was  known  as  the 
Lechmere  house  which  formerly  stood  on  Brattle  Street, 
corner  of  Sparks  Street,  in  Cambridge.  It  was  in  this 
house  that  Baron  Riedesel  was  quartered  as  prisoner  of 
war  after  the  surrender  of  Burgoyne,  and  the  window- 
pane  used  to  be  shown  on  which  the  Baroness  wrote 
her  namo  with  a  diamond. 

THE  old  house  by  the  lindens 

Stood  silent  in  the  shade, 
And  on  the  gravelled  pathway 

The  light  and  shadow  played. 

I  saw  the  nursery  windows 

Wide  open  to  the  air  ; 
But  the  faces  of  the  children, 

They  were  no  longer  there. 


The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 
\Vas  standing  by  the  door  ; 

He  looked  for  his  little  playmates, 
Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindens, 
They  played  not  in  the  hall  ; 

But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness 
Were  hanging  overall. 

The  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 
With  sweet,  familiar  tone  ; 

But  the  voices  of  the  children 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone  ! 

And  the  boy  that  walked  beside  me, 

He  could  not  understand 
Why  closer  in  mine,  ah  !  closer, 

I  pressed  his  warm,  soft  hand  ! 


KING    WITLAF'S    DRINKING- 
HORN 

"  September  30, 1848.  Worked  upon  Kavanagh  all 
the  morning ;  and  wound  up  with  King  Witlafs 
Drmking-Horn,  which  I  painted  with  a  sweep  of  the 
pencil  just  before  dinner." 

WITLAF,  a  king  of  the  Saxons, 
Ere  yet  his  last  he  breathed, 

To  the  merry  monks  of  Croyland 
His  drinking-horn  bequeathed,  — 

That,  whenever  they  sat  at  their  revels, 
And  drank  from  the  golden  bowl, 

They  might  remember  the  donor, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  for  his  soul. 

So  sat  they  once  at  Christmas, 

And  bade  the  goblet  pass  ; 
In  their  beards  the  red  wine  glistened 

Like  dew-drops  in  the  grass. 

They  drank  to  the  soul  of  Witlaf , 
They  drank  to  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  to  each  of  the  Twelve  Apostles, 
Who  had  preached  his  holy  word. 

They  drank  to  the  Saints  and  Martyrs 

Of  the  dismal  days  of  yore, 
And  as  soon  as  the  horn  was  empty 

They  remembered  one  Saint  more. 

And  the  reader  droned  from  the  pulpit, 
Like  the  murmur  of  many  bees, 


110 


THE   SEASIDE   AND   THE   FIRESIDE 


The  legend  of  good  Saint  Guthlac, 
And  Saint  Basil's  homilies  ; 

Till  the  great  bells  of  the  convent, 
From  their  prison  in  the  tower, 

Guthlac  and  Bartholomseus, 
Proclaimed  the  midnight  hour. 

And  the  Yule-log  cracked  in  the  chimney, 
And  the  Abbot  bowed  his  head, 

And  the  flamelets  flapped  and  flickered, 
But  the  Abbot  was  stark  and  dead. 

Yet  still  in  his  pallid  fingers 
He  clutched  the  golden  bowl, 

In  which,  like  a  pearl  dissolving, 
Had  sunk  and  dissolved  his  soul. 

But  not  for  this  their  revels 

The  jovial  monks  forbore, 
For  they  cried,  "  Fill  high  the  goblet ! 

We  must  drink  to  one  Saint  more  !  " 


CASPAR  BECERRA 

This  poem  appears  to  have  been  suggested  by  a  pas 
sage  in  Sterling's  Spanish  Painters,  which  Mr.  Long 
fellow  was  reaclirg  at  the  time  with  great  pleasure.  He 
had  some  thought  of  writing  a  drama  based  on  Ster 
ling's  account  of  Murillo's  life  in  Seville. 

BY  his  evening  fire  the  artist 
Pondered  o'er  his  secret  shame  ; 

Baffled,  weary,  and  disheartened, 

Still  he  mused,  and  dreamed  of  fame. 

'T  was  an  image  of  the  Virgin 
That  had  tasked  his  utmost  skill  ; 

But,  alas  !  his  fair  ideal 

Vanished  and  escaped  him  still. 

From  a  distant  Eastern  island 

Had  the  precious  wood  been  brought  ; 

Day  and  night  the  anxious  master 
At  his  toil  untiring  wrought  ; 

Till,  discouraged  and  desponding, 

Sat  he  now  in  shadows  deep, 
And  the  day's  humiliation 

Found  oblivion  in  sleep. 

Then  a  voice  cried,  "  Rise,  O  master  ! 

From  the  burning  brand  of  oak 
Shape  the  thought  that  stirs  within  thee  ! "  — 

And  the  startled  artist  woke,  — 


Woke,  and  from  the  smoking  embers 

Seized  and  quenched  the  glowing  wood  ; 

And  therefrom  he  carved  an  image, 
And  he  saw  that  it  was  good. 

O  thou  sculptor,  painter,  poet ! 

Take  this  lesson  to  thy  heart : 
That  is  best  which  lieth  nearest  ; 

Shape  from  that  thy  work  of  art. 


PEGASUS  IN  POUND 

Written  as  proem  to  The  Estray,  a  collection  of  poems 
edited  by  Mr.  Longfellow. 

ONCE  into  a  quiet  village, 

Without  haste  and  without  heed, 

In  the  golden  prime  of  morning, 
Strayed  the  poet's  winged  steed. 

It  was  Autumn,  and  incessant 

Piped  the  quails  from  shocks  and  sheaves, 
And,  like  living  coals,  the  apples 

Burned  among  the  withering  leaves. 

Loud  the  clamorous  bell  was  ringing 
From  its  belfry  gaunt  and  grim  ; 

'T  was  the  daily  call  to  labor, 
Not  a  triumph  meant  for  him. 

Not  the  less  he  saw  the  landscape, 

In  its  gleaming  vapor  veiled  ; 
Not  the  less  he  breathed  the  odors 

That  the  dying  leaves  exhaled. 

Thus,  upon  the  village  common, 
By  the  school-boys  he  was  found  ; 

And  the  wise  men,  in  their  wisdom, 
Put  him  straightway  into  pound. 

Then  the  sombre  village  crier, 

Ringing  loud  his  brazen  bell, 
Wandered  down  the  street  proclaiming 

There  was  an  estray  to  sell. 

And  the  curious  country  people, 
Rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old, 

Came  in  haste  to  see  this  wondrous 
Winged  steed,  with  mane  of  gold. 

Thus  the  day  passed,  and  the  evening 
Fell,  with  vapors  cold  and  dim  ; 

But  it  brought  no  food  nor  shelter, 
Brought  no  straw  nor  stall,  for  him. 


TEGNfiR'S   DRAPA 


in 


Patiently,  and  still  expectant, 

Looked  he  through  the  wooden  bars, 

Saw  the  moon  rise  o'er  the  landscape, 
Saw  the  tranquil,  patient  stars  ; 

Till  at  length  the  bell  at  midnight 
Sounded  from  its  dark  abode, 

And,  from  out  a  neighboring  farm-yard, 
Loud  the  cock  Alectryou  crowed. 

Then,  with  nostrils  wide  distended, 
Breaking  from  his  iron  chain, 

And  unfolding  far  his  pinions, 
To  those  stars  he  soared  again. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  village 
Woke  to  all  its  toil  and  care, 

Lo  !  the  strange  steed  had  departed. 
And  they  knew  not  when  nor  where. 

But  they  found,  upon  the  greensward 
Where  his  struggling  hoofs  had  trod, 

Pure  and  bright,  a  fountain  flowing 
From  the  hoof-marks  in  the  sod. 

From  that  hour,  the  fount  unfailing 
Gladdens  the  whole  region  round, 

Strengthening  all  who  drink  its  waters, 
While  it  soothes  them  with  its  sound. 


TEGNfiR'S    DRAPA 

"  October  14,  1847.  Went  to  town,  after  finishing  a 
poem  on  Tegner's  death,  in  the  spirit  of  the  old  Norse 
poetry."  In  the  first  edition,  the  poem  bore  the  title 
Tegner's  Death.  The  word  drapa  signifies  death-song, 
or  dirge. 

I  HEARD  a  voice,  that  cried, 
"  Balder  the  Beautiful 
Is  dead,  is  dead  !  " 
And  through  the  misty  air 
Passed  like  the  mournful  cry 
Of  sunward  sailing  cranes. 

I  saw  the  pallid  corpse 

Of  the  dead  sun 

Borne  through  the  Northern  sky. 

Blasts  from  Niffelheim 

Lifted  the  sheeted  mists 

Around  him  as  he  passed. 

And  the  voice  forever  cried, 
"  Balder  the  Beautiful 
Is  dead,  is  dead  !  " 


And  died  away 

Through  the  dreary  night, 

In  accents  of  despair. 

Balder  the  Beautiful, 
God  of  the  summer  sun, 
Fairest  of  all  the  Gods  ! 
Light  from  his  forehead  beamed, 
Runes  were  upon  his  tongue, 
As  on  the  warrior's  sword. 

All  things  in  earth  and  air 
Bound  were  by  magic  spell 
Never  to  do  him  harm  ; 
Even  the  plants  and  stones  ; 
All  save  the  mistletoe, 
The  sacred  mistletoe  ! 

Hceder,  the  blind  old  God, 
Whose  feet  are  shod  with  silence, 
Pierced  through  that  gentle  breast 
With  his  sharp  spear,  by  fraud, 
Made  of  the  mistletoe, 
The  accursed  mistletoe  ! 

They  laid  him  in  his  ship, 
With  horse  and  harness, 
As  on  a  funeral  pyre. 
Odin  placed 
A  ring  upon  his  finger, 
And  whispered  in  his  ear. 

They  launched  the  burning  ship  ! 

It  floated  far  away 

Over  the  misty  sea, 

Tiy  like  the  sun  it  seemed, 

Sinking  beneath  the  waves. 

Balder  returned  no  more  ! 

So  perish  the  old  Gods  ! 
But  out  of  the  sea  of  Time 
Rises  a  new  land  of  song, 
Fairer  than  the  old. 
Over  its  meadows  green 
Walk  the  young  bards  and  sing. 

Build  it  again, 

O  ye  bards, 

Fairer  than  before  ! 

Ye  fathers  of  the  new  race, 

Feed  upon  morning  dew, 

Sing  the  new  Song  of  Love  ! 

The  law  of  force  is  dead  ! 
The  law  of  love  prevails  ! 


112 


THE   SEASIDE   AND   THE   FIRESIDE 


Thor,  the  thunderer, 
Shall  rule  the  earth  no  more, 
No  more,  with  threats, 
Challenge  the  meek  Christ. 

Sing  no  more, 
O  ye  bards  of  the  North, 
Of  Vikings  and  of  Jarls  ! 
Of  the  days  of  Eld 
Preserve  the  freedom  only, 
Not  the  deeds  of  blood  ! 


SONNET 

ON  MRS.  KEMBLE'S  READINGS  FROM 
SHAKESPEARE 

In  the  winter  of  1849  Mrs.  Fanny  Kemble  Butler  was 
reading  Shakespeare  in  Boston,  and  Mr.  Longfellow 
was  a  constant  attendant.  He  notes  in  his  diary  under 
date  of  February  20  :  "  We  did  not  go  last  night  to  hear 
Othello.  I  wrote  this  morning  a  sonnet  on  Mrs.  But 
ler's  readings."  A  week  later  the  poet  entertained 
Mrs.  Butler  after  a  reading  in  Cambridge,  and  read  his 
sonnet  at  the  close  of  the  supper. 

O  PRECIOUS  evenings  !  all  too  swiftly  sped  ! 
Leaving  us  heirs  to  amplest  heritages 
Of  all  the  best  thoughts  of  the  greatest 

sages, 
And  giving  tongues  unto  the  silent  dead  ! 

How  our  hearts  glowed  and  trembled  as  she 

read, 

Interpreting  by  tones  the  wondrous  pages 
Of  the  great  poet  who  foreruns  the  ages, 
Anticipating  all  that  shall  be  said  ! 

O  happy  Reader  !  having  for  thy  text 
The  magic  book,  whose  Sibylline  leaves 

have  caught 
The  rarest  essence  of  all  human  thought  ! 

O  happy  Poet  !  by  no  critic  vext ! 

How  must  thy  listening  spirit  now  rejoice 
To  be  interpreted  by  such  a  voice  ! 


THE   SINGERS 

"  November  6,  1849.  Wrote  The  Singers  to  show  the 
excellence  of  diffprent  kinds  of  song."  No  individual 
poets  were  intended. 

GOD  sent  his  Singers  upon  earth 
With  songs  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 
That  they  might  touch  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  bring  them  back  to  heaven  again. 

The  first,  a  youth  with  soul  of  fire, 
Held  in  his  hand  a  golden  lyre  ; 


Through    groves    he    wandered,    and    by 

streams, 
Playing  the  music  of  our  dreams. 

The  second,  with  a  bearded  face, 
Stood  singing  in  the  market-place, 
And  stirred  with  accents  deep  and  loud 
The  hearts  of  all  the  listening  crowd. 

A  gray  old  man,  the  third  and  last, 
Sang  in  cathedrals  dim  and  vast, 
While  the  majestic  organ  rolled 
Contrition  from  its  mouths  of  gold. 

And  those  who  heard  the  Singers  three 
Disputed  which  the  best  might  be  ; 
For  still  their  music  seemed  to  start 
Discordant  echoes  in  each  heart. 

But  the  great  Master  said,  "  I  see 

No  best  in  kind,  but  in  degree  ; 

I  gave  a  various  gift  to  each, 

To  charm,  to  strengthen,  and  to  teach. 

"  These  are  the  three  great  chords  of  might, 
And  he  whose  ear  is  tuned  aright 
Will  hear  no  discord  in  the  three, 
But  the  most  perfect  harmony." 


SUSPIRIA 

TAKE  them,  O  Death  !  and  bear  away 
Whatever  thou  canst  call  thine  own  ! 

Thine  image,  stamped  upon  this  clay, 
Doth  give  thee  that,  but  that  alone  ! 

Take  them,  O  Grave  !  and  let  them  lie 
Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves, 

As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by, 
And  precious  only  to  ourselves  ! 

Take  them,  O  great  Eternity  ! 

Our  little  life  is  but  a  gust 
That  bends  the  branches  of  thy  tree, 

And  trails  its  blossoms  in  the  dust ! 


HYMN 
FOR  MY  BROTHER'S  ORDINATION 

Samuel  Longfellow,  the 
February  8,  1848,  Mr. 
from  Portland.  Read 


jjoncieijow  wrote  :  B.  returned  irnrn  jrorwauu.  a.vctv« 
to  him  the  chant  I  wrote  for  his  ordination, —  a  mid 
night  thought.  He  likes  it,  and  will  have  it  sung. " 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


CHRIST  to  the  young  man  said  :  "  Yet  one 
thing  more  ; 

If  thou  vvouldst  perfect  be, 
Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  it  to  the  poor, 

And  come  and  follow  me  ! " 

Within  this  temple  Christ  again,  unseen, 

Those  sacred  words  hath  said 
And  his  invisible  hands  to-day  have  been 

Laid  on  a  young  man's  head. 

And  evermore  beside  him  on  his  way 
The  unseen  Christ  shall  move, 


That  he  may  lean  upon  his  arm  and  say, 
"  Dost  thou,  dear  Lord,  approve  ?  " 

Beside   him  at    the   marriage   feast   shall 
be, 

To  make  the  scene  more  fair  ; 
Beside  him  in  the  dark  Gethsemaue 

Of  pain  and  midnight  prayer. 

O  holy  trust !  O  endless  sense  of  rest  I 

Like  the  beloved  John 
To  lay  his  head  upon  the  Saviour's  breast, 

And  thus  to  journey  on  ! 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA      '•    < 


The  general  purpose  to  make  use  of  Indian  material 
appears  to  have  been  in  the  poet's  mind  for  some  time, 
but  the  conception  as  finally  wrought  in  Hiawatha  was 
formed  in  the  summer  of  1854.  He  writes  in  his  diary 
under  date  of  June  22,"  I  have  at  length  hit  upon  a  plan 
for  a  poem  on  the  American  Indians,  which  seems  to 
me  the  right  one  and  the  only.  It  is_to  weave  together 
thoir  beautiful  traditions  into  a  whole.  I  have  hit  upon 
a  measure,  too,  \vliich  I  think  the  right  and  only  one  for 
such  a  theme."  A  few  days  before,  he  had  been  read 
ing  with  great  delight  the  f^nnislj,e.l)ic  Kalevala,  and 
this  poem  suggested  the  measure  and  may  well  have 
reminded  him  also  of  the  Indian  legends,  which  have 
that  likeness  to  the  Finnish  that  springs  from  a  com 
mon  intellectual  stage  of  development  and  a  general 
community  of  habits  and  occupation. 

An  interest  in  the  Indians  had  long  been  felt  by  Mr. 
Longfellow,  and  in  his  early  plans  f  or -ft-ose ^ketches 
tales  about  the  Indians  had  a  place.  He  haa  seen  a 
few  of  the  struggling  remainder  of  the  Algonquins  in 
Maine,  and  had  read  Heckewelder  while  in' college;  l.e 
had  witnessed  the  spectacle  of  Black  Hawk  and  his 
Sacs  and  Foxes  on  Boston  Common ;  and  a  few  years 
before,  he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  fine-tem 
pered  Kah-ge-ga-gah-bowh,  the  Ojibway  chief,  and  had 
entertained  him  at  his  house,  trusting  not  unlikely  that 
he  might  derive  from  the  Indian  some  helpful  sugges 
tion.  His  authority  for  the  legends  and  the  material 
generally  of  his  poem  was  in  the  main  Schoolcraft's 
great,  ill-digested  work,  with  probably  the  same  au 
thor's  more  literary  composition  Algic  Researches,  and 
Heckewelder's  narrative.  He  soon  took  Manabozho's 
other  and  more  euphonic  name,  Hiawatha,  into  his  ser 
vice,  a,nd  gave  himself  up  to  a  thorough  enjoyment  of 
the  task. 

Mr.  Longfellow  began  writing  Hiawatha  June  25, 
1854.  It  was  finished  March  29,  1855,  and  published 
November  10.  It  is  doubtful  if  the  poet  wrote  any  of 
his  longer  works  with  more  abandonment,  with  more 
thorough  enjoyment  of  his  task,  with  a  keener  sense  of 
the  originality  of  his  venture,  and  by  consequence,  with 
more  perplexity  when  he  thought  of  his  readers.  He 
tried  the  poem  on  his  friends  more  freely  than  had  been 


customary  with  him,  and  with  varied  results.  His  own 
mind,  as  he  neared  the  test  of  publication,  wavered  a 
little  in  its  moods.  "  Proof  sheets  of  Hiawatha,"  he 
wrote  in  June,  1855.  "  I  am  growing  idiotic  about  this 
song,  and  no  longer  know  whether  is  good  or  bad  ;  " 
and  later  still :  "  In  great  doubt  about  a  canto  of  Hia 
watha,  —  whether  to  retain  or  suppress  it.  It  is  odd 
how  confused  one's  mind  becomes  about  such  matters 
from  long  looking  at  the  same  subject." 

No  sooner  was  the  poem  published  than  its  popularity 
was  assured,  and  it  was  subjected  to  the  most  searching 
tests.  It  was  read  by  public  readers  to  large  audiences, 
and  a  few  years  later  was  set  to  music  by  Stoepel  and 
given  at  the  Boston  Theatre  with  explanatory  read 
ings  by  Matilda  Heron.  It  was  parodied,  —  one  of  the 
surest  signs  of  popularity,  —  and  it  lived  its  parodies 
down,  a  surer  sign  still  of  intrinsic  uncopyableness.  It 
was  criticised  with  heated  words,  and  made  the  oc 
casion  for  controversy.  The  elemental  nature  of  the 
poetry  led  to  vehement  charges  of  plagiarism,  and  al 
together  the  poet  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  vio 
lent  war  of  words  which  recalled  his  experience  with 
Hyperion.  He  felt  keenly  the  unreasonableness  of  the 
attack  upon  his  honesty  in  the  charge  that  he  had 
borrowed  metre  and  incidents  both  from  the  Kalevala. 
He  made  no  secret  of  the  suggestion  of  the  metre,  — 
he  had  used  an  acknowledged  form,  which  was  not 
exclusively  Finnish  ;  and  as  for  the  legends,  he  openly 
confessed  his  indebtedness  to  Schoolcraft  in  the  notes 
to  the  poem. 

Meanwhile  the  book  hrxl  nn  unexampled  sale,  and  the 
letters  which  £Ke~poet"recefved  from  Emerson,  Haw 
thorne,  Parsons,  Taylor,  and  others  showed  the  judg 
ment  passed  upon  his  work  by  those  whose  poetic 
perception  was  not  blunted  by  habits  of  professional 
criticism  nor  taken  captive  by  mere  novelty.  Several 
years  after,  a  translation  into  Latin  of  .a  portion  of  the 
poem  was  made  for  use  as  a  school-book,  by  Professor 
Francis  W.  Newman.  A  suggestive  criticism,  by  Dr. 
Holmes,  upon  the  measure  of  the  poem  will  be  found 
in  the  Proceedings  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical 
Society  for  April  13,  1882. 


INTRODUCTION 

SHOULD  you  ask  me,  whence  these  stories  ? 
Whence  JLhese  legends  and  traditions, 
With  the  odors  of  the  forest, 
With  the  dew  and  damp  of  meadows, 


With  the  curling  smoke  of  wigwams, 
With  the  rushing  of  great  rivers, 
With  their  frequent  repetitions, 
And  their  wild  reverberations, 
As  of  thunder  in  the  mountains  ? 

I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you,    \ 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


"  From  the  forests  and  the  prairies, 
From  the  great  lakes  of  the  Northland, 
From  the  land  of  the  O  jib  ways, 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
From    the    mountains,    moors,    and    fen- 
lands 

Where  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Feeds  among  the  reeds  and  rushes. 
I  repeat  them  as  I  heard  them 
From  the  lips  of  Nawadaha, 
The  musician,  the  sweet  singer." 

Should  you  ask  where  Nawadaha 
Found  these  songs  so  wild  and  wayward, 
Found  these  legends  and  traditions, 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
"In  the  bird's-nests  of  the  forest, 
In  the  lodges  of  the  beaver, 
In  the  hoof-prints  of  the  bison, 
In  the  eyry  of  the  eagle  ! 

"  All  the  wild-fowl  sang  them  to  him, 
In  the  moorlands  and  the  fen-lands, 
In  the  melancholy  marshes  ; 
Chetowaik,  the  plover,  sang  them, 
Mahng,  the  loon,  the  wild-goose,  Wawa, 
The  blue  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And  the  grouse,  the  Mushkodasa  !  " 

If  still  further  you  should  ask  me, 
Saying,  "  Wko  was  Nawadaha  ? 
Tell  us  of  this  Nawadaha," 
I  should  answer  your  inquiries 
Straightway  in  such  words  as  follow. 

"  In  the  vale  of  Tawasentha, 
In  the  green  and  silent  valley, 
By  the  pleasant  water-courses, 
Dwelt  the  singer  Nawadaha. 
Round  about  the  Indian  village 
Spread  the  meadows  and  the  corn-fields, 
And  beyond  them  stood  the  forest, 
Stood  the  groves  of  singing  pine-trees, 
Green  in  Summer,  white  in  Winter, 
Ever  sighing,  ever  singing. 

"  And  the  pleasant  water-courses, 
You  could   trace   them   through  the  val 
ley, 

By  the  rushing  in  the  Spring-time, 
By  the  alders  in  the  Summer, 
By  the  white  fog  in  the  Autumn, 
By  the  black  line  in  the  Winter  ; 
And  beside  them  dwelt  the  singer, 
In  the  vale  of  Tawasentha, 
In  the  green  and  silent  valley. 

"  There  he  sang  of  Hiawatha, 
Sang  the  Song  of  Hiawatha, 
Sang  his  wondrous  birth  and  being, 


How  he  prayed  and  how  he  fasted, 
How  he  lived,  and  toiled,  and  suffered, 
That  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper, 
That  he  might  advance  his  people  !  " 

Ye  who  love  the  haunts  of  Nature, 
Love  the  sunshine  of  the  meadow, 
Love  the  shadow  of  the  forest, 
Love  the  wind  among  the  branches, 
And  the  rain-shower  and  the  snow-storms 
And  the  rushing  of  great  rivers 
Through  their  palisades  of  pine-trees, 
And  the  thunder  in  the  mountains, 
Whose  innumerable  echoes 
Flap  like  eagles  in  their  eyries  ;  — 
Listen  to  these  wild  traditions, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye  who  love  a  nation's  legends, 
Love  the  ballads  of  a  people, 
That  like  voices  from  afar  off 
Call  to  us  to  pause  and  listen, 
Speak  in  tones  so  plain  and  childlike, 
Scarcely  can  the  ear  distinguish 
Whether  they  are  sung  or  spoken  ;  — 
Listen  to  this  Indian  Legend, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye  whose  hearts  are  fresh  and  simple, 
Who  have  faith  in  God  and  Nature, 
Who  believe  that  in  all  ages 
Every  human  heart  is  human, 
That  in  even  savage  bosoms 
There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings 
For  the  good  they  comprehend  not, 
That  the  feeble  hands  and  helpless, 
Groping  blindly  in  the  darkness, 
Touch    God's    right    hand   in    that    dark 

ness 

And  are  lifted  up  and  strengthened  ;  — 
Listen  to  this  simple  story, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye,  who  sometimes,  in  your  rambles 
Through  the  green  lanes  of  the  country, 
Where  the  tangled  barberry-bushes 
Hang  their  tufts  of  crimson  berries 
Over  stone  walls  gray  with  mosses, 
Pause  by  some  .neglected  graveyard, 
For  a  while  to  muse,  and  ponder 
On  a  half-effaced  inscription, 
Written  with  little  skill  of  song-craft, 
Homely  phrases,  but  each  letter 
Full  of  hope  and  yet  of  heart-break, 
Full  of  all  the  tender  pathos 
Of  the  Here  and  the  Hereafter  ;  — 
Stay  and  read  this  rude  inscription, 
Read  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


E  W/v/° 


THE   PEACE-PIPE 
/  K 

ON  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 
On  the  great  Red  Pipe-stone  Quarry, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
He  the  Master  of  Life,  descending, 
On  the  red  crags  of  the  quarry 
Stood  erect,  and  called  the  nations, 
Called  the  tribes  of  men  together. 

From  his  footprints  flowed  a  river, 
Leaped  into  the  Hght  of  morning, 
O'er  the  precipice  plunging  downward 
Gleamed  like  Ishkoodah,  the  comet. 
And  the  Spirit,  stooping  earthward, 
With  his  finger  on  the  meadow 
Traced  a  winding  pathway  for  it, 
Saying  to  it,  "  Run  in  this  way  !  " 

From  the  red  stone  of  the  quarry 
With  his  hand  he  broke  a  fragment, 
Moulded  it  into  a  pipe-head, 
Shaped  and  fashioned  it  with  figures  ; 
From  the  margin  of  the  river 
Took  a  long  reed  for  a  pipe-stem, 
With  its  dark  green  leaves  upon  it  ; 
Filled  the  pipe  with  bark  of  willow, 
With  the  bark  of  the  red  willow  ; 
Breathed  upon  the  neighboring  forest, 
Mctde  its  great  boughs  chafe  together, 
Till  in  flame  they  burst  and  kindled  ; 
And  erect  upon  the  mountains, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
Smolted  the  calumet,  the  Peace-Pipe, 
As  a  signal  to  the  nations. 

And  the  snioke  rrfse  slowly,  slowly, 
Through  the  tranquil  air  of  morning, 
First  a  single  line  of  darkness, 
Then  a  denser,  bluer  vapor, 
Then  a  snow-white  cloud  unfolding, 
Like  the  tree-tops  of  the  forest, 
Ever  rising,  rising,  rising, 
Till  it  touched  the  top  of  heaven, 
Till  it  broke  against  the  heaven, 
And  rolled  outward  all  around  it. 

From  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha, 
From  the  Valley  of  Wyoming, 
From  the  groves  of  Tuscaloosa, 
From  the  far-off  Rocky  Mountains, 
From  the  Northern  lakes  and  rivers 
All  the  tribes  beheld  the  signal, 
Saw  the  distant  smoke  ascending, 
The  Pukwana  of  the  Peace-Pipe. 

And  the  Prophets  of  the  nations 


Said  :  "  Behold  it,  the  Pukwana  ! 
By  this  signal  from  afar  off, 
Bending  like  a  wand  of  willow, 
Waving  like  a  hand  that  beckons, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
Calls  the  tribes  of  men  together, 
Calls  the  warriors  to  his  council  ! " 

Down  the  rivers,  o'er  the  prairies, 
Came  the  warriors  of  the  nations, 
Came  the  Delawares  and  Mohawks, 
Came  the  Choctaws  and  Camanches, 
Came  the  Shoshonies  and  Blackfeet, 
Came  the  Pawnees  and  Omahas, 
Came  the  Mandans  and  Dacotahs, 
Came  the  Hurons  and  Ojibways, 
All  the  warriors  drawn  together 
By  the  signal  of  the  Peace-Pipe, 
To  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 
To  the  great  Red  Pipe-stone  Quarry. 

And  they  stood  there  on  the  meadow, 
With  their  weapons  and  their  war-gear, 
Painted  like  the  leaves  of  Autumn, 
Painted  like  the  sky  of  morning, 
Wildly  glaring  at  each  other  ; 
In  their  faces  stern  defiance, 
In  their  hearts  the  feuds  of  ages, 
The  hereditary  hatred, 
The  ancestral  thirst  of  vengeance. 

Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
The  creator  of  the  nations, 
Looked  upon  them  with  compassion, 
'With  paternal  love  and  pity  ;    aU>  •* 
Looked  upon  their  wrath  and  wrangling 
But  as  quarrels  among  children, 
But  as  feuds  and  fights  of  children  ! 

Over  them  he  stretched  his  right  hand, 
To  subdue  their  stubborn  natures, 
To  allay  their  thirst  and  fever, 
By  the  shadow  of  his  right  hand  ; 
Spake  to  them  with  voice  majestic 
As  the  sound  of  far-off  waters, 
Falling  into  deep  abysses, 
Warning,  chiding,  spake  in  this  wise  :  — 

"  O  my  children  !  my  poor  children  ! 
Listen  to  the  words  of  wisdom, 
Listen  to  the  words  of  warning, 
From  the  lips  of  the  Great  Spirit, 
From  the  Master  of  Life,  who  made  you  ! 

"  I  have  given  you  lands  to  hunt  in, 
I  have  given  you  streams  to  fish  in, 
I  have  given  you  bear  and  bison, 
I  have  given  you  roe  and  reindeer, 
I  have  given  you  brant  and  beaver, 
Filled  the  marshes  full  of  wild-fowl, 
Filled  the  rivers  full  of  fishes  ; 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


Why  then  are  you  not  contented  ? 
Why  then  will  jou  hunt  each  other  ? 

"  I  am  weary  of  your  quarrels, 
Weary  of  your  wars  and  bloodshed, 
Weary  of  your  prayers  for  vengeance, 
Of  your  wranglings  and  dissensions  ; 
/All  your  strength  is  in  your  union, 
j  All  your  danger  is  in  discord  ; 
Therefore  be  at  peace  henceforward, 
And  as  brothers  live  together. 

"  I  will  send  a  Prophet  to  you, 
A  Deliverer  of  the  nations, 
Who  shall  guide  you  and  shall  teach  you, 
Who  shall  toil  and  suffer  with  you. 
If  you  listen  to  his  counsels, 
You  will  multiply  and  prosper  ; 
If  his  warnings  pass  unheeded, 
You  will  fade  away  and  perish  ! 

"Bathe  now  in  the  stream  before  you, 
Wash  the  war-paint  from  your  faces, 
Wash  the  blood-stains  from  your  fingers, 
Bury  your  war-clubs  and  your  weapons, 
Break  the  red  stone  from  this  quarry, 
Mould  and  make  it  into  Peace-Pi pes, 
Take  the  reeds  that  grow  beside  you, 
Deck  them  with  your  brightest  feathers, 
Smoke  the  calumet  together, 
And  as  brothers  live  henceforward  !  " 

Then  upon  the  ground  the  warriors 
Threw  their  cloaks  and  shirts  of  deer-skin, 
Threw  their  weapons  and  their  war-gear, 
Leaped  into  the  rushing  river, 
Washed  the  war-paint  from  their  faces. 
Clear  above  them  flowed  the  water, 
Clear  and  limpid  from  the  footprints 
Of  the  Master  of  Life  descending  ; 
Dark  below  them  flowed  the  water, 
Soiled  and  stained  with  streaks  of  crimson, 
As  if  blood  were  mingled  with  it  ! 

From  the  river  came  the  warriors, 
of   Clean  and  washed  from  all  their  war-paint  ; 
On  the  banks  their  clubs  they  buried, 
Buried  all  their  warlike  weapons. 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
The  Great  Spirit,  the  creator, 
Smiled  upon  his  helpless  children  ! 

And  in  silence  all  the  warriors 
Broke  the  red  stone  of  the  quarry, 
Smoothed  and  formed  it  into  Peace-Pipes, 
Broke  the  long  reeds  by  the  river, 
Decked  them  with  their  brightest  feathers, 
And  departed  each  one  homeward, 
While  the.  Master  of  Life,  ascending,^ 
Through  the  opening  of  cloud-curtains, 
Through  the  doorways  of  the  heaven, 


Vanished  from  before  their  faces, 
In  the  smoke  that  rolled  around  him, 
The  Pukwana  of  the  Peace-Pipe  I 


II 


THE  FOUR  WINDS 

" HONOR  be  to  Mudjekeewisj" 
Cried  the  warriors,  cried  the  old  men, 
When  he  came  in  triumph  homeward 
With  the  sacred  Belt  of  Wampum, 
From  the  regions  of  the  North- Wind, 
From  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 
From  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit. 

He  had  stolen  the  Belt  of  Wampum 
From  the  neck  of  Mi^he-Mokwa, 
From  the  Great  Bear/of  the  mountains, 
From  the  terror" of  the  nations, 
As  he  lay  asleep  and  cumbrous 
On  the  summit  of  the  mountains, 
Like  a  rock  with  mosses  on  it, 
Spotted  brown  and  gray  with  mosses. 

Silently  he  stole  upon  him 
Till  the  red  nails  of  the  monster 
Almost  touched  him,  almost  scared  him, 
Till  the  hot  breath  of  his  nostrils 
Warmed  the  hands  of  Mudjekeewis, 
As  he  drew  the  Belt  of  Wampum 
Over  the  round  ears,  that  heard  not, 
Over  the  small  eyes,  that  saw  not, 
Over  the  long  nose  and  nostrils, 
The  black  muffle  of  the  nostrils, 
Out  of  which  the  heavy  breathing 
Warmed  the  hands  of  Mudjekeewis. 

Then  he  swung  aloft  his  war-club, 
Shouted  loud  and  long  his  war-cry, 
Smote  the  mighty  Mishe-Mokwa 
In  the  middle  of  the  forehead, 
Right  between  the  eyes  he  smote  him. 

With  the  heavy  blow  bewildered, 
Rose  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains  ; 
But  his  knees  beneath  him  trembled, 
And  he  whimpered  like  a  woman, 
As  he  reeled  and  staggered  forward, 
As  he  sat  upon  his  haunches  ; 
And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis, 
Standing  fearlessly  before  him, 
Taunted  him  in  loud  derision, 
Spake  disdainfully  in  this  wise  :  — 

"  Hark  you,  Bear  !  you  are  a  coward  ; 
And  no  Brave,  as  you  pretended  ; 
Else  you  would  not  cry  and  whimper 
Like  a  miserable  woman  ! 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


117 


Bear  !  you  know  our  tribes  are  hostile, 
Long  have  been  at  war  together  ; 
Now  you  find  that  we  are  strongest, 
You  go  sneaking  in  the  forest, 
You  go  hiding  in  the  mountains  ! 
Had  you  conquered  me  in  battle 
Not  a  groan  would  I  have  uttered  ; 
But  you,  Bear  !  sit  here  and  whimper, 
And  disgrace  your  tribe  by  crying, 
Like  a  wretched  Shaugodaya, 
Like  a  cowardly  old  woman  !  " 

Then  again  he  raised  his  war-club, 
Smote  again  the  Mishe-Mokwa 
In  the  middle  of  his  forehead, 
Broke  his  skull,  as  ice  is  broken 
When  one  goes  to  fish  in  Winter. 
Thus  was  slain  the  Mishe-Mokwa, 
He  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains, 
He  the  terror  of  the  nations. 

"  Honor  be  to  Mucljekeewis  !  " 
With  a  shout  exclaimed  the  people, 
"  Honor  be  to  Mudjekeewis  ! 
Henceforth  lie  shall  be  the  West- Wind, 
And  hereafter  and  forever 
Shall  he  hold  supreme  dominion 
Over  all  the  winds  of  heaven. 
Call  him  no  more  Mudjekeewis, 
Call  him  Kabeyun,  the  West-Wind  !  " 

Thus  was  Mudjekeewis  chosen 
Father  of  the  Winds  of  Heaven. 
For  himself  he  kept  the  West- Wind, 
Gave  the  others  to  his  children  ; 
Unto  Wabun  gave  the  East-Wind, 
Gave  the  South  to  Shawondasee, 
And  the  North- Wind,  wild  and  cruel, 
To  the  fierce  Kabibonokka. 

Young  and  beautiful  was  WTabun  ; 
He  it  was  who  brought  the  morning, 
He  it  was  whose  silver  arrows 
Chased  the  dark  o'er  hill  and  valley  ; 
He  it  was  whose  cheeks  were  painted 
With  the  brightest  streaks  of  crimson, 
And  whose  voice  awoke  the  village, 
Called  the  deer,  and  called  the  hunter. 

Lonely  in  the  sky  waSfWabun  ;j 
Though  the  birds  sang  gayly  to  him, 
Though  the  wild-flowers  of  the  meadow 
Filled  the  air  with  odors  for  him  ; 
Though  the  forests  and  the  rivers 
Sang  and  shouted  at  his  coming, 
Still  his  heart  was  sad  within  him, 
For  he  was  alone  in  heaven. 

But  one  morning,  gazing  earthward, 
While  the  village  still  was  sleeping, 
And  the  fog  lay  on  the  river, 


Like  a  ghost,  that  goes  at  sunrise, 
He  beheld  a  uiaideij)walkiug 
All  alone  upon  a  meadow, 
Gathering  water-flags  and  rushes 
By  a  river  in  the  meadow. 

Every  morning,  gazing  earthward, 
Still  the  first  thing  he  beheld  there 
Was  her  blue  eyes  looking  at  him, 
Two  blue  lakes  among  the  rushes. 
And  he  loved  the  lonely  maiden, 
Who  thus  waited  for  his  coming  ; 
For  they  both  were  solitary, 
She  on  earth  and  he  in  heaven. 

And  he  wooed  her  with  caresses, 
Wooed  her  with  his  smile  of  sunshine, 
With  his  flattering  words  he  wooed  her, 
Writh  his  sighing  and  his  singing, 
Gentlest  whispers  in  the  branches, 
Softest  music,  sweetest  odors, 
Till  he  drew  her  to  his  bosom, 
Folded  in  his  robes  of  crimson, 
Till  into  a  star  he  changed  her, 
Trembling  still  upon  his  bosom  ; 
And  forever  in  the  heavens 
They  are  seen  together  walking, 
Wabun  and  the  Wabun-Annung, 
Wabun  and  the  Star  of  Morning. 

But  the  fierce  Kabibonokka 
Had  his  dwelling  among  icebergs, 
In  the  everlasting  snow-drifts, 
In  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 
In  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit. 
He  it  was  whose  hand  in  Autumn 
Painted  all  the  trees  with  scarlet, 
Stained  the  leaves  with  red  and  yellow  ; 
He  it  was  who  sent  the  snow-flakes, 
Sifting,  hissing  through  the  forest, 
Froze  the  ponds,  the  lakes,  the  rivers, 
Drove  the  loon  and  sea-gull  southward, 
Drove  the  cormorant  and  curlew 
To  their  nests  of  sedge  and  sea-tang 
In  the  realms  of  Shawondasee. 

Once  the  fierce  Kabibonokka 
Issued  from  his  lodge  of  snow-drifts; 
From  his  home  among  the  icebergs, 
And  his  hair,  with  snow  besprinkled, 
Streamed  behind  him  like  a  river, 
Like  a  black  and  wintry  river, 
As  he  howled  and  hurried  southward, 
Over  frozen  lakes  and  moorlands. 

There  among  the  reeds  and  rushes 
Found  he  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Trailing  strings  of  fish  behind  him, 
O'er  the  frozen  fens  and  moorlands, 
Lingering  still  among  the  moorlands, 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


Though  his  tribe  had  long  departed 
To  the  land  of  Shawondasee. 

Cried  the  fierce  Kabibonokka, 
"  Who  is  this  that  dares  to  brave  me  ? 
Dares  to  stay  in  my  dominions, 
When  the  Wawa  has  departed, 
When  the  wild-goose  has  gone  southward, 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Long  ago  departed  southward  ? 
I  will  go  into  his  wigwam, 
I  will  put  his  smouldering  fire  out !  " 

And  at  night  Kabibonokka 
To  the  lodge  came  wild  and  wailing, 
Heaped  the  snow  in  drifts  about  it, 
Shouted  down  into  the  smoke-flue, 
Shook  the  lodge-poles  in  his  fury, 
Flapped  the  curtain  of  the  door-way. 
Shingebis,  the  diver,  feared  not, 
Shiiigebis,  the  diver,  cared  not  ; 
Four  great  logs  had  he  for  firewood, 
One  for  each  moon  of  the  winter, 
And  for  food  the  fishes  served  him. 
By  his  blazing  fire  he  sat  there, 
Warm  and  merry,  eating,  laughing, 
Singing,  "  O  Kabibonokka, 
You  are  but  my  fellow-mortal !  " 

Then  Kabibonokka  entered, 
And  though  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Felt  his  presence  by  the  coldness, 
Felt  his  icy  breath  upon  him, 
Still  he  did  not  cease  his  singing, 
Still  he  did  not  leave  his  laughing, 
Only  turned  the  log  a  little, 
Only  made  the  fire  burn  brighter, 
Made  the  sparks  fly  up  the  smoke-flue. 

From  Kabibonokka's  forehead, 
From  his  snow-besprinkled  tresses, 
Drops  of  sweat  fell  fast  and  heavy, 
Making  dints  upon  the  ashes, 
As  along  the  eaves  of  lodges, 
As  from  drooping  boughs  of  hemlock, 
Drips  the  melting  snow  in  spring-time, 
Making  hollows  in  the  snow-drifts. 

Till  at  last  he  rose  defeated, 
Could  not  bear  the  heat  and  laughter, 
Could  not  bear  the  merry  singing, 
But  rushed  headlong  through  the  door-way, 
Stamped  upon  the  crusted  snow-drifts, 
Stamped  upon  the  lakes  and  rivers, 
Made  the  snow  upon  them  harder, 
Made  the  ice  upon  them  thicker, 
Challenged  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
To  come  forth  and  wrestle  with  him, 
To  come  forth  and  wrestle  naked 
On  the  frozen  fens  and  moorlands. 


Forth  went  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Wrestled  all  night  with  the  North- Wind, 
WTrestled  naked  on  the  moorlands 
With  the  fierce  Kabibonokka, 
Till  his  panting  breath  grew  fainter, 
Till  his  frozen  grasp  grew  feebler, 
Till  he  reeled  and  staggered  backward, 
And  retreated,  baffled,  beaten, 
To  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 
To  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit, 
Hearing  still  the  gusty  laughter, 
Hearing  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Singing,  "O  Kabibonokka, 
You  are  but  my  fellow-mortal  ! " 

Shawondasee,  fat  and  lazy, 
Had  his  dwelling  far  to  southward, 
In  the  drowsy,  dreamy  sunshine, 
In  the  never-ending  Summer. 
He  it  was  who  sent  the  wood-birds, 
Sent  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
Sent  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
Sent  the  Shawshaw,  sent  the  swallow, 
Sent  the  wild-goose,  Wawa,  northward, 
Sent  the  melons  and  tobacco, 
And  the  grapes  in  purple  clusters. 

From  his  pipe  the  smoke  ascending 
Filled  the  sky  with  haze  and  vapor, 
Filled  the  air  with  dreamy  softness, 
Gave  a  twinkle  to  the  water, 
Touched  the  rugged  hills  with  smoothness, 
Brought  the  tender  Indian  Summer 
To  the  melancholy  north-land, 
In  the  dreary  Moon  of  Snow-shoes. 

Listless,  careless  Shawondasee  ! 
In  his  life  he  had  one  shadow, 
In  his  heart  one  sorrow  had  he. 
Once,  as  he  was  gazing  northward, 
Far  away  upon  a  prairie 
He  beheld  a  maiden  standing, 
Saw  a  tall  and  slender  maiden 
All  alone  upon  a  prairie  ; 
Brightest  green  were  all  her  garments, 
And  her  hair  was  like  the  sunshine. 

Day  by  day  he  gazed  upon  her, 
Day  by  day  he  sighed  with  passion, 
Day  by  day  his  heart  within  him 
Grew  more  hot  with  love  and  longing 
For  the  maid  with  yellow  tresses. 
But  he  was  too  fat  and  lazy 
To  bestir  himself  and  woo  her. 
Yes,  too  indolent  and  easy 
To  pursue  her  and  persuade  her  ; 
So  he  only  gazed  upon  her, 
Only  sat  and  sighed  with  passion 
For  the  maiden  of  the  prairie. 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


119 


Till  one  morning,  looking  northward, 
He  beheld  her  yellow  tresses 
Changed  and  covered  o'er  with  whiteness, 
Covered  as  with  whitest  snow-flakes. 
"  Ah  !  my  brother  from  the  North-land, 
From  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 
From  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit ! 
You  have  stolen  the  maiden  from  me, 
You  have  laid  your  hand  upon  her, 
You  have  wooed  and  won  my  maiden, 
With  your  stories  of  the  North-land  !  " 

Thus  the  wretched  Shawondasee 
Breathed  into  the  air  his  sorrow  ; 
And  the  South- Wind  o'er  the  prairie 
Wandered  warm  with  sighs  of  passion, 
With  the  sighs  of  Shawondasee, 
Till  the  air  seemed  full  of  snow-flakes, 
Full  of  thistle-down  the  prairie, 
And  the  maid  with  hair  like  sunshine 
Vanished  from  his  sight  forever  ; 
Never  more  did  Shawondasee 
See  the  maid  with  yellow  tresses  ! 

Poor,  deluded  Shawondasee  ! 
'T  was  no  woman  that  you  gazed  at, 
'T  was  no  maiden  that  you  sighed  for, 
'T  was  the  prairie  dandelion 
That  through  all  the  dreamy  Summer 
You  had  gazed  at  with  such  longing, 
You  had  sighed  for  with  such  passion, 
And  had  puffed  away  forever, 
Blown  into  the  air  with  sighing. 
Ah  !  deluded  Shawondasee  ! 

Thus  the  Four  Winds  were  divided  ; 
Thus  the  sons  of  Mudjekeewis 
Had  their  stations  in  the  heavens, 
At  the  corners  of  the  heavens  ; 
For  himself  the  West-Wind  only 
Kept  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis. 


Ill 


HIAWATHA'S   CHILDHOOD 

DOWNWARD  through  the  evening  twilight, 
In  the  days  that  are  forgotten, 
.In. the  unremembered  ages, 
From  the  full  moon  fell  Nokomis,y 
Fell  the  beautiful  Nokomis, 
She  a  wife,  but  not  a  mother. 

She  was  sporting  with  her  women, 
Swinging  in  a  swing  of  orrape-vines, 
When  her  rival  the  rejected, 
Full  of  jealousy  and  hatred, 
Cut  the  leafy  swing  asunder, 


Cut  in  twain  the  twisted  grape-vines, 

And  Nokomis  fell  affrighted 

Downward  through  the  evening  twilight, 

On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 

On  the  prairie  full  of  blossoms. 

"  See  !  a  star  falls  !  "  said  the  people  ; 

"  From  the  sky  a  star  is  falling  !  " 

There  among  the  ferns  and  mosses, 
There  among  the  prairie  lilies, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
In  the  moonlight  and  the  starlight, 
'Fair  Npkomis  bore  a  daughter.     \ 
And  she  called  her  name  Wenonah, 
As  the  first-born  of  her  daughters. 
And  the  daughter  of  Nokomis 
Grew  up  like  the  prairie  lilies, 
Grew  a  tall  and  slender  maiden, 
With  the  beauty  of  the  moonlight, 
With  the  beauty  of  the  starlight. 

And  Nokomis  warned  her  often, 
Saying  oft,  and  oft  repeating, 
"  Oh,  beware  of  Mudjekeewis, 
Of  the  West-Wind,  Mudjekeewis  ; 
Listen  not  to  what  he  tells  you  ; 
Lie  not  down  upon  the  meadow, 
Stoop  not  down  among  the  lilies, 
Lest    the     West- Wind    come    and    harm 
you  ! " 

But  she  heeded  not  the  warning, 
Heeded  not  those  words  of  wisdom, 
And  the  West-Wind  came  at  evening, 
Walking  lightly  o^er  the  prairie, 
Whispering  to  the  leaves  and  blossoms, 
Bending  low  the  flowers  and  grasses, 
Found  the  beautiful  Wenonahy 
Lying  there  among  the  lilies, 
Wooed  her  with  his  words  of  sweetness, 
Wooed  her  with  his  soft  caresses, 
Till  she  bore  a  sou-  in  sorrow, 
Bore  a  son  of  love  and  sorrow. 

Thus  was  born  nW  Hiawatha, 
Thus  was  born  the  cnild  of  wonder  ; 
But  the  daughter  of  Nokomis, 
Hiawatha's  gentle  mother, 
In  her  anguish  died  deserted 
By  the  West-Wind,  false  and  faithless, 
By  the  heartless  Mudjekeewis. 

For  her  daughter  long  and  loudly 
Wailed  and  wept  the  sad  Nokomis  ; 
"  Oh  that  I  were  dead  ! "  she  murmured, 
"  Oh  that  I  were  dead,  as  thou  art  ! 
No  more  work,  and  no  more  weeping, 
Wahonowin  !  Wahonowin  !  " 

By  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 


120 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


Stood  the  wigwam  of  Nokomis, 
Daughter  of  the  Moon,  Nokomis. 
Dark  behind  it  rose  the  forest, 
Rose  the  black  and  gloomy  pine-trees, 
Rose  the  firs  witli  cones  upon  them  ; 
Bright  before  it  beat  the  water, 
Beat  the  clear  and  sunny  water, 
Beat  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water. 

There  the  wrinkled  old  Nokomis 
Nursed  the  little  Hiawatha, 
Rocked  him  in  his  linden  cradle, 
Bedded  soft  in  moss  and  rushes, 
Safely  bound  with  reindeer  sinews  ; 
Stilled  his  fretful  wail  by  saving, 
"  Hush  !  the  Naked  Bear  will  hear  thee  !  " 
Lulled  him  into  slumber,  singing, 
"  Ewa-yea  !  my  little  owlet  ! 
Who  is  this,  that  lights  the  wigwam  ? 
With  his  great  eyes  lights  the  wigwam  ? 
Ewa-yea  !  my  little  owlet  !  " 

Many  things  Nokomis  taught  him 
Of  the  stars  that  shine  in  heaven  ; 
Showed  him  Ishkoodah,  the  comet, 
Ishkoodah,  with  fiery  tresses  ; 
Showed  the  Death-Dance  of  the  spirits, 
Warriors  with  their  plumes  and  war-clubs, 
Flaring  far  away  to  northward 
In  the  frosty  nights  of  Winter  ; 
Showed  the  broad  white  road  in  heaven, 
Pathway  of  the  ghosts,  the  shadows, 
Running  straight  across  the  heavens, 
Crowded  with  the  ghosts,  the  shadows. 

At  the  door  on  summer  evenings 
Sat  the  little  Hiawatha  ; 
Heard  the  whispering  of  the  pine-trees, 
Heard  the  lapping  of  the  waters, 
Sounds  of  music,  words  of  wonder  ; 
"  Minne-wawa  !  "  said  the  pine-trees, 
"  Mudway-aushka  !  "  said  the  water. 

Saw  the  fire-fly,  Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting  through  the  dusk  of  evening, 
With  the  twinkle  of  its  candle 
Lighting  up  the  brakes  and  bushes, 
And  he  sang  the  song  of  children, 
Sang  the  song  Nokomis  taught  him  : 
"  Wah-wah-taysee,  little  fire-fly, 
Little,  flitting,  white-fire  insect, 
Little,  dancing,  white-fire  creature, 
Light  me  with  your  little  candle, 
Ere  upon  my  bed  I  lay  me, 
Ere  in  sleep  I  close  my  eyelids  !  " 

Saw  the  moon  rise  from  the  water 
Rippling,  rounding  from  the  water, 
Saw  the  flecks  and  shadows  on  it, 
Whispered,  "  What  is  that,  Nokomis  ?  " 


And  the  good  Nokomis  answered  : 

"  Once  a  warrior,  very  angry, 

Seized  his  grandmother,  and  threw  her 

Up  into  the  sky  at  midnight  ; 

Right  against  the  moon  he  threw  her  ; 

'Tis  her  body  that  you  see  there." 

Saw  the  rainbow  in  the  heaven, 
In  the  eastern  sky,  the  rainbow, 
Whispered,  "  What  is  that,  Nokomis  ?  " 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered  : 
"  'T  is  the  heaven  of  flowers  you  see  there  : 
All  the  wild-flowers  of  the  forest, 
All  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 
When  on  earth  they  fade  and  perish, 
Blossom  in  that  heaven  above  us." 

When  he  heard  the  owls  at  midnight, 
Hooting,  laughing  in  the  forest, 
"  What  is  that  ?  "  he  cried  in  terror, 
"  What  is  that,"  he  said,  "  Nokomis  ?  " 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered  : 
"  That  is  but  the  owl  and  owlet, 
Talking  in  their  native  language, 
Talking,  scolding  at  each  other." 

Then  the  little  Hiawatha 
Learned  of  every  bird  its  language, 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  they  built  their  nests  in  Summer, 
Where  they  hid  themselves  in  Winter, 
Talked  with  them  whene'er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  "  Hiawatha's  Chickens." 

Of  all  beasts  he  learned  the  language, 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  the  beavers  built  their  lodges, 
Where  the  squirrels  hid  their  acorns, 
How  the  reindeer  ran  so  swiftly, 
Why  the  rabbit  was  so  timid, 
Talked  with  them  whene'er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  "Hiawatha's  Brothers." 

Then  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 
He  the  traveller  and  the  talker, 
Pie  the  friend  of  old  Nokomis, 
Made  a  bow  for  Hiawatha  ; 
From  a  branch  of  ash  he  made  it, 
From  an  oak-bough  made  the  arrows, 
Tipped  with  flint,  and  winged  with  feathers. 
And  the  cord  he  made  of  deer-skin. 

Then  he  said  to  Hiawatha  : 
"  Go,  my  son,  into  the  forest, 
Where  the  red  deer  herd  together, 
Kill  for  us  a  famous  roebuck, 
Kill  for  us  a  deer  with  antlers  !  " 

Forth  into  the  forest  straightway 
All  alone  walked  Hiawatha 
Proudly,  with  his  bow  and  arrows  ; 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


121 


And  the  birds  sang  round  him,  o'er  him, 
"  Do  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha  !  " 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
"  Do  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha  !  " 

Up  the  oak-tree,  close  beside  him, 
Sprang  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
In  and  out  among  the  branches, 
Coughed  and  chattered  from  the  oak-tree, 
Laughed,  and  said  between  his  laughing, 
"  Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha  !  " 

And  the  rabbit  from  his  pathway 
Leaped  aside,  and  at  a  distance 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 
Half  in  fear  and  half  in  frolic, 
Saying  to  the  little  hunter, 
"  Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha  !  " 

But  he  heeded  not,  nor  heard  them, 
For  his  thoughts  were  with  the  red  deer  ; 
On  their  tracks  his  eyes  were  fastened, 
Leading  downward  to  the  river, 
To  the  ford  across  the  river, 
And  as  one  in  slumber  walked  he. 

Hidden  in  the  alder-bushes, 
There  he  waited  till  the  deer  came, 
Till  he  saw  two  antlers  lifted, 
Saw  two  eyes  look  from  the  thicket, 
Saw  two  nostrils  point  to  windward, 
And  a  deer  came  down  the  pathway, 
Flecked  with  leafy  light  and  shadow. 
And  his  heart  within  him  fluttered, 
Trembled  like  the  leaves  above  him, 
Like  the  birch-leaf  palpitated, 
As  the  deer  came  down  the  pathway. 

Then,  upon  one  knee  uprising, 
Hiawatha  aimed  an  arrow  ; 
Scarce  a  twig  moved  with  his  motion, 
Scarce  a  leaf  was  stirred  or  rustled, 
But  the  wary  roebuck  started, 
Stamped  with  all  his  hoofs  together, 
Listened  with  one  foot  uplifted, 
Leaped  as  if  to  meet  the  arrow  ; 
Ah  !  the  singing,  fatal  arrow, 
Like  a  wasp  it  buzzed  and  stung  him  ! 

Dead  he  lay  there  in  the  forest, 
By  the  ford  across  the  river  ; 
Beat  his  timid  heart  no  longer, 
But  the  heart  of  Hiawatha 
Throbbed  and  shouted  and  exulted, 
As  he  bore  the  red  deer  homeward, 
And  lagoo  and  Nokomis 
Hailed  his  coming  with  applauses. 

From  the  red  deer's  hide  Nokomis 
Made  a  cloak  for  Hiawatha, 
From  the  red  deer's  flesh  Nokomis 


Made  a  banquet  to  his  honor. 
All  the  village  came  and  feasted, 
All  the  guests  praised  Hiawatha, 
Called  him  Strong-Heart,  Soan-ge-taha  ! 
Called  him  Loon-Heart,  Mahn-go-taysee  ! 


IV 
HIAWATHA   AND   MUDJEKEEWIS 

OUT  of  childhood  jnto  manhood 
Now  had  grown  my  Hiawatha, 
Skilled  in  all  the  cfaft  of  hunters, 
Learned  in  all  the  lore  of  old  men, 
In  all  youthful  sports  and  pastimes, 
In  all  manly  arts  and  labors. 

Swift  of  foot  was  Hiawatha  ; 
He  could  shoot  an  arrow  from  him, 
And  run  forward  with  such  fleetness, 
That  the  arrow  fell  behind  him  ! 
Strong  of  arm  was  Hiawatha  ; 
He  could  shoot  ten  arrows  upward, 
Shoot  them  with  such  strength  and  swift 
ness, 

That  the  tenth  had  left  the  bow-string 
Ere  the  first  to  earth  had  fallen  ! 

He  had  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Magic  mittens  made  of  deer-skin  ; 
Whetnipon  his  hands  he  wore  them, 
He  could  smite  the  rocks  asunder, 
He  could  grind  them  into  powder. 
He  had  moccasins  enchanted, 
Magic  moccasins  of  deer-skin  ; 
When  he  bound  them  round  his  ankles, 
When  upon  his  feet  he  tied  them, 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured  ! 

Much  he  questioned  old  Nokomis 
Of  his  father  Mudjekeewis  ; 
Learned  from  her  the  fatal  secret 
Of  the  beauty  of  his  mother, 
Of  the  falsehood  of  his  father  ; 
And  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 

Then  he  said  to  old  Nokomis, 
"  I  will  go  to  Mudjekeewis, 
See  how  fares  it  with  my  father, 
At  the  doorways  of  the  West- Wind, 
At  the  portals  of  the  Sunset !  " 

From  his  lodge  went  Hiawatha, 
Dressed  for  travel,  armed  for  hunting  ; 
Dressed  in  deer-skin  shirt  and  leggings, 
Richly  wrought  with  quills  and  wampum  ; 
On  his  head  his  eagle-feathers, 
Round  his  waist  his  belt  of  wampum, 


122 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


In  his  hand  his  bow  of  ash- wood, 

Strung  with  sinews  of  the  reindeer  ; 

In  his  quiver  oaken  arrows, 

Tipped  with  jasper,  winged  with  feathers  ; 

With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwnn, 

With  his  moccasins  enchanted. 

Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis, 
"  Go  not  forth,  O  Hiawatha  ! 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  West- Wind, 
To  the  realms  of  Mudjekeewis, 
Lest  he  harm  you  with  his  magic, 
Lest  he  kill  you  with  his  cunning  !  " 

But  the  fearless  Hiawatha 
Heeded  not  her  woman's  warning  ; 
Forth  he  strode  into  the  forest, 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured  ; 
Lurid  seemed  the  sky  above  him, 
Lurid  seemed  the  earth  beneath  him, 
Hot  and  close  the  air  around  him, 
Filled  with  smoke  and  fiery  vapors, 
As  of  burning  woods  and  prairies, 
For  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 

So  he  journeyed  westward,  westward, 
Left  the  fleetest  deer  behind  him, 
Left  the  antelope  and  bison  ; 
Crossed  the  rushing  Esconaba, 
Crossed  the  mighty  Mississippi, 
Passed  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 
Passed  the  land  of  Crows  and  Foxes, 
Passed  the  dwellings  of  the  Blackfeet, 
Came  unto  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  West-Wind, 
Where  upon  the  gusty  summits 
Sat  the  ancient"  Mudjekeewis, 
Ruler  of  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Filled  with  awe  was  Hiawatha 
At  the  aspect  of  his  father. 
On  the  air  about  him  wildly 
Tossed  and  streamed  his  cloudy  tresses, 
Gleamed  like  drifting  snow  his  tresses, 
Glared  like  Ishkoodah,  the  comet, 
Like  the  star  with  fiery  tresses. 

Filled  with  joy  was  Mudjekeewis 
When  he  looked  on  Hiawatha, 
Saw  his  youth  rise  up  before  him 
In  the  face  of  Hiawatha, 
Saw  the  beauty  of  Wenonah 
From  the  grave  rise  up  before  him. 

"  Welcome  !  "  said  he,  "  Hiawatha, 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  West-Wind  ! 
Long  have  1  been  waiting  for  you  ! 
[TTouth  is  lovely,  age  is  lonely, 
Youth  is  fiery,  age  is  frosty  g 
You  bring  back  the  days  departed, 


You  bring  back  my  youth  of  passion, 
And  the  beautiful  Wenonah  !  " 

Many  days  they  talked  together, 
Questioned,  listened,  waited,  answered  ; 
Much  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis 
Boasted  of  his  ancient  prowess, 
Of  his  perilous  adventures, 
His  indomitable  courage, 
His  invulnerable  body. 

Patiently  sat  Hiawatha, 
Listening  to  his  father's  boasting  ; 
With  a  smile  he  sat  and  listened, 
Uttered  neither  threat  nor  menace, 
Neither  word  nor  look  betrayed  him, 
But  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  iiis  heart  was. 

Then  he  said,  "  O  Mudjekeewis, 
Is  ther.3  nothing  that  can  harm  you  ? 
Nothing  that  you  are  afraid  of  ?  " 
A  nd  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis, 
Grand  and  gracious  in  his  boasting, 
Answered,  saying,  "  There  is  nothing, 
Nothing  but  the  black  rock  yonder, 
Nothing  but  the  fatal  Wawbeek  !  " 

And  he  looked  at  Hiawatha 
With  a  wise  look  and  benignant, 
With  a  countenance  paternal, 
Looked  with  pride  upon  the  beauty 
Of  his  tall  and  graceful  figure, 
Saying,  "  O  my  Hiawatha  ! 
Is  there  anything  can  harm  you  ? 
Anything  you  are  afraid  of  ?  " 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha 
Paused  awhile,  as  if  uncertain, 
Held  his  peace,  as  if  resolving, 
And  then  answered,  "  There  is  nothing, 
Nothing  but  the  bulrush  yonder, 
Nothing  but  the  great  Apukwa  !  " 

And  as  Mudjekeewis,  rising, 
Stretched  his  hand  to  pluck  the  bulrush, 
Hiawatha  cried  in  terror, 
Cried  in  well-dissembled  terror, 
"  Kago  !  kago  !  do  not  touch  it  ! " 
"  Ah,  kaween  !  "  said  Mudjekeewis, 
"  No  indeed,  I  will  not  touch  it  ! " 

Then  they  talked  of  other  matters  ; 
First  of  Hiawatha's  brothers, 
First  of  Wabun,  of  the  East- Wind, 
Of  the  South-Wind,  Shawondasee, 
Of  the  North,  Kabibonokka  ; 
Then  of  Hiawatha's  mother, 
Of  the  beautiful  Wenonah, 
Of  her  birth  upon  the  meadow, 
Of  her  death,  as  old  Nokomis 
Had  remembered  and  related. 


tJJ 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


123 


And  he  cried,  "  O  Mudjekeevvis, 
It  was  you  who  killed  Weiionah, 
Took  her  young  life  and  her  beauty, 
Broke  the  Lily  of  the  Prairie, 
Trampled  it  beneath  your  footsteps  ; 
You  confess  it  !  you  confess  it  ! " 
And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis 
Tossed  upon  the  wind  his  tresses, 
Bowed  his  hoary  head  in  anguish, 
With  a  silent  nod  assented. 

Then  up  started  Hiawatha, 
And  with  threatening  look  and  gesture 
Laid  his  hand  upon  the  black  rock, 
On  the  fatal  Wawbeek  laid  it, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Rent  the  jutting  crag  asunder, 
Smote  and  crushed  it  into  fragments, 
Hurled  them  madly  at  his  father, 
The  remorseful  Mudjekeewis, 
For  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 

But  the  ruler  of  the  West- Wind 
Blew  the  fragments  backward  from  him, 
With  the  breathing  of  his  nostrils, 
With  the  tempest  of  his  anger, 
Blew  them  back  at  his  assailant  ; 
Seized  the  bulrush,  the  Apukwa, 
Dragged  it  with  its  roots  and  fibres 
From  the  margin  of  the  meadow, 
From  its  ooze  the  giant  bulrush  ; 
Long  and  loud  laughed  Hiawatha  ! 

Then  began  the  deadly  conflict, 
Hand  to  hand  among  the  mountains  ; 
From  his  eyry  screamed  the  eagle, 
The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 
Sat  upon  the  crags  around  them, 
Wheeling  flapped  his  wings  above  them. 

Like  a  tall  tree  in  the  tempest 
Bent  and  lashed  the  giant  bulrush  ; 
And  in  masses  huge  and  heavy 
Crashing  fell  the  fatal  Wawbeek  ; 
Till  the  earth  shook  with  the  tumult 
And  confusion  of  the  battle, 
And  the  air  was  full  of  shoutings, 
And  the  thunder  of  the  mountains, 
Starting,  answered,  "  Baim-wawa  !  " 

Back  retreated  Mudjekeewis, 
Rushing  westward  o'er  the  mountains, 
Stumbling  westward  down  the  mountains, 
Three  whole  days  retreated  fighting, 
Still  pursued  by  Hiawatha 
To  the  doorways  of  the  West-Wind, 
To  the  portals  of  the  Sunset, 
To  the  earth's  remotest  border, 
Where  into  the  empty  spaces 


Sinks  the  sun,  as  a  flamingo 
Drops  into  her  nest  at  nightfall 
In  the  melancholy  marshes. 

"  Hold  ! "  at  length  cried  Mudjekeewi 
"  Hold,  my  son,  my  Hiawatha  ! 
'T  is  impossible  to  kill  me, 
For  you  cannot  kill  the  immortal. 
I  have  put  you  to  this  trial, 
But  to  know  and  prove  your  courage  ; 
Now  receive  the  prize  of  valor  ! 

"  Go  back  to  your  home  and  people, 
Live  among  them,  toil  among  them, 
Cleanse  the  eartli  from  all  that  harms  it, 
Clear  the  fishing-grounds  and  rivers, 
Slay  all  monsters  and  magicians, 
All  the  Wendigoes,  the  giants, 
All  the  serpents,  the  Kenabeeks, 
As  I  slew  the  Mishe-Mokwa, 
Slew  tha  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains. 

"  And  at  last  when  Death  draws  near  you, 
When  the  awful  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  you  in  the  darkness, 
I  will  share  my  kingdom  with  you, 
Ruler  shall  you  be  thenceforward 
Of  the  North  west- Wind,  Keewaydin, 
Of  the  home- wind,  the  Keewaydin." 

Thus  was  fought  that  famous  battle 
In  the  dreadful  days  of  Shah-shah, 
In  the  days  long  since  departed, 
In  the  kingdom  of  the  West-Wind. 
Still  the  hunter  sees  its  traces 
Scattered  far  o'er  hill  and  valley  ; 
Sees  the  giant  bulrush  growing 
By  the  ponds  and  water-courses, 
Sees  the  masses  of  the  Wawbeek 
Lying  still  in  every  valley. 

Homeward  now  went  Hiawatha  ; 
Pleasant  was  the  landscape  round  him, 
Pleasant  was  the  air  above  him, 
For  the  bitterness  of  anger 
Had  departed  wholly  from  him, 
From  his  brain  the  thought  of  vengeance, 
From  his  heart  the  burning  fever. 

Only  once  his  pace  he  slackened, 
Only  once  he  paused  or  baited, 
Paused  to  purchase  heads  of  arrows 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
Where  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Flash  and  gleam  among  the  oak-trees, 
Laugh  and  leap  into  the  valley. 

There  the  ancient  Arrow-maker J 

Made  his  arrow-heads  of  sandstone, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony, 
Arrow-heads  of  flint  and  jasper, 


124 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


Smoothed  and  sharpened  at  the  edges, 
Hard  and  polished,  keen  and  costly. 

With  him  dwelt  his  dark-eyed  daughter, 
Wayward  as  the  Mhmehaha, 
With  her  moods  of  shade  and  sunshine, 
Eyes  that  smiled  and  frowned  alternate, 
Feet  as  rapid  as  the  river, 
Tresses  flowing  like  the  water, 
And  as  musical  a  laughter  : 
And  he  named  her  from  the  river, 
From  the  water-fall  he  named  her, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water. 

Was  it  then  for  heads  of  arrows, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony, 
Arrow-heads  of  flint  and  jasper, 
That  my  Hiawatha  halted 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ? 

Was  it  not  to  see  the  maiden, 
See  the  face  of  Laughing  Water 
Peeping  from  behind  the  curtain, 
Hear  the  rustling  of  her  garments 
From  behind  the  waving  curtain, 
As  one  sees  the  Minnehaha 
Gleaming,  glancing  through  the  branches, 
As  one  hears  the  Laughing  Water 
From  behind  its  screen  of  branches  ? 

Who  shall  say  what  thoughts  and  visions 
Fill  the  fiery  brains  of  young  men  ? 
Who  shall  say  what  dreams  of  beauty 
Filled  the  heart  of  Hiawatha? 
All  he  told  to  old  Nokomis, 
When  he  reached  the  lodge  at  sunset, 
Was  the  meeting  with  his  father, 
Was  his  fight  with  Mudjekeewis  ; 
Not  a  word  he  said  of  arrows, 
Not  a  word  of  Laughing  Water. 


HIAWATHA'S   FASTING    g 

You  shall  hoar  how  Hiawatha 
Prayed  and  fasted  in  the  forest, 
Not  for  greater  skill  in  hunting, 
Not  for  greater  craft  in  fishing, 
Not  for  triumphs  in  the  battle, 
And  renown  among  the  warriors, 
But  for  profit  of  the  people, 
For  advantage  of  the  nations. 

Fi:  st  he  built  a  lodge  for  fasting, 
Built  a  wigwam  in  the  forest, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
In  the  blithe  and  pleasant  Spring-time, 
In  the  Moon  of  Leaves  he  built  it, 


And,  with  dreams  and  visions  many, 
Seven  whole  days  and  nights  he  fasted. 

On  the  first  day  of  his  fasting 
Through  the  leafy  woods  he  wandered  ; 
Saw  the  deer  start  from  the  thicket, 
Saw  the  rabbit  in  his  burrow, 
Heard  the  pheasant,  Bena,  drumming, 
Heard  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Rattling  in  his  hoard  of  acorns, 
Saw  the  pigeon,  the  Omeme, 
Building  nests  among  the  pine-trees, 
And  in  flocks  the  wild-goose,  Wawa, 
Flying  to  the  fen-lands  northward, 
Whirring,  wailing  far  above  him. 
"  Master  of  Life  !  "  he  cried,  desponding, 
"  Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things  ? 

On  the  next  day  of  his  fasting 
By  the  river's  brink  he  wandered, 
Through  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
Saw  the  wild  rice,  Mahnomonee, 
Saw  the  blueberry,  Meenahga, 
And  the  strawberry,  Odahmin, 
And  the  gooseberry,  Shahbomin, 
And  the  grape-vine,  the  Bemahgut, 
Trailing  o'er  the  alder-branches, 
Filling  all  the  air  with  fragrance  ! 
"Master  of  Life  !  "  he  cried,  desponding, 
"  Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things  ? 

On  the  third  day  of  his  fasting 
By  the  lake  he  sat  and  pondered, 
By  the  still,  transparent  water  ; 
Saw  the  sturgeon,  Nahma,  leaping, 
Scattering  drops  like  beads  of  wampum, 
Saw  the  yellow  perch,  the  Sahwa, 
Like  a  sunbeam  in  the  water, 
Saw  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 
And  the  herring,  Okahahwis, 
And  the  Shawgashee,  the  craw-fish  ! 
"Master  of  Life  !  "  he  cried,  desponding, 
"  Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things  ? 

On  the  fourth  day  of  his  fasting 
In  his  lodge  he  lay  exhausted  ; 
From  his  couch  of  leaves  and  branches 
Gazing  with  half-open  eyelids, 
Full  of  shadowy  dreams  and  visions, 
On  the  dizzy,  swimming  landscape, 
On  the  gleaming  of  the  water, 
On  the  splendor  of  the  sunset. 

And  he  saw  a  youth  approaching, 
Dressed  in  garments  green  and  yellow, 
Coming  through  the  purple  twilight, 
Through  the  splendor  of  the  sunset  ; 
Plumes  of  green  bent  o'er  his  forehead, 
And  his  hair  was  soft  anrl  golden. 

Standing  at  the  open  doorway, 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


125 


Long  he  looked  at  Hiawatha, 
Looked  with  pity  and  compassion 
On  his  wasted  form  and  features, 
And,  in  accents  like  the  sighing 
Of  the  South- Wind  in  the  tree-tops, 
Said  he,  "  O  my  Hiawatha  ! 
All  your  prayers  are  heard  in  heaven, 
For  you  pray  not  like  the  others  ; 
Not  for  greater  skill  in  hunting, 
Not  for  greater  craft  in  fishing, 
Not  for  triumph  in  the  battle, 
Nor  renown  among  the  warriors, 
But  for  profit  of  the  people, 
For  advantage  of  the  nations. 

"  From  the  Master  of  Life  descending, 
I,  the  friend  of  man,  Mondamin,  /"pv 
Come  to  warn  you  and  instruct  you, 
How  by  struggle  and  by  labor 
You  shall  gain  what  you  have  prayed  for. 
Rise  up  from  your  bed  of  branches,      ^ 
Rise,  O  youth,  and  wrestle  with  me  1 " 

Faint  with  famine,  Hiawatha 
Started  from  his  bed  of  branches, 
From  the  twilight  of  his  wigwam 
Forth  into  the  flush  of  sunset 
Came,  and  wrestled  with  Mondamin  ; 
At  his  touch  he  felt  new  courage 
Throbbing  in  his  brain  and  bosom, 
Felt  new  life  and  hope  and  vigor 
Run  through  every  nerve  and  fibre. 

So  they  wrestled  there  together 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 
And  the  more  they  strove  and  struggled, 
Stronger  still  grew  Hiawatha  ; 
Till  the  darkness  fell  around  them, 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  nest  among  the  pine-trees, 
Gave  a  cry  of  lamentation, 
Gave  a  scream  of  pain  and  famine. 

"  T  is  enough  !  "  then  said  Mondamin, 
Smiling  upon  Hiawatha, 
"  But  to-morrow,  whsn  the  sun  sets, 
I  will  come  again  to  try  you." 
And  he  vanished,  and  was  seen  not ; 
Whether  sinking  as  the  rain  sinks, 
Whether  rising  as  the  mists  rise, 
Hiawatha  saw  not,  knew  not, 
Only  saw  that  he  had  vanished, 
Leaving  him  alone  and  fainting, 
With  the  misty  lake  below  him, 
And  the  reeling  stars  above  him. 

On  the  morrow  and  the  next  day, 
When  the  sun  through  heaven  descending, 
Like  a  red  and  burning  cinder 
From  the  hearth  of  the  Great  Spirit, 


Fell  into  the  western  waters, 
Came  Mondamin  for  the  trial, 
For  the  strife  with  Hiawatha  ; 
Came  as  silent  as  the  dew  comes, 
From  the  empty  air  appearing, 
Into  empty  air  returning, 
Taking  shape  when  eartli  it  touches, 
But  invisible  to  all  men 
In  its  coining  and  its  going. 

Thrice  they  wrestled  there  together 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 
Till  the  darkness  fell  around  them, 
Till  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  nest  among  the  pine-trees, 
Uttered  her  loud  cry  of  famine, 
And  Mondamin  paused  to  listen. 

Tall  and  beautiful  he  stood  there, 
In  his  garments  green  and  yellow  ; 
To  and  fro  his  plumes  above  him 
Waved  and  nodded  with  his  breathing, 
And  the  sweat  of  the  encounter 
Stood  like  drops  of  dew  upon  him. 

And  he  cried,  "  O  Hiawatha  ! 
Bravely  have  you  wrestled  with  me, 
Thrice  have  wrestled  stoutly  with  me, 
And  the  Master  of  Life,  who  sees  us, 
He  will  give  to  you  the  triumph  ! " 

Then  he  smiled,  and  said  :    "  To-morrow 
Is  the  last  day  of  your  conflict, 
Is  the  last  day  of  your  fasting. 
You  will  conquer  and  o'ercome  me  ; 
Make  a  bed  for  me  to  lie  in, 
Where  the  rain  may  fall  upon  me, 
Where  the  sun  may  come  and  warm  me  ; 
Strip  these  garments,  green  and  yellow, 
Strip  this  nodding  plumage  from  me, 
Lay  me  in  the  earth,  and  make  it 
Soft  and  loose  and  light  above  me. 

"  Let  no  hand  disturb  my  slumber, 
Let  no  weed  nor  worm  molest  me, 
Let  not  Kahgahgee,  the  raven, 
Come  to  haunt  me  and  molest  me, 
Only  come  yourself  to  watch  me, 
Till  I  wake,  and  start,  and  quicken, 
Till  I  leap  into  the  sunshine." 

And  thus  saying,  he  departed  ; 
Peacefully  slept  Hiawatha, 
But  he  heard  the  Wawonaissa, 
Heard  the  whippoorwill  complaining, 
Perched  upon  his  lonely  wigwam  j 
Heard  the  rushing  Sebowisha, 
Heard  the  rivulet  rippling  near  him, 
Talking  to  the  darksome  forest  ; 
Heard  the  sighing  of  the  branches, 
As  they  lifted  and  subsided 


126 


THE   SONG   OF    HIAWATHA 


At  the  passing  of  the  night- wind, 
Heard  them,  as  one  hears  in  slumber 
Far-off  murmurs,  dreamy  whispers  : 
Peacefully  slept  Hiawatha. 

On  the  morrow  came  Nokomis, 
On  the  seventh  clay  of  his  fasting, 
Came  with  food  for  Hiawatha, 
Came  imploring  and  bewailing, 
Lest  his  hunger  should  o'ercome  him, 
Lest  iiis  fasting  should  be  fatal. 

But  he  tasted  not,  and  touched  not, 
Only  said  to  her,  "  Nokomis, 
Wait  until  the  sun  is  setting, 
Till  the  darkness  falls  around  us, 
Till  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Crying  from  the  desolate  marshes, 
Tells  us  that  the  day  is  ended." 

Homeward  weeping  went  Nokomis, 
Sorrowing  for  her  Hiawatha, 
Fearing  lest  his  strength  should  fail  him, 
Lest  his  fasting  should  be  fatal. 
He  meanwhile  sat  weary  waiting 
For  the  coming  of  Mondamin, 
Till  the  shadows,  pointing  eastward, 
Lengthened  over  field  and  forest, 
Till  the  sun  dropped  from  the  heaven, 
Floating  on  the  waters  westward, 
As  a  red  leaf  in  the  Autumn 
Falls  and  floats  upon  the  water, 
Falls  and  sinks  into  its  bosom. 

And  behold  !  the  young  Mondamin, 
With  his  soft  and  shining  tresses, 
With  his  garments  green  and  yellow, 
With  his  long  and  glossy  plumage, 
Stood  and  beckoned  at  the  doorway. 
And  as  one  in  slumber  walking, 
Pale  and  haggard,  but  undaunted, 
From  the  wigwam  Hiawatha 
Came  and  wrestled  with  Mondamin. 

Round  about  him  spun  the  landscape, 
Sky  and  forest  reeled  together, 
And  his  strong  heart  leaped  within  him, 
As  the  sturgeon  leaps  and  struggles 
In  a  net  to  break  its  meshes. 
Like  a  ring  of  fire  around  him 
Blazed  and  flared  the  red  horizon, 
And  a  hundred  Sims  seemed  looking 
At  the  combat  of  the  wrestlers. 

Suddenly  upon  the  greensward 
All  alone  stood  Hiawatha, 
Panting  with  his  wild  exertion, 
Palpitating  with  the  struggle  ; 
And  before  him  breathless,  lifeless, 
Lay  the  youth,  with  hair  dishevelled, 
Plumage  torn,  and  garments  tattered, 


Dead  he  lay  there  in  the  sunset. 

And  victorious  Hiawatha 
Made  the  grave  as  he  commanded, 
Stripped  the  garments  from  Mondamin, 
Stripped  his  tattered  plumage  from  him, 
Laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  made'it 
Soft  and  loose  and  light  above  him  ; 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  the  melancholy  moorlands, 
Gave  a  cry  of  lamentation, 
Gave  a  cry  of  pain  and  anguish  ! 

Homeward  then  went  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis, 
And  the  seven  days  of  his  fasting 
Were  accomplished  and  completed. 
But  the  place  was  not  forgotten 
Where  he  wrestled  with  Mondamin  ; 
Nor  forgotten  n^r  neglected 
Was  the  grave  where  lay  Mondamin, 
Sleeping  in  the  rain  and  sunshine, 
Where  his  scattered  plumes  and  garments 
Faded  in  the  rain  and  sunshine. 

Day  by  day  did  Hiawatha 
Go  to  wait  and  watch  beside  it  ; 
Kept  the  dark  mould  soft  above  it, 
Kept  it  clean  from  weeds  and  insects, 
Drove  away,  with  scoffs  and  shoutings, 
Kahgahgee,  the  king  of  ravens. 

Till  at  length  a  small  green  feather 
From  the  earth  shot  slowly  upward, 
Then  another  and  another, 
And  before  the  Summer  ended 
Stood  the  maize  in  all  its  beauty, 
With  its  shining  robes  about  it, 
And  its  long,  soft,  yellow  tresses  ; 
And  in  rapture  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud,  "  It  is  Mondamin  ! 
Yes,  the  friend  of  man,  Mondamin  ! " 

Then  he  called  to  old  Nokomis 
And  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
Showed  them  where  the  maize  was  growing, 
Told  them  of  his  wondrous  vision, 
Of  his  wrestling  and  his  triumph, 
Of  this  new  gift  to  the  nations, 
Which  should  be  their  food  forever. 

And  still  later,  when  the  Autumn 
Changed  the  long,  green  leaves  to  yellow, 
And  the  soft  and  juicy  kernels 
Grew  like  wampum  hard  and  yellow, 
Then  the  ripened  ears  he  gathered, 
Stripped  the  withered  husks  from  off  them, 
As  he  once  had  stripped  the  wrestler, 
Gave  the  first  Feast  of  Mondamin, 
And  made  known  unto  the  people 
This  new  gift  of  the  Great  Spirit. 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


127 


VI 


HIAWATHA'S    FRIENDS 

T\£O  good  friends  ha'd  Hiawatha, 

Singled  ottt  from  all  the  others, 

Bound  to  him  in  closest  union, 

And  to  whom  he  gave  the  right  hand 

Of  his  heart,  in  joy  and  sorrow  ; 

Chibiabos,  the  musician, 

^ Ami  the,  very  strong  man,  Kwasind. 

Straight  between    them   ran  the    path 
way, 

Never  grew  the  grass  upon  it  ; 
"Singing  birds,  that  utter  falsehoods, 
Story-tellers,  mischief-makers, 
Found  no  eager  ear  to  listen, 
Could  not  breed  ill-will  between  them, 
For  they  kept  each  other's  counsel, 
Spake  with  naked  hearts  together, 
Pondering  much  and  much  contriving 
How  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper. 

Most  beloved  by  Hiawatha 
Was  the  gentle  Chibiabos^y' 
He  the  best  of  all  musicians, 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers. 
Beautiful  and  childlike  was  he, 
Brave  as  man  is,  soft  as  woman, 
Pliant  as  a  wand  of  willow, 
Stately  as  a  deer  with  antlers. 

When  he  sang,  the  village  listened  ; 
All  the  warriors  gathered  round  him, 
All  the  women  came  to  hear  him  ; 
Now  he  stirred  their  souls  to  passion, 
Now  he  melted  them  to  pity. 

From  the  hollow  reeds  he  fashioned 
Flutes  so  musical  and  mellow, 
That  the  brook,  the  Sebowisha, 
Ceased  to  murmur  in  the  woodland, 
That  the  wood-birds  ceased  from  singing, 
And  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Ceased  his  chatter  in  the  oak-tree, 
And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 
Sat  upright  to  look  and  listen. 

Yes,  the  brook,  the  Sebowisha, 
Pausing,  said,  "•  O  Chibiabos, 
Teach  my  waves  to  flow  in  music, 
Softly  as  your  words  in  singing  ! " 

Yes,  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
Envious,  said,  "  O  Chibiabos, 
Teach  me  tones  as  wild  and  wayward, 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  frenzy  ! " 

Yes,  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
Joyous,  said,  "  O  Chibiabos, 


Teach  me  tones  as  sweet  and  tender, 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  gladness  ! " 

And  the  whippoorwill,  Wawonaissa, 
Sobbing,  said,  "  O  Chibiabos, 
Tej0h  me  ton^s  as  melancholy, 
Telich  ifie  songs  as  full  of  sadness  !  " 

All  the  many  sounds  of  nature 
Borrowed  sweetness  from  his  singing  ; 
All  the  hearts  of  men  were  softened 
By  the  pathos  of  his  music  ; 
For  he  sang  of  peace  and  freedom, 
Sang  of  beauty,  love,  and  longing  ; 
Sang  of  death,  and  life  undying 
In  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
In  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
In  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 

Very  dear  to  Hiawatha 
Was  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 
He  the  best  of  all  musicians, 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  ; 
For  his  gentleness  he  loved  him, 
And  the  magic  of  his  singing. 

Dear,  too,  unto  Hiawatha,. — 
Was  the  very  strong  man  ^Kwasind, 
He  the  strongest  of  all  mortals, 
He  the  mightiest  among  many  ; 
For  his  very  strength  he  loved  him, 
For  his  strength  allied  to  goodness. 

Idle  in  his  youth  was  Kwasind, 
Very  listless,  dull,  and  dreamy, 
Never  played  with  other  children, 
Never  fished  and  never  hunted, 
Not  like  other  children  was  he  ; 
But  they  saw  that  much  he  fasted, 
Much  his  Manito  entreated, 
Much  besought  his  Guardian  Spirit. 

"  Lazy  Kwasind  !  "  said  his  mother, 
"  In  my  work  you  never  help  me  ! 
In  the  Summer  you  are  roaming 
Idly  in  the  fields  and  forests  ; 
In  the  Winter  you  are  cowering 
O'er  the  firebrands  in  the  wigwam  ! 
In  the  coldest  days  of  Winter 
I  must  break  the  ice  for  fishing  ; 
With  my  nets  you  never  help  me  ! 
At  the  door  my  nets  are  hanging, 
Dripping,  freezing  with  the  water  ; 
Go  and  wring  them,  Yenadizze  ! 
Go  and  dry  them  in  the  sunshine  ! " 

Slowly,  from  the  ashes,  Kwasind 
Rose,  but  made  no  angry  answer  ; 
From  the  lodge  went  forth  in  silence, 
Took  the  nets,  that  hung  together, 
Dripping,  freezing  at  the  doorway; 
Like  a  wisp  of  straw  he  wrung  them, 


128 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


Like  a  wisp  of  straw  he  broke  them, 
Could  not  wring  them  without  breaking, 
Such  the  strength  was  in  his  fingers. 

"  Lazy  Kwasind  !  "  said  his  father, 
"  In  the  hunt  you  never  help  me  ; 
Every  bow  you  touch  is  broken, 
Snapped  asunder  every  arrow  ; 
Yet  come  with  me  to  the  forest, 
You  shall  bring  the  hunting  homeward." 

Down  a  narrow  pass  they  wandered, 
"Where  a  brooklet  led  them  onward, 
Where  the  trail  of  deer  and  bison 
Marked  the  soft  mud  on  the  margin, 
Till  they  found  all  further  passage 
Shut  against  them,  barred  securely 
By  the  trunks  of  trees  uprooted, 
Lying  lengthwise,  lying  crosswise, 
And  forbidding  further  passage. 

"  We  must  go  back,"  said  the  old  man, 
"  O'er  these  logs  we  cannot  clamber  ; 
Not  a  woodchuck  could  get  through  them, 
Not  a  squirrel  clamber  o'er  them  !  " 
And  straightway  his  pipe  he  lighted, 
And  sat  down  to  smoke  and  ponder. 
But  before  his  pipe  was  finished, 
Lo  !  the  path  was  cleared  before  him  ; 
All  the  trunks  had  Kwasind  lifted, 
To  the  right  hand,  to  the  left  hand, 
Shot  the  pine-trees  swift  as  arrows, 
Hurled  the  cedars  light  as  lances. 

"  Lazy  Kwasind  ! "  said  the  young  men, 
As  they  sported  in  the  meadow  : 
"  Why  stand  idly  looking  at  us, 
Leaning  on  the  rock  behind  you  ? 
Come  and  wrestle  with  the  others, 
Let  us  pitch  the  quoit  together  !  " 

Lazy  Kwasind  made  no  answer, 
To  their  challenge  made  no  answer, 
Only  rose,  and  slowly  turning, 
Seized  the  huge  rock  in  his  fingers, 
Tore  it  from  its  deep  foundation, 
Poised  it  in  the  air  a  moment, 
Pitched  it  sheer  into  the  river, 
Sheer  into  the  swift  Pauwating, 
Where  it  still  is  seen  in  Summer. 

Once  as  down  that  foaming  river, 
Down  the  rapids  of  Pauwating, 
Kwasind  sailed  with  his  companions, 
In  the  stream  he  saw  a  beaver, 
Saw  Ahmeek,  the  King  of  Beavers, 
Struggling  with  the  rushing  currents, 
Rising,  sinking  in  the  water. 

Without  speaking,  without  pausing, 
Kwasind  leaped  into  the  river, 
Plunged  beneath  the  bubbling  surface, 


Through  the  whirlpools  chased  the  beaver, 
Followed  him  among  the  islands, 
Stayed  so  long  beneath  the  water, 
That  his  terrified  companions 
Cried,  "  Alas  !  good-by  to  Kwasind  ! 
We  shall  never  more  see  Kwasind  ! " 
But  he  reappeared  triumphant, 
And  upon  his  shining  shoulders 
Brought  the  beaver,  dead  and  dripping, 
Brought  the  King  of  all  the  Beavers. 
And  these  two,  as  1  have  told  you, 
Were  the  friends  of  Hiawatha, 
Chibiabos,  the  musician, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind. 
Long  they  lived  in  peace  together, 
Spake  with  naked  hearts  together, 
Pondering  much  and  much  contriving 
How  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper. 


VII 


HIAWATHA'S  SAILING 


71 


"  GIVE  me  of  your  bark,  O  Birch-tree  !  ; 
Of  your  yellow  bark,  O  Birch-tree  !    .    j 
Growing  by  the  rushing  river, 
Tall  and  stately  in  the  valley  ! 
I  a  light  canoe  will  build  me, 
Build  a  swift  Cheemann  for  sailing, 
That  shall  float  upon  the  river, 
Like  a  yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 
Like  a  yellow  water-lily  ! 

"  Lay  aside  your  cloak,  O  Birch-tree  1 
Lay  aside  your  white-skin  wrapper, 
For  the  Summer-time  is  coming, 
And  the  sun  is  warm  in  heaven, 
And  you  need  no  white-skin  wrapper  ! ".. 

Thus  aloud  cried  Hiawatha 
In  the  solitary  forest, 
By  the  rushing  Taquamenaw, 
When  the  birds  were  singing  gayly, 
In  the  Moon  of  Leaves  were  singing, 
And  the  sun,  from  sleep  awaking, 
Started  up  and  said,  "  Behold  me  ! 
Geezis,  the  great  Sun,  behold  me  !  " 

And  the  tree  with  all  its  branches 
Rustled  in  the  breeze  of  morning, 
Saying,  with  a  sigh  of  patience, 
"  take  my  cloak,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 

With  his  knife  the  tree  he  girdled  ; 
Just  beneath  its  lowest  branches, 
Just  above  the  roots,  he  cut  it, 
Till  the  sap  came  oozing  outward  ; 
Down  the  trunk,  from  top  to  bottom, 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


129 


Sheer  be  cleft  the  bark  asunder, 
With  a  wooden  wedge  he  raised  it, 
Stripped  it  from  the  trunk  unbroken. 

"  Give  me  of  your  boughs,  O  Cedar  ! 
Of  your  strong  and  pliant  branches, 
My  canoe  to  make  more  steady, 
Make  more  strong  and  firm  beneath  me  ! " 

Through  the  summit  of  the  Cedar 
Went  a  sound,  a  cry  of  horror, 
Went  a  murmur  of  resistance  ; 
But  it  whispered,  bending  downward, 
"  Take  my  boughs,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 

Down  he  hewed  the  boughs  of  cedar, 
Shaped  them  straightway  to  a  frame-work, 
Like    two    bows   he    formed    and    shaped 

them, 
Like  two  bended  bows  together. 

"  Give  me  of  your  roots,  O  Tamarack  ! 
Of  your  fibrous  roots,  O  Larch-tree  ! 
My  canoe  to  bind  together, 
So  to  bind  the  ends  together 
That  the  water  may  not  enter, 
That  the  river  may  not  wet  me  !  " 

And  the  Larch,  with  all  its  fibres, 
Shivered  in  the  air  of  morning, 
Touched  his  forehead  with  its  tassels, 
Said,  with  one  long  sigh  of  sorrow, 
"Take  them  all,  O  Hiawatha  ! " 

From  the  earth  he  tore  the  fibres, 
Tore  the  tough  roots  of  the  Larch-tree, 
Closely  sewed  the  bark  together, 
Bound  it  closely  to  the  frame-work. 

"  Give  me  of  your  balm,  O  Fir-tree  ! 
Of  your  balsam  and  your  resin, 
So  to  close  the  seams  together 
That  the  water  may  not  enter, 
That  the  river  may  not  wet  me  ! " 

And  the  Fir-tree,  tall  and  sombre, 
Sobbed  through  all  its  robes  of  darkness, 
Rattled  like  a  shore  with  pebbles, 
Answered  wailing,  answered  weeping, 
"Take  my  balni^G  Hiawatha  !" 

And  he  took  the  tears  of  balsam, 
Took  the  resin  of  the  Fir-tree, 
Smeared  therewith  each  seam  and  fissure, 
Made  each  crevice  safe  from  water. 

"  Give  me  of  your  quills,  O  Hedgehog  ! 
All  your  quills,  O  Kagh,  the  Hedgehog  ! 
I  will  make  a  necklace  of  them, 
Make  a  girdle  for  my  beauty, 
And  two  stars  to  deck  her  bosom  !  " 

From  a  hollow  tree  the  Hedgehog 
With  his  sleepy  eyes  looked  at  him, 
Shot  his  shining  quills,  like  arrows, 
Saying  with  a  drowsy  murmur, 


Through  the  tangle  of  his  whiskers, 
"  Take  my  quills,  O  Hiawatha  ! " 

From  the  ground  the  quills  he  gathered, 
All  the  little  shining  arrows, 
Stained  them  red  and  blue  and  yellow, 
With  the  juice  of  roots  and  berries  ; 
Into  his  canoe  he  wrought  them, 
Round  its  waist  a  shining  girdle, 
Round  its  bows  a  gleaming  necklace, 
On  its  breast  two  stars  resplendent. 

Thus  the  Birch  Canoe  was  builded 
In  the  valley,  by  the  river, 
In  the  bosom  of  the  forest  ; 
And  the  forest's  life  was  in  it, 
All  its  mystery  and  its  magic, 
All  the  lightness  of  the  birch-tree, 
All  the  toughness  of  the  cedar, 
All  the  larch's  supple  sinews  ; 
And  it  floated  on  the  river 
Like  a  yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 
Like  a  yellow  water-lily. 

Paddles  none  had  Hiawatha, 
Paddles  none  he  had  or  needed, 
For  his  thoughts  as  paddles  served  him, 
And  his  wishes  served  to  guide  him  ; 
Swift  or  slow  at  will  he  glided, 
Veered  to  right  or  left  at  pleasure. 

Then  he  called  aloud  to  Kwasind, 
To  his  friend,  the  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
Saying,  "  Help  me  clear  this  river 
Of  its  sunken  logs  and  sand-bars." 

Straight  into  the  river  Kwasind 
Plunged  as  if  he  were  an  otter, 
Dived  as  if  he  were  a  beaver, 
Stood  up  to  his  waist  in  water. 
To  his  arm-pits  in  the  river, 
Swam  and  shouted  in  the  river, 
Tugged  at  sunken  logs  and  branches, 
With  his  hands  he  scooped  the  sand-bars, 
With  his  feet  the  ooze  and  tangle. 

And  thus  sailed  my  Hiawatha 
Down  the  rushing  Taquamenaw, 
Sailed  through  all  its  bends  and  windings, 
Sailed  through  all  its  deeps  and  shallows, 
While  his  friend,  the  strong  man,  Kwasiud, 
Swam  the  deeps,  the  shallows  waded. 

Up  and  down  the  river  went  they, 
In  and  out  among  its  islands, 
Cleared  its  bed  of  root  and  sand-bar, 
Dragged  the  dead  trees  from  its  channel, 
Made  its  passage  safe  and  certain, 
Made  a  pathway  for  the  people, 
From  its  springs  among  the  mountains, 
To  the  waters  of  Pauwating, 
To  the  bay  of  Taquamenaw. 


1 3o 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


VIII 

HIAWATHA'S   FISHING 

FORTH  upon  the  Gitche  Gumee, 
On  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water, 
With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar, 
Of  the  twisted  bark  of  cedar, 
Forth  to  catch  the  sturgeon  Nahma, 
Mishe-Nahma,  King  of  Fishes, 
In  his  birch  canoe  exulting 
All  alone  went  Hiawatha. 

Through  the  clear,  transparent  water 
He  could  see  the  fishes  swimming 
Far  down  in  the  depths  below  him  ; 
See  the  yellow  perch,  the  Sahwa, 
Like  a  sunbeam  in  the  water, 
See  the  Shawgashee,  the  craw-fish, 
Like  a  spider  on  the  bottom, 
On  the  white  and  sandy  bottom. 

At  the  stern  sat  Hiawatha, 
With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar  ; 
In  his  plumes  the  breeze  of  morning 
Played  as  in  the  hemlock  branches  ; 
On  the  bows,  with  tail  erected, 
Sat  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo  ; 
In  his  fur  the  breeze  of  morning 
Played  as  in  the  prairie  grasses. 

On  the  white  sand  of  the  bottom 
Lay  the  monster  Mishe-Nahma, 
Lay  the  sturgeon,  King  of  Fishes  ; 
Through  his  gills  he  breathed  the  water, 
With  his  fins  he  fanned  and  winnowed, 
With  his  tail  he  swept  the  sand-floor. 

There  he  lay  in  all  his  armor  ; 
On  each  side  a  shield  to  guard  him, 
Plates  of  bone  upon  his  forehead, 
Down  his  sides  and  back  and  shoulders 
Plates  of  bone  with  spines  projecting  ! 
Painted  was  he  with  his  war-paints, 
Stripes  of  yellow,  red,  and  azure, 
Spots  of  brown  and  spots  of  sable  ; 
And  he  lay  there  jpji^the  bottom, 
Fanning  with  his  fins\>f  purple, 
As  above  him  Hiawatha 
In  his  birch  canoe  came  sailing, 
With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar. 

"  Take  my  bait,"  cried  Hiawatha, 
Down  into  the  depths  beneath  him, 
"  Take  my  bait,  O  Sturgeon,  Nahma  ! 
Come  up  from  below  the  water, 
Let  us  see  which  is  the  stronger  !  " 
And  he  dropped  his  line  of  cedar 
Through  the  clear,  transparent  water, 


Waited  vainly  for  an  answer, 
Long  sat  waiting  for  an  answer, 
And  repeating  loud  and  louder, 
"  Take  my  bait,  O  King  of  Fishes  !  " 

Quiet  lay  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Fanning  slowly  in  the  water, 
Looking  up  at  Hiawatha, 
Listening  to  his  call  and  clamor, 
His  unnecessary  tumult, 
Till  he  wearied  of  the  shouting  ; 
And  he  said  to  the  Kenozha, 
To  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 
"  Take  the  bait  of  this  rude  fellow, 
Break  the  line  of  Hiawatha  ! " 

In  his  fingers  Hiawatha 
Felt  the  loose  line  jerk  and  tighten  ; 
As  he  drew  it  in,  it  tugged  so 
That  the  birch  canoe  stood  endwise, 
Like  a  birch  log  in  the  water, 
With  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Perched  and  frisking  on  the  summit. 

Full  of  scorn  was  Hiawatha 
When  he  saw  the  fish  rise  upward, 
Saw  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 
Coming  nearer,  nearer  to  him, 
And  he  shouted  through  the  water, 
"  Esa  !  esa  !  shame  upon  you  ! 
You  are  but  the  pike,  Kenozha, 
You  are  not  the  fish  I  wanted, 
You  are  not  the  King  of  Fishes  ! " 

Reeling  downward  to  the  bottom 
Sank  the  pike  in  great  confusion, 
And  the  mighty  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Said  to  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
To  the  bream,  with  scales  of  crimson, 
"  Take  the  bait  of  this  great  boaster, 
Break  the  line  of  Hiawatha  !  " 

Slowly  upward,  wavering,  gleaming, 
Rose  the  I  gudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
Seized  the  line  of  Hiawatha, 
Swung  with  all  his  weight  upon  it, 
Made  a  whirlpool  in  the  water, 
Whirled  the  birch  canoe  in  circles, 
Round  and  round  in  gurgling  eddies, 
Till  the  circles  in  the  water 
Reached  the  far-off  sandy  beaches, 
Till  the  water-flags  and  rushes 
Nodded  on  the  distant  margins. 

But  when  Hiawatha  saw  him 
Slowly  rising  through  the  water, 
Lifting  up  his  disk  refulgent, 
Loud  he  shouted  in  derision, 
"  Esa  !  esa  !  shame  upon  you  ! 
You  are  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
You  are  not  the  fish  I  wanted, 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


You  are  not  the  King  of  Fishes  ! " 

Slowly  downward,  wavering,  gleaming, 
Sank  the  Ugudwash,  the  sun-tish, 
And  again  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Heard  the  shout  of  Hiawatha, 
Heard  his  challenge  of  defiance, 
The  unnecessary  tumult, 
Ringing  far  across  the  water. 

From  the  white  sand  of  the  bottom 
Up  he  rose  with  angry  gesture, 
Quivering  in  each  nerve  and  fibre, 
Clashing  all  his  plates  of  armor, 
Gleaming  bright  with  all  his  war-paint  ; 
In  his  wrath  he  darted  upward, 
Flashing  leaped  into  the  sunshine, 
Opened  his  great  jaws,  and  swallowed 
(Both  canoe  and  Hiawatha. 
v-  Dtfwn  into  that  darksome  cavern 
Plunged  the  headlong  Hiawatha, 
As  a  log  on  some  black  river 
Shoots  and  plunges  down  the  rapids, 
Found  himself  in  utter  darkness, 
Groped  about  in  helpless  wonder, 
Till  he  felt  a  great  heart  beating, 
Throbbing  in  that  utter  darkness. 

And  he  smote  it  in  his  anger, 
With  his  fist,  the  heart  of  Nahma, 
Felt  the  mighty  King  of  Fishes 
Shudder  through  each  nerve  and  fibre, 
Heard  the  water  gurgle  round  him 
As  he  leaped  and  staggered  through  it, 
Sick  at  heart,  and  faint  and  weary. 

Crosswise  then  did  Hiawatha 
Drag  his  birch-canoe  for  safety, 
Lest  from  out  the  jaws  of  Nahma, 
In  the  turmoil  and  confusion, 
Forth  he  might  be  hurled  and  perish. 
And  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Frisked  and  chattered  very  gayly, 
Toiled  and  tugged  with  Hiawatha 
Till  the  labor  was  completed. 

Then  said  Hiawatha  to  him, 
"  O  my  little  friend,  the  squirrel, 
Bravely  have  you  toiled  to  help  me  ; 
Take  the  thanks  of  Hiawatha, 
And  the  name  which  now  he  gives  you  ; 
For  hereafter  and  forever 
Boys  shall  call  you  Adjidaumo, 
Tail- in-air  the  boys  shall  call  you  !  " 

And  again  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Gasped  and  quivered  in  the  water, 
Then  was  still,  and  drifted  landward 
Till  he  grated  on  the  pebbles, 
Till  the  listening  Hiawatha 
Heard  him  grate  upon  the  margin, 


Felt  him  strand  upon  the  pebbles, 
Knew  that  Nahma,  King  of  Fishes, 
Lay  there  dead  upon  the  margin. 

Then  he  heard  a  clang  and  flapping, 
As  of  many  wings  assembling, 
Heard  a  screaming  and  confusion, 
As  of  birds  of  prey  contending, 
Saw  a  glearn  of  light  above  him, 
Shining  through  the  ribs  of  Nahma, 
Saw  the  glittering  eyes  of  sea-gulls, 
Of  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls,  peering, 
Gazing  at  him  through  the  opening, 
Heard  them  saying  to  each  other, 
"  'Tis  our  brother,  Hiawatha  !  " 

And  he  shouted  from  below  them, 
Cried  exulting  from  the  caverns  : 
"  O  ye  sea-gulls  !     O  my  brothers  ! 
I  have  slain  the  sturgeon,  Nahma  ; 
Make  the  rifts  a  little  larger, 
With  your  claws  the  openings  widen, 
Set  me  free  from  this  dark  prison, 
And  henceforward  and  forever 
Men  shall  speak  of  your  achievements, 
Calling  you  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls, 
Yes,  Kayoshk,  the  Noble  Scratchers  !  " 

And  the  wild  and  clamorous  sea-gulls 
Toiled  with  beak  and  claws  together, 
Made  the  rifts  and  openings  wider 
In  the  mighty  ribs  of  Nahma, 
And  from  peril  and  from  prison, 
From  the  body  of  the  sturgeon, 
From  the  peril  of  the  water, 
They  released  my  Hiawatha. 

He  was  standing  near  his  wigwam, 
On  the  margin  of  the  water, 
And  he  called  to  old  Nokomis, 
Called  and  beckoned  to  Nokomis, 
Pointed  to  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Lying  lifeless  on  the  pebbles, 
With  the  sea-gulls  feeding  on  him. 

"  I  have  slain  the  Mishe-Nahma, 
Slain  the  King  of  Fishes  !  "  said  he  ; 
"  Look  !  the  sea-gulls  feed  upon  him, 
Yes,  my  friends  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls  ; 
Drive  them  not  away,  Nokomis, 
They  have  saved  me  from  great  peril 
In  the  body  of  the  sturgeon, 
Wait  until  their  meal  is  ended, 
Till  their  craws  are  full  with  feasting, 
Till  they  homeward  fly,  at  sunset, 
To  their  nests  among  the  marshes  ; 
Then  bring  all  your  pots  and  kettles, 
And  make  oil  for  us  in  Winter." 

And  she  waited  till  the  sun  set, 
Till  the  pallid  moon,  the  Night-sun, 


132 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


Rose  above  the  tranquil  water, 
Till  Kayoshk,  the  sated  sea-gulls, 
From  their  banquet  rose  with  clamor, 
And  across  the  fiery  sunset 
Winged  their  way  to  far-off  islands, 
To  their  nests  among  the  rushes. 

To  his  sleep  went  Hiawatha, 
And  Nokomis  to  her  labor, 
Toiling  patient  in  the  moonlight, 
Till  the  sun  and  moon  changed  places, 
Till  the  sky  was  red  with  sunrise, 
And  Kayoshk,  the  hungry  sea-gulls, 
Came  back  from  the  reedy  islands, 
Clamorous  for  their  morning  banquet. 

Three  whole  days  and  nights  alternate 
Old  Nokornis  and  the  sea-gulls 
Stripped  the  oily  flesh  of  Nahma, 
Till  the  waves  washed  through  the  rib-bones, 
Till  the  sea-gulls  came  no  longer, 
And  upon  the  .sands  lay  nothing 
But  the  skeleton  of  Nahma. 


IX 


HIAWATHA  AND  THE  PEARL-FEATHER 

ON  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
Of  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Pointing  with  her  finger  westward, 
O?er  the  water  pointing  westward, 
To  the  purple  clouds  of  sunset. 

Fiercely  the  red  sun  descending 
Burned  his  way  along  the  heavens, 
Set  the  sky  on  fire  behind  him, 
As  war-parties,  when  retreating, 
Burn  the  prairies  on  their  war-trail  ; 
And  the  moon,  the  Night-sun,  eastward, 
Suddenly  starting  from  his  ambush, 
Followed  fast  those  bloody  footprints, 
Followed  in  that  fiery  war-trail, 
WTith  its  glare  upon  his  features. 

And  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Pointing  with  her  finger  westward, 
Spake  these  words  to  Hiawatha  : 
"  Yonder  dwells  the  great  Pearl-Feather, 
•Megiss^>gwon,  the  Magician, 
Manito  of  Wealth  and  Wampum, 
Guarded  by  his  fiery  serpents, 
Guarded  by  the  black  pitch-water. 
You  can  see  his  fiery  serpents, 
The  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpents, 
Coiling,  playing  in  the  water  ; 
You  can  see  the  black  pitch-water 


Stretching  far  away  beyond  them, 
To  the  purple  clouds  of  sunset  ! 

"  He  it  was  who  slew  my  father, 
By  his  wicked  wiles  and  cunning, 
When  he  from  the  moon  descended, 
When  he  came  on  earth  to  seek  me. 
He,  the  mightiest  of  Magicians, 
Sends  the  fever  from  the  marshes, 
Sends  the  pestilential  vapors, 
Sends  the  poisonous  exhalations, 
Sends  the  white  fog  from  the  fen-lands, 
Sends  disease  and  death  among  us  ! 

'*  Take  your  bow,  O  Hiawatha, 
Take  your  arrows,  jasper-headed^ 
Take  your  war-club,  Puggawauguiij- 
And  your  mittens,  Minjekah\vunr 
And  your  birch-canoe  for  sailing, 
And  the  oil  of  Mishe-Nahma,— 
So  to  smear  its  sides,  that  swiftly 
You  may  pass  the  black  pitch-water  ; 
Slay  this  merciless  magician, 
Save  the  people  from  the  fever 
That  he  breathes  across  the  fen-lands, 
And  avenge  my  father's  murder  !  " 

Straightway  then  my  Hiawatha 
Armed  himself  with  all  his  war-gear, 
Launched  his  birch-canoe  for  sailing  ; 
With  his  palm  its  sides  he  patted, 
Said  with  glee,  "  Cheejuaun,  my  darling, 
O  my  Birch-canoe  !  Ic;.|>  forward, 
Where  you  see  the  fiery  serpents, 
Where  you  see  the  black  pitch- water  !  " 

Forward  leaped  Cheemaun  exulting, 
And  the  noble  Hiawatha 
Sang  his  war-song  wild  and  woful, 
And  above  him  the  war-eagle, 
The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 
Master  of  all  fowls  with  feathers, 
Screamed  and  hurtled  through  the  heavens. 

Soon  he  reached  the  fiery  serpents, 
The  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpents, 
Lying  huge  upon  the  water, 
Sparkling,  rippling  in  the  water, 
Lying  coiled  across  the  passage, 
With  their  blazing  crests  uplifted, 
Breathing  fiery  fogs  and  vapors, 
So  that  none  could  pass  beyond  them. 

But  the  fearless  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud,  and  spake  in  this  wise, 
"  Let  me  pass  my  way,  Kenabeek, 
Let  me  go  upon  my  journey  !  " 
And  they  answered,  hissing  fiercely, 
With  their  fiery  breath  made  answer  : 
"  Back,  go  back  !     O  Shaugodaya  ! 
Back  to  old  Nokomis,  Faint-heart  !  " 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


133 


Then  the  angry  Hiawatha 
Raised  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 
Seized  his  arrows,  jasper-headed, 
Shot  them  fast  among  the  serpents  ; 
Fvery  twanging  of  the  bow-string 
Was  a  war-cry  and  a  death-cry, 
Every  whizzing  of  an  arrow 
Was  a  death-song  of  Kenabeek. 

Weltering  in  the  bloody  water, 
Dead  lay  all  the  fiery  serpents, 
And  among  them  Hiawatha 
Harmless  sailed,  and  cried  exulting: 
"  Onward,  O  Cheemaun,  my  darling  1 
Onward  to  the  black  pitch-water  ! " 

Then  he  took  the  oil  of  Nahrna, 
And  the  bows  and  sides  anointed, 
Smeared  them  well  with  oil,  that  swiftly 
He  might  pass  the  black  pitch-water. 

All  night  long  he  sailed  upon  it, 
Sailed  upon  that  sluggish  water, 
Covered  with  its  mould  of  ages, 
Black  wiih  rotting  wrater-rushes, 
Hank  with  flags  and  leaves  of  lilies, 
Stagnant,  lifeless,  dreary,  dismal, 
Lighted  by  the  shimmering  moonlight, 
And  by  wilj-o'-the-wisps  illumined, 
Fires  by  ghosts  of  dead  men  kindled, 
In  their  weary  night-encampments. 

All  the  air  was  white  with  moonlight, 
All  the  water  black  with  shadow, 
And  around  him  the  Suggema, 
The  mosquito,  sang  his  war-song, 
And  the  fire-flies,  Wuh-wah-taysee, 
Waved  their  torches  to  mislead  him  ; 
And  the  bull-frog,  the  Dahinda, 
Thrust  his  head  into  the  moonlight, 
Fixed  his  yellow  eyes  upon  him, 
Sobbed  and  sank  beneath  the  surface  ; 
And  anon  a  thousand  whistles, 
Answered  over  all  the  fen-lands, 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Far  off  on  the  reedy  margin, 
Heralded  the  hero's  coming. 

Westward  thus  fared  Hiawatha, 
Toward  the  realm  of  Megissogwon, 
Toward  the  land  of  the  Pearl-Feather, 
Till  the  level  moon  stared  at  him, 
In  his  face  stared  pale  and  haggard, 
Till  the  sun  was  hot  behind  him, 
Till  it  burned  upon  his  shoulders, 
And  before  him  on  the  upland 
He  could  see  the  Shining  Wigwam 
Of  the  Manito  of  Wampum, 
Of  the  mightiest  of  Magicians. 

Then  once  more  Cheemaun  he  patted, 


To  his  birch-canoe  said,  "  Onward  1  " 

And  it  stirred  in  all  its  fibres, 

And  with  one  great  bound  of  triumph 

Leaped  across  the  water-lilies, 

Leaped  through  tangled  flags  and  rushes, 

And  upon  the  beach  beyond  them 

Dry-shod  landed  Hiawatha. 

Straight  he  took  his  bow  of  ash-tree, 
On  the  sand  one  end  he  rested, 
With  his  knee  he  pressed  the  middle, 
Stretched  the  faithful  bow-string  tighter, 
Took  an  arrow,  jasper-headed, 
Shot  it  at  the  Shining  Wigwam, 
Sent  it  singing  as  a  herald, 
As  a  bearer  of  his  message, 
Of  his  challenge  loud  and  lofty  : 
"Come    forth     from    your    lodge,   Pearl- 
Feather  ! 
Hiawatha  waits  your  coming  !  " 

Straightway  from  the  Shining  Wigwam 
Came  the  mighty  Megissogwon, 
Tall  of  stature,  broad  of  shoulder, 
Dark  and  terriule  in  aspect, 
Clad  from  head  to  foot  in  wampum, 
Armed  with  all  his  warlike  weapons, 
Painted  like  the  sky  of  morning, 
Streaked  with  crimson,  blue,  and  yellow, 
Crested  with  great  eagle-feathers, 
Streaming  upward,  streaming  outward. 

"  Well  I  know  you,  Hiawatha  !  " 
Cried  he  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 
In  a  tone  of  loud  derision. 
"  Hasten  back,  O  Shaugodaya ! 
Hasten  back  among  the  women, 
Back  to  old  Nokomis,  Faint-heart  I 
I  will  slay  you  as  you  stand  there, 
As  of  old  I  slew  her  father  !  " 

But  my  Hiawatha  answered, 
Nothing  daunted,  fearing  nothing  : 
"  Big  words  do  not  smite  like  war-clubs, 
Boastful  breath  is  not  a  bow-string, 
Taunts  are  not  so  sharp  as  arrows, 
Deeds  are  better  things  than  words  are, 
Actions  mightier  than  boastings  I " 

Then  began  the  greatest  battle 
That  the  sun  had  ever  looked  on, 
That  the  war-birds  ever  witnessed. 
All  a  Summer's  day  it  lasted, 
From  the  sunrise  to  the  sunset  ; 
For  the  shafts  of  Hiawatha 
Harmless  hit  the  shirt  of  wampum, 
Harmless  felt  the  blows  he  dealt  it 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Harmless  fell  the  heavy  war-club  ; 
It  could  clash  the  rocks  asunder, 


134 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


But  it  could  not  break  the  meshes 
Of  that  magic  shirt  of  wampum. 

Till  at  sunset  Hiawatha, 
Leaning  on  his  how  of  ash-tree, 
Wounded,  weary,  and  desponding, 
With  his  mighty  war-club  broken, 
With  his  mittens  torn  and  tattered, 
And  three  useless  arrows  only, 
Paused  to  rest  beneath  a  pine-tree, 
From  whose  branches  trailed  the  mosses, 
And  whose  trunk  was  coated  over 
With  the  Dead-man's  Moccasin-leather, 
With  the  fungus  white  and  yellow. 

Suddenly  from  the  boughs  above  him 
Sang  the  Mama,  the  woodpecker  : 
"  Aim  your  arrows,  Hiawatha, 
At  the  head  of  Megissogwon, 
Strike  the  tuft  of  hair  upon  it, 
At  their  roots  the  long  black  tresses  ; 
There  alone  can  he  be  wounded  !  " 

Winged  with  feathers,  tipped  with  jasper, 
Swift  flew  Hiawatha's  arrow, 
Just  as  Megissogwon,  stooping, 
Raised  a  heavy  stone  to  throw  it. 
Full  upon  the  crown  it  struck  him, 
At  the  roots  of  his  long  tresses, 
And  he  reeled  and  staggered  forward, 
Plunging  like  a  wounded  bison, 
Yes,  like  Pezhekee,  the  bison, 
When  the  snow  is  on  the  prairie. 

Swifter  flew  the  second  arrow, 
In  the  pathway  of  the  other, 
Piercing  deeper  than  the  other, 
Wounding  sorer  than  the  other  ; 
And  the  knees  of  Megissogwon 
Shook  like  windy  reeds  beneath  him, 
Bent  and  trembled  like  the  rushes. 

But  the  third  and  latest  arrow 
Swiftest  flew,  and  wounded  sorest, 
And  the  mighty  Megissogwon 
Saw  the  fiery  eyes  of  Pauguk, 
Saw  the  eyes  of  Death  glare  at  him, 
Heard  his  voice  call  in  the  darkness  ; 
At  the  feet  of  Hiawatha 
Lifeless  lay  the  great  Pearl-Feather, 
Lay  the  mightiest  of  Magicians. 

Then  the  grateful  Hiawatha 
Called  the  Mama,  the  woodpecker, 
From  his  perch  among  the  branches 
Of  the  melancholy  pine-tree, 
And,  in  honor  of  his  service, 
Stained  with  blood  the  tuft  of  feathers 
On  the  little  head  of  Mama  ; 


Even  to  this  day  he  wears  it, 
Wears  the  tuft  of  crimson  feathers, 
As  a  symbol  of  his  service. 

Then  he  stripped  the  shirt  of  wampum 
From  the  back  of  Megissogwon, 
As  a  trophy  of  the  battle, 
As  a  signal  of  his  conquest. 
On  the  shore  he  left  the  body, 
Half  on  land  and  half  in  water, 
In  the  sand  his  feet  were  buried, 
And  his  face  was  in  the  water. 
And  above  him,  wheeled  and  clamored 
The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 
Sailing  round  in  narrower  circles, 
Hovering  nearer,  nearer,  nearer. 

From  the  wigwam  Hiawatha 
Bore  the  wealth  of  Megissogwon, 
All  his  wealth  of  skins  and  wampum, 
Furs  of  bison  and  of  beaver, 
Furs  of  sable  and  of  ermine, 
Wampum  belts  and  strings  and  pouches, 
Quivers  wrought  with  beads  of  wampum, 
Filled  with  arrows,  silver-headed. 

Homeward  then  he  sailed  exulting, 
Homeward  through  the  black  pitch-water, 
Homeward  through  the  weltering  serpents. 
With  the  trophies  of  the  battle, 
With  a  shout  and  song  of  triumph. 

On  the  shore  stood  old  Nokomis, 
On  the  shore  stood  Chibiabos, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
Waiting  for  the  hero's  coming, 
Listening  to  his  songs  of  triumph. 
And  the  people  of  the  village 
Welcomed  him  with  songs  and  dances, 
Made  a  joyous  feast,  and  shouted  : 
"  Honor  be  to  Hiawatha  ! 
He  has  slain  the  great  Pearl- Feather, 
Slain  the  mightiest  of  Magicians, 
Him,  who  sent  the  fiery  fever, 
Sent  the  white  fog  from  the  fen-lands, 
Sent  disease  and  death  among  us  !  " 

Ever  dear  to  Hiawatha 
Was  the  memory  of  Mama  ! 
And  in  token  of  his  friendship, 
As  a  mark  of  his  remembrance, 
He  adorned  and  decked  his  pipe  stem 
With  the  crimson  tuft  of  feathers, 
With  the  blood-red  crest  of  Mama. 
But  the  wealth  of  Megissogwon, 
All  the  trophies  of  the  battle, 
He  divided  with  his  people, 
Shared  it  equally  among  them. 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


135 


X 


HIAWATHA'S  WOOING 

"  As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is, 

So  unto  the  man  is  woman  ; 

Though  she  bends  him,  she  obeys  him, 

Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows  ; 

Useless  each  without  the  other  !  " 

Thus  the  youthful  Hiawatha 
Said  within  himself  and  pondered, 
Much  perplexed  by  various  feelings, 
Listless,  longing,  hoping,  fearing, 
Dreaming  still  of  Minnehaha, 
Of  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs. 

"  Wed  a  maiden  of  your  people," 
Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis  ; 
"  Go  not  eastward,  go  not  westward, 
For  a  stranger,  whom  we  know  not  ! 
Like  a  fire  upon  the  hearth-stone 
Is  a  neighbor's  homely  daughter, 
Like  the  starlight  or  the  moonlight 
Is  the  handsomest  of  strangers  !  " 

Thus  dissuading  spake  Nokomis, 
And  my  Hiaftoatha^answered 
Only  this  :  "  Dear  old  Nokomis, 
Very  pleasant  is  the  firelight, 
But  I  like  the  starlight  better, 
Better  do  I  like  the  moonlight !  " 

Gravely  then  said  old  Nokomis  : 
"  Bring  not  here  an  idle  maiden, 
Bring  not  here  a  useless  woman, 
Hands  unskilful,  feet  unwilling  ; 
Bring  a  wife  with  nimble  fingers, 
Heart  and  hand  that  move  together, 
Feet  that  run  on  willing  errands  !  " 

Smiling  answered  Hiawatha  : 
"  In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs 
Lives  the  Arrow-maker's  daughter, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women. 
I  will  bring  her  to  your  wigwam, 
She  shall  run  upon  your  errands, 
Be  your  starlight,  moonlight,  firelight, 
Be  the  sunlight  of  my  people  !  " 

Still  dissuading  said  Nokomis  : 
"  Bring  not  to  my  lodge  a  stranger 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ! 
Very  fierce  are  the  Dacotahs, 
Often  is  there  war  between  us, 
There  are  feuds  yet  nnforgotten, 
Wounds  that  ache  and  still  may  open  1  " 

Laughing  answered  Hiawatha : 


"  For  that  reason,  if  no  other, 
Would  I  wed  the  fair  Dacotah, 
That  our  tribes  might  be  united, 
That  old  feuds  might  be  forgotten, 
And  old  wounds  be  healed  forever  J  " 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha 
To  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
To  the  land  of  handsome  women  ; 
Striding  over  moor  and  meadow, 
Through  interminable  forests, 
Through  uninterrupted  silence. 

With  his  moccasins  of  magic, 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured  ; 
Yet  the  way  seemed  long  before  him, 
And  his  heart  outran  his  footsteps  ; 
And  he  journeyed  without  resting, 
Till  he  heard  the  cataract's  laughter, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  through  the  silence. 
"  Pleasant  is  the  sound  !  "  he  murmuredj 
"  Pleasant  is  the  voice  that  calls  me  !  " 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  forests, 
'Twixt  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine, 
Herds  of  fallow  deer  were  feeding, 
But  they  saw  not  Hiawatha  ; 
To  his  bow  he  whispered,  "  Fail  not  !  " 
To  his  arrow  whispered,  "  Swerve  not !  " 
Sent  it  singing  on  its  errand, 
To  the  red  heart  of  the  roebuck  ; 
Threw  the  deer  across  his  shoulder, 
And  sped  forward  without  pausing. 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam 
Sat  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
Making  arrow-heads  of  jasper, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony. 
At  his  side,  in  all  her  beauty, 
Sat  the  lovely  Minnehaha, 
Sat  his  daughter,  Laughing  Water, 
Plaiting  mats  of  flags  and  rushes  ; 
Of  the  past  the  old  man's  thoughts  were. 
And  the  maiden's  of  the  future. 

He  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  there, 
Of  the  days  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow  ; 
Shot  the  wild  goose,  flying  southward, 
On  the  wing,  the  clamorous  Wawa  ; 
Thinking  of  the  great  war-parties, 
How  they  came  to  buy  his  arrows, 
Could  not  fight  without  his  arrows. 
Ah,  no  more  such  noble  warriors 
Could  be  found  on  earth  as  they  were  ! 
Now  the  men  were  all  like  women, 
Only  used  their  tongues  for  weapons  ! 


136 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


She  was  thinking  of  a  hunter, 
From  another  tribe  and  country, 
Young-  and  tall  and  very  handsome, 
Who  one  morning,  in  the  (Spring-time, 
Came  to  buy  her  father's  arrows, 
Sat  and  rested  in  the  wigwam, 
Lingered  long  about  the  doorway, 
Looking  back  as  he  departed. 
She  had  heard  her  father  praise  him, 
Praise  his  courage  and  his  wisdom ; 
Would  he  come  again  for  arrows 
To  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha  ? 
On  the  mat  her  hands  lay  idle, 
And  her  eyes  were  very  dreamy. 

Through   their    thoughts    they   heard   a 

footstep, 

Heard  a  rustling  in  the  branches, 
And  with  glowing  cheek  and  forehead, 
With  the  deer  upon  his  shoulders, 
Suddenly  from  out  the  woodlands 
Hiawatha  stood  before  them. 

Straight  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Looked  up  gravely  from  his  labor, 
Laid  aside  the  unfinished  arrow, 
Bade  him  enter  at  the  doorway, 
Saying,  as  he  rose  to  meet  him, 
"  Hiawatha,  you  are  welcome  !  " 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 
Threw  the  red  deer  from  his  shoulders  ; 
And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him, 
Looked  up  from  her  mat  of  rushes, 
Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent, 
"  You  are  welcome,  Hiawatha  !  " 

Very  spacious  was  the  wigwam, 
Made  of  deer-skins  dressed  and  whitened, 
With  the  Gods  of  the  Dacotahs 
Drawn  and  painted  on  its  curtains, 
And  so  tall  the  doorway,  hardly 
Hiawatha  stooped  to  enter, 
Hardly  touched  his  eagle-feathers 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway. 

Then  uprose  the  Laughing  Water, 
From  the  ground  fair  Minnehaha, 
Laid  aside  her  mat  unfinished, 
Brought  forth  food  and  set  before  them, 
Water  brought  them  from  the  brooklet, 
Gave  them  food  in  earthen  vessels, 
Gave  them  drink  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking, 
Listened  while  her  father  answered, 
But  not  once  her  lips  she  opened, 
Not  a  single  word  she  uttered. 

Yes,  as  in  a  dream  she  listened 
To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 


As  he  talked  of  old  Nokomis, 

Who  had  nursed  him  in  ins  childhood, 

As  he  told  of  his  companions, 

Chiuiabos,  the  musician, 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 

And  of  happiness  and  plenty 

In  the  laud  of  the  Ojibways, 

In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful. 

"  After  many  years  of  warfare, 
Many  years  of  strife  and  bloodshed, 
There  is  peace  between  the  Ojibways 
And  the  tribe  of  the  Dacotahs." 
Thus  continued  Hiawatha, 
And  then  added,  speaking  slowly, 
"  That  this  peace  may  last  forever, 
And  our  hands  be  clasped  more  closely, 
And  our  hearts  be  more  united, 
Give  me  as  my  wife  this  maiden, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Loveliest  of  Dacotah  women  !  " 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Paused  a  moment  ere  he  answered, 
Smoked  a  little  while  in  silence, 
Looked  at  Hiawatha  proudly, 
Fondly  looked  at  Laughing  Water, 
And  made  answer  very  gravely  : 
"  Yes,  if  Minnehaha  wishes  ; 
Let  your  heart  speak,  Minnehaha  !  " 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Seemed  more  lovely  as  she  stood  there, 
Neither  willing  nor  reluctant, 
As  she  went  to  Hiawatha, 
Softly  took  the  seat  beside  him, 
While  she  said,  and  blushed  to  say  it, 
"  I  will  follow  you,  my  husband  !  " 

This  was  Hiawatha's  wooing  ! 
Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ! 

From  the  wigwam  ho  departed, 
Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water  ; 
Hand  in  hand  they  went  together, 
Through  the  woodland  and  the  meadow, 
Left  the  old  man  standing  lonely 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  them  from  the  distance, 
Crying  to  them  from  afar  off, 
"  Fare  thee  well,  O  Minnehaha  !  " 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Turned  again  unto  his  labor, 
Sat  down  by  his  sunny  doorway, 
Murmuring  to  himself,  and  saying  : 
yThus  it  is  our  daughters  leave  us, 
Those  we  love,  and  those  who  love  us  ! 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


137 


Just  when  they  have  learned  to  help  us, 
When  we  are  old  and  lean  upon  them, 
Comes  a  youth  with  daunting  feathers, 
With  his^flute  of  reeds,  a  stranger 
Wanders  piping  through  the  village, 
Beckons  to  the  fairest  maiden, 
And  she  follows  where  he  leads  her, 
Leaving  all  things  for  the  stranger!)" 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward, 
Through  interminable  forests, 
Over  meadow,  over  mountain, 
Over  river,  hill,  and  hollow. 
Short  it  seemed  to  Hiawatha, 
Though  they  journeyed  very  slowly, 
Though  his  pace  he  checked  and  slackened 
To  the  steps  of  Laughing  Water. 

Over  wide  and  rushing  rivers 
In  his  arms  he  bore  the  maiden  ; 
Light  he  thought  her  as  a  feather, 
As  the  plume  upon  his  head-gear  ; 
Cleared  the  tangled  pathway  for  her, 
Bent  aside  the  swaying  branches, 
Made  at  night  a  lodge  of  branches, 
And  a  bed  with  boughs  of  hemlock, 
And  a  fire  before  the  doorway 
With  the  dry  cones  of  the  pine-tree. 

All  the  travelling  winds  went  with  them, 
O'er  the  meadows,  through  the  forest  ; 
All  the  stars  of  night  looked  at  them, 
Watched  with  sleepless  eyes  their  slumber; 
From  his  ambush  in  the  oak-tree 
Peeped  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Watched  with  eager  eyes  the  lovers  ; 
And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 
Scampered  from  the  path  before  them, 
Peering,  peeping  from  his  burrow, 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 
Watcljed  with  curious  eyes  the  lovers. 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward  ! 
All  the  birds  sang  loud  and  sweetly 
Songs  of  happiness  and  heart's-ease  ; 
Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
"  Happy  are  you,  Hiawatha, 
Having  such  a  wife  to  love  you  !  " 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
w  Happy  are  you,  Laughing  Water, 
Having  such  a  noble  husband  !  " 

From  the  sky  the  sun  benignant 
Looked  upon  them  through  the  branches, 
Saying  to  them,  "  O  my  children, 
Love  is  sunshine,  hate  is  shadow, 
Life  is  checkered  shade  and  sunshine, 
Rule  by  love,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 

From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at  them, 
Filled  the  lodge  with  mystic  splendors, 


Whispered  to  them,  "  O  my  children, 
Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 
Man  imperious,  woman  feeble  ; 
Half  is  mine,  although  1  follow  ; 
Rule  by  patience,  Laughing  Water  !  " 

Thus  it  was  they  journeyed  homeward  ; 
Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis 
Brought  the  moonlight,  starlight,  firelight, 
Brought  the  sunshine  of  his  people, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
In  the  land  of  handsome  women. 


XI 

HIAWATHA'S    WEDDING-FEAST 

You  shall  hear  how  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
How  the  handsome  Yenadizze 
Danced  at  Hiawatha's  wedding  ; 
How  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 
He  the  sweetest  of  musicians, 
Sang  his  songs  of  love  and  longing  ; 
How  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 
Told  his  tales  of  strange  adventure, 
That  the  feast  might  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  might  pass  more  gayly, 
And  the  guests  be  more  contented. 

Sumptuous  was  the  feast  Nokomis 
Made  at  Hiawatha's  wedding  ; 
All  the  bowls  were  made  of  bass-wood, 
White  and  polished  very  smoothly, 
All  the  spoons  of  horn  of  bison, 
Black  and  polished  very  smoothly. 

She  had  sent  through  all  the  village 
Messengers  with  wands  of  willow, 
As  a  sign  of  invitation, 
As  a  token  of  the  feasting  ; 
And  the  wedding  guests  assembled, 
Clad  in  all  their  richest  raiment, 
Robes  of  fur  and  belts  of  wampum, 
Splendid  with  their  paint  and  plumage, 
Beautiful  with  beads  and  tassels. 

First  they  ate  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
And  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 
Caught  and  cooked  by  old  Nokomis  ; 
Then  on  pemican  they  feasted, 
Pemican  and  buffalo  marrow, 
Haunch  of  deer  and  hump  of  bison, 
Yellow  cakes  of  the  Mondamin, 
And  the  wild  rice  of  the  river. 


138 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


But  the  gracious  Hiawatha, 
And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 
And  the  careful  old  Nokomis, 
Tasted  not  the  food  before  them, 
Only  waited  on  the  others, 
Only  served  their  guests  in  silence. 

And  when  all  the  guests  had  finished, 
Old  Nokomis,  brisk  and  busy, 
From  an  ample  pouch  of  otter, 
Filled  the  red-stone  pipes  for  smoking 
With  tobacco  from  the  South-land, 
Mixed  with  bark  of  the  red  willow, 
And  with  herbs  and  leaves  of  fragrance. 

Then  she  said,  "  O  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Dance  for  us  your  merry  dances, 
Dance  the  Beggar's  Dance  to  please  us, 
That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 
And  our  guests  be  more  contented  !  " 

Then  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
He  the  idle  Yenadizze, 
He  the  merry  mischief-maker, 
Whom  the  people  called  the  Storm-Fool, 
Rose  among  the  guests  assembled. 

Skilled  was  he  in  sports  and  pastimes, 
In  the  merry  dance  of  snow-shoes, 
In  the  play  of  quoits  and  ball-play  ; 
Skilled  was  he  in  games  of  hazard, 
In  all  games  of  skill  and  hazard, 
Pugasaing,  the  Bowl  and  Counters, 
Kuntassoo,  the  Game  of  Plum-stones. 
Though   the    warriors   called     him    Faint- 
Heart, 

Called  him  coward,  Shaugodaya, 
Idler,  gambler,  Yenadizze, 
Little  heeded  he  their  jesting, 
Little  cared  he  for  their  insults, 
For  the  women  and  the  maidens 
Loved  the  handsome  Pau-Pnk-Keewis. 

He  was  dressed  in  shirt  of  doeskin, 
White  and  soft,  and  fringed  with  ermine, 
All  inwrought  with  beads  of  wampum  ; 
He  was  dressed  in  deer-skin  leggings,     ' 
Fringed  with  hedgehog  quills  and  ermine, 
And  in  moccasins  of  buck-skin, 
Thick  with  quills  and  beads  embroidered. 
On  his  head  were  plumes  of  swan's  down, 
On  his  heels  were  tails  of  foxes, 
In  one  hand  a  fan  of  feathers, 
And  a  pipe  was  in  the  other. 

Barred  with  streaks  of  red  and  yellow, 
Streaks  of  blue  and  bright  vermilion, 
Shone  the  face  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
From  his  forehead  fell  his  tresses, 
Smooth,  and  parted  like  a  woman's, 


Shining  bright  with  oil,  and  plaited, 
Hung  with  braids  of  scented  grasses, 
As  among  the  guests  assembled, 
To  the  sound  of  flutes  and  singing, 
To  the  sound  of  drums  and  voices, 
Rose  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
And  began  his  mystic  dances. 

First  he  danced  a  solemn  measure, 
Very  slow  in  step  and  gesture, 
In  and  out  among  the  pine-trees, 
Through  the  shadows  and  the  sunshine, 
Treading  softly  like  a  panther. 
Then  more  swiftly  and  still  swifter, 
Whirling,  spinning  round  in  circles, 
Leaping  o'er  the  guests  assembled, 
Eddying  round  and  round  the  wigwam, 
Till  the  leaves  went  whirling  with  him, 
Till  the  dust  and  wind  together 
Swept  in  eddies  round  about  him. 

Then  along  the  sandy  margin 
Of  the  lake,  the  Big-Sea-Water, 
On  he  sped  with  frenzied  gestures, 
Stamped  upon  the  sand,  and  tossed  it 
Wildly  in  the  air  around  him  ; 
Till  the  wind  became  a  whirlwind, 
Till  the  sand  was  blown  and  sifted 
Like  great  snowdrifts  o'er  the  landscape, 
Heaping  all  the  shores  with  S?.nd  Dunes, 
Sand  Hills  of  the  Nagow  Wudjoo  ! 

Thus  the  merry  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Danced  his  Beggar's  Dance  to  please  them, 
And,  returning,  sat  down  laughing 
There  among  the  guests  assembled, 
Sat  and  fanned  himself  serenely 
With  his  fan  of  turkey-feathers. 

Then  they  said  to  Chibiabos, 
To  the  friend  of  Hiawatha, 
To  the  sweetest  of  all  singers, 
To  the  best  of  all  musicians, 
"  Sing  to  us,  O  Chibiabos  ! 
Songs  of  love  and  songs  of  longing, 
That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 
And  our  guests  be  more  contented  !  " 

And  the  gentle  Chibiabos 
Sang  in  accents  sweet  and  tender, 
Sang  in  tones  of  deep  emotion, 
Songs  of  love  and  songs  of  longing  ; 
Looking  still  at  Hiawatha, 
Looking  at  fair  Laughing  Water, 
Sang  he  softly,  sang  in  this  wise  : 

"  Onaway  !     Awake,  beloved  ! 
Thou  the  wild-flower  of  the  forest  ! 
Thou  the  wild-bird  of  the  prairie  ! 
Thou  with  eyes  so  soft  and  fawn-like  ! 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


139 


"  If  thou  only  lookest  at  me, 
I  am  happy,  I  am  happy, 
As  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 
When  they  feel  the  dew  upon  them  ! 

"  Sweet  thy  breath  is  as  the  fragrance 
Of  the  wild-flowers  in  the  morning, 
As  their  fragrance  is  at  evening, 
In  the  Moon  when  leaves  are  falling. 

"Does  not  all  the  blood  within  me 
Leap  to  meet  thee,  leap  to  meet  thee, 
As  the  springs  to  meet  the  sunshine, 
In  the  Moon  when  nights  are  brightest  ? 

"  Onaway  !  my  heart  sings  to  thee, 
Sings  with  joy  when  thou  art  near  me, 
As  the  sighing,  singing  branches 
In  the  pleasant  Moon  of  Strawberries  ! 

"  When  thou  art  not  pleased,  beloved, 
Then  my  heart  is  sad  and  darkened, 
As  the  shining  river  darkens 
When  the  clouds  drop  shadows  on  it  ! 

"  When  thou  smilest,  my  beloved, 
Then  my  troubled  heart  is  brightened, 
As  in  sunshine  gleam  the  ripples 
That  the  cold  wind  makes  in  rivers. 

"  Smiles  the  earth,  and  smile  the  waters. 
Smile  the  cloudless  skies  above  us, 
But  I  lose  the  way  of  smiling 
When  thou  art  no  longer  near  me  ! 

"  I  myself,  myself  !  behold  me  ! 
Blood  of  my  beating  heart,  behold  me  ! 
Oh  awake,  awake,  beloved  ! 
Onaway  !  awake,  beloved  !  " 

Thus  the  gentle  Chibiabos 
Sang  his  song  of  love  and  longing  ; 
And  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 
He  the  friend  of  old  Nokomis, 
Jealous  of  the  sweet  musician, 
Jealous  of  the  applause  they  gave  him, 
Saw  in  all  the  eyes  around  him, 
Saw  in  all  their  looks  and  gestures, 
That  the  wedding  guests  assembled 
Longed  to  hear  his  pleasant  stories, 
His  immeasurable  falsehoods. 

Very  boastful  was  lagoo  ; 
Never  heard  he  an  adventure 
But  himself  had  met  a  greater  ; 
Never  any  deed  of  daring 
But  himself  had  done  a  bolder  ; 
Never  any  marvellous  story 
But  himself  could  tell  a  stranger. 

Would  you  listen  to  his  boasting, 
Would  you  only  give  him  credence, 
No  one  ever  shot  an  arrow 
Half  so  far  and  high  as  he  had  ; 


Ever  caught  so  many  fishes, 
Ever  killed  so  many  reindeer, 
Ever  trapped  so  many  beaver  ! 

None  could  run  so  fast  as  he  could, 
None  could  dive  so  deep  as  he  could, 
None  could  swim  so  far  as  he  could  ; 
Noi?.e  had  made  so  many  journeys, 
None  had  seen  so  many  wonders, 
As  this  wonderful  lagoo, 
As  this  marvellous  story-teller  ! 

Thus  his  name  became  a  by-word 
And  a  jest  among  the  people  ; 
And  whene'er  a  boastful  hunter 
Praised  his  own  address  too  highly, 
Or  a  warrior,  home  returning, 
Talked  too  much  of  his  achievements, 
All  his  hearers  cried,  "  lagoo  ! 
Here  's  lagoo  come  among  us  !  " 

He  it  was  who  carved  the  cradle 
Of  the  little  Hiawatha, 
Carved  its  framework  out  of  linden, 
Bound  it  strong  with  reindeer  sinews  ; 
He  it  was  who  taught  him  later 
How  to  make  his  bows  and  arrows, 
How  to  make  the  bows  of  ash-tree, 
And  the  arrows  of  the  oak-tree. 
So  among  the  guests  assembled 
At  my  Hiawatha's  wedding 
Sat  lagoo,  old  and  ugly, 
Sat  the  marvellous  story-teller. 

And  they  said,  "  O  good  lagoo, 
Tell  us  now  a  tale  of  wonder, 
Tell  us  of  some  strange  adventure, 
That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 
And  our  guests  be  more  contented  !  " 

And  lagoo  answered  straightway, 
"  You  shall  hear  a  tale  of  wonder, 
You  shall  hear  the  strange  adventures 
Of  Osseo,  the  Magician, 
From  the  Evening  Star  descended." 


XII 

THE  SON  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR 

CAN  it  be  the  sun  descending 
O'er  the  level  plain  of  water  ? 
Or  the  Red  Swan  floating,  flying, 
Wounded  by  the  magic  arrow, 
Staining  all  the  waves  with  crimson, 
With  the  crimson  of  its  life-blood, 
Filling  all  the  air  with  splendor, 
With  the  splendor  of  its  plumage  ? 


140 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


Yes  ;  it  is  the  sun  descending, 
Sinking  down  into  the  water  ; 
All  the  sky  is  stained  with  purple, 
All  the  water  flushed  with  crimson  ! 
No  ;  it  is  the  lied  Swan  floating, 
Diving  down  beneath  the  water  ; 
To  the  sky  its  wings  are  lifted, 
With  its  blood  the  waves  are  reddened  ! 

Over  it  the  Star  of  Evening 
Melts  and  trembles  through  the  purple, 
Hangs  suspended  in  the  twilight. 
No  ;  it  is  a  bead  of  wampum 
On  the  robes  of  the  Great  Spirit 
As  he  passes  through  the  twilight, 
Walks  in  silence  through  the  heavens. 

This  with  joy  beheld  Jagoo 
And  he  said  in  haste  :  "  Behold  it ! 
See  the  sacred  Star  of  Evening  ! 
You  shall  hear  a  tale  of  wonder, 
Hear  the  story  of  Osseo, 
Son  of  the  Evening  Star,  Osseo  ! 

"  Once,  in  days  no  more  remembered, 
Ages  nearer  the  beginning, 
When  the  heavens  were  closer  to  us, 
And  the  Gods  were  more  familiar, 
In  the  North-land  lived  a  hunter, 
With  ten  young  and  comely  daughters, 
Tall  and  lithe  as  wands  of  willow  ; 
Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 
She  the  wilful  and  the  wayward, 
She  the  silent,  dreamy  maiden, 
Was  the  fairest  of  the  sisters. 

"  All  these  women  married  warriors, 
Married  brave  and  haughty  husbands  ; 
Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 
Laughed  and  flouted  all  her  lovers, 
All  her  young  and  handsome  suitors, 
And  then  married  old  Osseo, 
Old  Osseo,  poor  and  ugly, 
Broken  with  age  and  weak  with  coughing, 
Always  coughing  like  a  squirrel. 

"  Ah,  but  beautiful  within  him 
Was  the  spirit  of  Osseo, 
From  the  Evening  Star  descended, 
Star  of  Evening,  Star  of  Woman, 
Star  of  tenderness  and  passion  ! 
All  its  fire  was  in  his  bosom, 
All  its  beauty  in  his  spirit, 
All  its  mystery  in  his  being, 
All  its  splendor  in  his  language  ! 

"  And  her  lovers,  the  rejected, 
Handsome  men  with  belts  of  wampum, 
Handsome  men  with  paint  and  feathers, 
Pointed  at  her  in  derision, 
Followed  her  with  jest  and  laughter. 


But  she  said  :  '  I  care  not  for  you, 
Care  not  for  your  belts  of  wampum, 
Care  not  for  your  paint  and  feathers, 
Care  not  for  your  jests  and  laughter  ; 
I  am  happy  with  Osseo  ! ' 

"  Once  to  some  great  feast  invited, 
Through  the  damp  and  dusk  of  evening, 
Walked  together  the  ten  sisters, 
Walked  together  with  their  husbands  ; 
Slowly  followed  old  Osseo, 
With  fair  Oweenee  beside  him  ; 
All  the  others  chatted  gayly, 
These  two  only  walked  in  silence. 

"  At  the  western  sky  Osseo 
Gazed  intent,  as  if  imploring, 
Often  stopped  and  gazed  imploring 
At  the  trembling  Star  of  Evening, 
At  the  tender  Star  of  Woman  ; 
And  they  heard  him  murmur  softly, 
'  Ah,  shoicain  nemeshin,  Nosa  ! 
Pity,  pity  me,  my  father  ! ' 

"  '  Listen  ! '  said  the  eldest  sister, 
'  He  is  praying  to  his  father  ! 
What  a  pity  that  the  old  man 
Does  not  stumble  in  the  pathway, 
Does  not  break  his  neck  by  falling  ! ' 
And  they  laughed  till  all  the  forest 
Rang  with  their  unseemly  laughter. 

"  On  their  pathway  through   the  wood 
lands 

Lay  an  oak,  by  storms  uprooted, 
Lay  the  great  trunk  o£  an  oak-tree, 
Buried  half  in  leaves  and  mosses, 
Mouldering,  crumbling,  huge  and  hollow. 
And  Osseo,  when  he  saw  it, 
Gave  a  shout,  a  cry  of  anguish, 
Leaped  into  its  yawning  cavern, 
At  one  end  went  in  an  old  man, 
Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly  ; 
From  the  other  came  a  young  man, 
Tall  and  straight  and  strong  and  handsome. 

"  Thus  Osseo  was  transfigured, 
Thus  restored  to  youth  and  beauty  ; 
But,  alas  for  good  Osseo, 
And  for  Oweenee,  the  faithful  ! 
Strangely,  too,  was  she  transfigured. 
Changed  into  a  weak  old  woman, 
With  a  staff  she  tottered  onward, 
Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly  ! 
And  the  sisters  and  their  husbands 
Laughed  until  the  echoing  forest 
Rang  with  their  unseemly  laughter. 

"  But  Osseo  turned  not  from  her, 
Walked  with  slower  step  beside  her, 
Took  her  hand,  as  brown  and  withered 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


141 


As  an  oak-leaf  is  in  Winter, 
Called  her  sweetheart,  Nenemoosha, 
Soothed  her  with  soft  words  of  kindness, 
Till  they  reached  the  lodge  of  feasting, 
Till  they  sat  down  in  the  wigwam, 
Sacred  to  the  Star  of  Evening, 
To  the  tender  Star  of  Woman. 

"  Wrapt  in  visions,  lost  in  dreaming, 
At  the  banquet  sat  Osseo  ; 
All  were  merry,  all  were  happy, 
All  were  joyous  but  Osseo. 
Neither  food  nor  drink  he  tasted, 
Neither  did  he  speak  nor  listen, 
But  as  one  bewildered  sat  he, 
Looking  dreamily  and  sadly, 
First  at  Oweenee,  then  upward 
At  the  gleaming  sky  above  them. 

"  Then  a  voice  was  heard,  a  whisper, 
Coming  from  the  starry  distance, 
Coming  from  the  empty  vastness, 
Low,  and  musical,  and  tender  ; 
And  the  voice  said  :  '  O  Osseo  ! 
O  my  son,  my  best  beloved  ! 
Broken  are  the  spells  that  bound  you, 
All  the  charms  of  the  magicians, 
All  the  magic  powers  of  evil  ; 
Come  to  me  ;  ascend,  Osseo  ! 

"  *  Taste   the   food   that    stands    before 

you  : 

It  is  blessed  and  enchanted, 
It  has  magic  virtues  in  it, 
It  will  change  you  to  a  spirit. 
All  your  bowls  and  all  your  kettles 
Shall  be  wood  and  clay  no  longer  ; 
But  the  bowls  be  changed  to  wampum, 
And  the  kettles  shall  be  silver  ; 
They  shall  shine  like  shells  of  scarlet, 
Like  the  fire  shall  gleam  and  glimmer. 

"  '  And  the  women  shall  no  longer 
Bear  the  dreary  doom  of  labor, 
But  be  changed  to  birds,  and  glisten 
With  the  beauty  of  the  starlight, 
Painted  with  the  dusky  splendors 
Of  the  skies  and  clouds  of  evening  ! ' 

"  What  Osseo  heard  as  whispers, 
What  as  words  he  comprehended, 
Was  but  music  to  the  others, 
Music  as  of  birds  afar  off, 
Of  the  whippoorwill  afar  off, 
Of  the  lonely  Wawonaissa 
Singing  in  the  darksome  forest. 

"  Then  the  lodge  began  to  tremble, 
Straight  began  to  shake  and  tremble, 
And  they  felt  it  rising,  rising, 
Slowly  through  the  air  ascending, 


From  the  darkness  of  the  tree-tops 
Forth  into  the  dewy  starlight, 
Till  it  passed  the  topmost  branches  ; 
And  behold  !  the  wooden  dishes 
All  were  changed  to  shells  of  scarlet  ! 
And  behold  !  the  earthen  kettles 
All  were  changed  to  bowls  of  silver  ! 
And  the  roof-poles  of  the  wigwam 
Were  as  glittering  rods  of  silver, 
And  the  roof  of  bark  upon  them 
As  the  shining  shards  of  beetles. 

"  Then  Osseo  gazed  around  him, 
And  he  saw  the  nine  fair  sisters, 
All  the  sisters  and  their  husbands, 
Changed  to  birds  of  various  plumage. 
Some  were  jays  and  some  were  magpies, 
Others  thrushes,  others  blackbirds  ; 
And  they  hopped,  and  sang,  and  twittered, 
Perked  and  fluttered  all  their  feathers, 
Strutted  in  their  shining  plumage, 
And  their  tails  like  fans  unfolded. 

"  Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 
Was  not  changed,  but  sat  in  silence, 
Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly, 
Looking  sadly  at  the  others  ; 
Till  Osseo,  gazing  upward, 
Gave  another  cry  of  anguish, 
Such  a  cry  as  he  had  uttered 
By  the  oak-tree  in  the  forest. 

"  Then  returned  her  youth  and  beauty, 
And  her  soiled  and  tattered  garments 
Were  transformed  to  robes  of  ermine, 
And  her  staff  became  a  feather, 
Yes,  a  shining  silver  feather  ! 

"  And  again  the  wigwam  trembled, 
Swayed  and  rushed  through  airy  currents, 
Through  transparent  cloud  and  vapor, 
And  amid  celestial  splendors 
On  the  Evening  Star  alighted, 
As  a  snow-flake  falls  on  snow-flake, 
As  a  leaf  drops  on  a  river, 
As  the  thistle-down  on  water. 

"  Forth  with  cheerful  words  of  welcome 
Came  the  father  of  Osseo, 
He  with  radiant  locks  of  silver, 
He  with  eyes  serene  and  tender. 
And  he  said  :  '  My  son,  Osseo, 
Hang  the  cage  of  birds  you  bring  there, 
Hang  the  cage  with  rods  of  silver, 
And  the  birds  with  glistening  feathers, 
At  the  doorway  of  my  wigwam.' 

"  At  the  door  he  hung  the  bird-cage, 
And  they  entered  in  and  gladly 
Listened  to  Osseo's  father, 
Ruler  of  the  Star  of  Evening, 


142 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


As  he  said  :  '  O  my  Osseo  1 

I  have  had  compassion  on  you, 

Given  you  back  your  youth  and  beauty, 

Into  birds  of  various  plumage 

Changed  your  sisters  and  their  husbands  ; 

Changed  them  thus  because  they  mocked 

you 

In  the  figure  of  the  old  man, 
In  that  aspect  sad  and  wrinkled, 
Could  not  see  your  heart  of  passion, 
Could  not  see  your  youth  immortal ; 
Only  Oweenee,  the  faithful, 
Saw  your  naked  heart  and  loved  you. 

"  '  In  the  lodge  that  glimmers  yonder, 
In  the  little  star  that  twinkles 
Through  the  vapors,  on  the  left  hand, 
Lives  the  envious  Evil  Spirit, 
The  Wabeno,  the  magician, 
Who  transformed  you  to  an  old  man. 
Take  heed  lest  his  beams  fall  on  you, 
For  the  rays  he  darts  around  him 
Are  the  power  of  his  enchantment, 
Are  the  arrows  that  he  uses.' 

"  Many  years,  in  peace  and  quiet, 
On  the  peaceful  Star  of  Evening 
Dwelt  Osseo  with  his  father  ; 
Many  years,  in  song  and  flutter, 
At  the  doorway  of  the  wigwam, 
Hung  the  cage  with  rods  of  silver, 
And  fair  Oweenee,  the  faithful, 
Bore  a  son  unto  Osseo, 
With  the  beauty  of  his  mother, 
With  the  courage  of  his  father. 

"  And  the  boy  grew  up  and  prospered, 
And  Osseo,  to  delight  him, 
Made  him  little  bows  and  arrows, 
Opened  the  great  cage  of  silver, 
And  let  loose  his  aunts  and  uncles, 
All  those  birds  with  glossy  feathers, 
For  his  little  son  to  shoot  at. 

"  Round   and   round   they  wheeled   and 

darted, 

Filled  the  Evening  Star  with  music, 
With  their  songs  of  joy  and  freedom  ; 
Filled  the  Evening  Star  with  splendor, 
With  the  fluttering  of  their  plumage  ; 
Till  the  boy,  the  little  hunter, 
Bent  his  bow  and  shot  an  arrow, 
Shot  a  swift  and  fatal  arrow, 
And  a  bird,  with  shining  feathers, 
At  his  feet  fell  wounded  sorely. 

"  But,  O  wondrous  transformation  ! 
'T  was  no  bird  he  saw  before  him, 
T  was  a  beautiful  young  woman, 
With  the  arrow  in  her  bosom  ! 


"  When  her  blood  fell  on  the  planet, 
On  the  sacred  Star  of  Evening, 
Broken  was  the  spell  of  magic, 
Powerless  was  the  strange  enchantment, 
And  the  youth,  the  fearless  bowman, 
Suddenly  felt  himself  descending, 
Held  by  unseen  hands,  but  sinking 
Downward  through  the  empty  spaces, 
Downward  through  the  clouds  and  vapors, 
Till  he  rested  on  an  island, 
On  an  island,  green  and  grassy, 
Yonder  in  the  Big-Sea-Water. 

"  After  him  he  saw  descending 
All  the  birds  with  shining  feathers, 
Fluttering,  falling,  wafted  downward, 
Like  the  painted  leaves  of  Autumn  ; 
And  the  lodge  with  poles  of  silver, 
With  its  roof  like  wings  of  beetles, 
Like  the  shining  shards  of  beetles, 
By  the  winds  of  heaven  uplifted, 
Slowly  sank  upon  the  island, 
Bringing  back  the  good  Osseo, 
Bringing  Oweenee,  the  faithful. 

"  Then  the  birds,  again  transfigured, 
Reassumed  the  shape  of  mortals, 
Took  their  shape,  but  not  their  stature  ; 
They  remained  as  Little  People, 
Like  the  pygmies,  the  Puk-Wudjies, 
And  on  pleasant  nights  of  Summer, 
When  the  Evening  Star  was  shining, 
Hand  in  hand  they  danced  together 
On  the  island's  craggy  headlands, 
On  the  sand-beach  low  and  level. 

"  Still    their    glittering    lodge    is    seen 

there, 

On  the  tranquil  Summer  evenings, 
And  upon  the  shore  the  fisher 
Sometimes  hears  their  happy  voices, 
Sees  them  dancing  in  the  starlight !  " 

When  the  story  was  completed, 
When  the  wondrous  tale  was  ended, 
Looking  round  upon  his  listeners, 
Solemnly  lagoo  added  : 
"  There  are  great  men,  I  have  known  such, 
Whom  their  people  understand  not, 
Whom  they  even  make  a  jest  of, 
Scoff  and  jeer  at  in  derision. 
From  the  story  of  Osseo 
Let  us  learn  the  fate  of  jesters  ! " 

All  the  wedding  guests  delighted 
Listened  to  the  marvellous  story, 
Listened  laughing  and  applauding, 
And  they  whispered  to  each  other  : 
"  Does  he  mean  himself,  I  wonder  ? 
And  are  we  the  aunts  and  uncles  ?  " 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


143 


Then  again  sang  Chibiabos, 
Sang  a  song  of  love  and  longing, 
In  those  accents  sweet  and  tender, 
In  those  tones  of  pensive  sadness, 
Sang  a  maiden's  lamentation 
For  her  lover,  her  Algonquin. 

"  When  I  think  of  my  beloved, 
Ah  me  !  think  of  my  beloved, 
When  my  heart  is  thinking  of  him, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

"  Ah  me  !  when  I  parted  from  him, 
Round  my  neck  he  hung  the  wampum, 
As  a  pledge,  the  snow-white  wampum, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  he  whispered, 
Ah  me  !  to  your  native  country  ; 
Let  me  go  with  you,  he  whispered, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

"  Far  away,  away,  I  answered, 
Very  far  away,  I  answered, 
Ah  me  !  is  my  native  country, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

"  When  I  looked  back  to  behold  him, 
Where  we  parted,  to  behold  him, 
After  me  he  still  was  gazing, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

"  By  the  tree  he  still  was  standing, 
By  the  fallen  tree  was  standing, 
That  had  dropped  into  the  water, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

"  When  I  think  of  my  beloved, 
Ah  me  !  think  of  my  beloved, 
When  my  heart  is  thinking  of  him, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  !  " 

Such  was  Hiawatha's  Wedding, 
Such  the  dance  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Such  the  story  of  lagoo, 
Such  the  songs  of  Chibiabos  ; 
Thus  the  wedding  banquet  ended, 
And  the  wedding  guests  departed, 
Leaving  Hiawatha  happy 
With  the  night  and  Minnehaha. 


XIII 
BLESSING    THE  CORNFIELDS 

SING,  O  Song  of  Hiawatha, 
Of  the  happy  days  that  followed, 
In  the  land  of  the  O  jib  ways, 
In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful ! 
Sing  the  mysteries  of  Mondamin, 
Sing  the  Blessing  of  the  Cornfields  ! 
Buried  was  the  bloody  hatchet, 


Buried  was  the  dreadful  war-club, 
Buried  were  all  warlike  weapons, 
And  the  war-cry  was  forgotten. 
There  was  peace  among  the  nations  ; 
Unmolested  roved  the  hunters, 
Built  the  birch  canoe  for  sailing, 
Caught  the  fish  in  lake  and  river, 
Shot  the  deer  and  trapped  the  beaver  ; 
Unmolested  worked  the  women, 
Made  their  sugar  from  the  maple, 
Gathered  wild  rice  in  the  meadows, 
Dressed  the  skins  of  deer  and  beaver. 

All  around  the  happy  village 
Stood  the  maize-fields,  green  and  shining, 
Waved  the  green  plumes  of  Mondamin, 
Waved  his  soft  and  sunny  tresses, 
Filling  all  the  land  with  plenty. 
'T  was  the  women  who  in  Spring-time 
Planted  the  broad  fields  and  fruitful, 
Buried  in  the  earth  Mondamin  ; 
'T  was  the  women  who  in  Autumn 
Stripped  the  yellow  husks  of  harvest, 
Stripped  the  garments  from  Moudamm, 
Even  as  Hiawatha  taught  them. 

Once,  when  all  the  maize  was  planted, 
Hiawatha,  wise  and  thoughtful, 
Spake  and  said  to  Minnehaha, 
To  his  wife,  the  Laughing  Water  : 
"  You  shall  bless  to-night  the  cornfields, 
Draw  a  magic  circle  round  them, 
To  protect  them  from  destruction, 
Blast  of  mildew,  blight  of  insect, 
Wagemin,  the  thief  of  cornfields, 
Paimosaid,  who  steals  the  maize-ear  ! 

"  In  the  night,  when  all  is  silence, 
In  the  night,  when  all  is  darkness, 
When  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin, 
Shuts  the  doors  of  all  the  wigwams, 
So  that  not  an  ear  can  hear  you, 
So  that  not  an  eye  can  see  you, 
Rise  up  from  your  bed  in  silence, 
Lay  aside  your  garments  wholly, 
Walk  around  the  fields  you  planted, 
Round  the  borders  of  the  cornfields, 
Covered  by  your  tresses  only, 
Robed  with  darkness  as  a  garment. 

"  Thus  the  fields  shall  be  more  fruitful, 
And  the  passing  of  your  footsteps 
Draw  a  magic  circle  round  them, 
So  that  neither  blight  nor  mildew, 
Neither  burrowing  worm  nor  insect, 
Shall  pass  o'er  the  magic  circle  ; 
Not  the  dragon-fly,  Kwo-ne-she, 
Nor  the  spider,  Subbekashe, 
Nor  the  grasshopper,  Pah-puk-keena, 


144 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


Nor  the  mighty  caterpillar, 
Way-muk-kwana,  with  the  bear-skin, 
King  of  all  the  caterpillars  !  " 

On  the  tree-tops  near  the  cornfields 
Sat  the  hungry  crows  and  ravens, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
With  his  band  of  black  marauders. 
And  they  laughed  at  Hiawatha, 
Till  the  tree-tops  shook  with  laughter, 
With  their  melancholy  laughter, 
At  the  words  of  Hiawatha. 
"  Hear  him  !  "  said  they  ;  "  hear  the  Wise 

Man, 
Hear  the  plots  of  Hiawatha  !  " 

When  the  noiseless  night  descended 
Broad  and  dark  o'er  field  and  forest, 
When  the  mournful  Wawonaissa 
Sorrowing  sang  among  the  hemlocks, 
And  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepali  win, 
Shut  the  doors  of  all  the  wigwams, 
From  her  bed  rose  Laughing  Water, 
Laid  aside  her  garments  wholly, 
And  with  darkness  clothed  and  guarded, 
Unashamed  and  uuaffrighted, 
Walked  securely  round  the  cornfields, 
Drew  the  sacred,  magic  circle 
Of  her  footprints  round  the  cornfields. 

No  one  but  the  Midnight  only 
Saw  her  beauty  in  the  darkness, 
No  one  but  the  Wawonaissa 
Heard  the  panting  of  her  bosom  ; 
Guskewau,  the  darkness,  wrapped  her 
Closely  in  his  sacred  mantle, 
So  that  none  might  see  her  beauty, 
So  that  none  might  boast,  "  I  saw  her  ! " 

On  the  morrow,  as  the  day  dawned, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
Gathered  all  his  black  marauders, 
Crows  and  blackbirds,  jays  and  ravens, 
Clamorous  on  the  dusky  tree-tops, 
And  descended,  fast  and  fearless, 
On  the  fields  of  Hiawatha, 
On  the  grave  of  the  Mondamin. 

"  We  will  drag  Mondamin,"  said  they, 
"  From  the  grave  where  he  is  buried, 
Spite  of  all  the  magic  circles 
Laughing  Water  draws  around  it, 
Spite  of  all  the  sacred  footprints 
Minnehaha  stamps  upon  it  !  " 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha, 
Ever  thoughtful,  careful,  watchful, 
Had  o'erheard  the  scornful  laughter 
When  they  mocked  him  from  the  tree-tops. 
"  Kaw  !  "  he  said,  "  my  friends  the  ravens  ! 
Kahgahgee,  my  King  of  Ravens  ! 


I  will  teach  you  all  a  lesson 

That  shall  not  be  soon  forgotten  ! " 

He  had  risen  before  the  daybreak, 
He  had  spread  o'er  all  the  cornfields 
Snares  to  catch  the  black  marauders, 
And  was  lying  now  in  ambush 
In  the  neighboring  grove  of  pine-trees. 
Waiting  for  the  crows  and  blackbirds, 
Waiting  for  the  jays  and  ravens. 

Soon  they  came  with  caw  and  clamor, 
Rush  of  wings  and  cry  of  voices, 
To  their  work  of  devastation, 
Settling  down  upon  the  cornfields, 
Delving  deep  with  beak  and  talon, 
For  the  body  of  Mondamin. 
And  with  all  their  craft  and  cunning, 
All  their  skill  in  wiles  of  warfare, 
They  perceived  no  danger  near  them, 
Till  their  claws  became  entangled, 
Till  they  found  themselves  imprisoned 
In  the  snares  of  Hiawatha. 

From  his  place  of  ambush  came  he, 
Striding  terrible  among  them, 
And  so  awful  was  his  aspect 
That  the  bravest  quailed  with  terror. 
Without  mercy  he  destroyed  them 
Right  and  left,  by  tens  and  twenties, 
And  their  wretched,  lifeless  bodies 
Hung  aloft  on  poles  for  scarecrows 
Round  the  consecrated  cornfields, 
As  a  signal  of  his  vengeance, 
As  a  warning  to  marauders. 

Only  Kahgahgee,  the  leader, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
He  alone  was  spared  among  them 
As  a  hostage  for  his  people. 
With  his  prisoner-string  he  bound  hinij 
Led  him  captive  to  his  wigwam, 
Tied  him  fast  with  cords  of  elm-bark 
To  the  ridge-pole  of  his  wigwam. 

"  Kahgahgee,  my  raven  !  "  said  he, 
"  You  the  leader  of  the  robbers, 
You  the  plotter  of  this  mischief, 
The  contriver  of  this  outrage, 
I  will  keep  you,  I  will  hold  you, 
As  a  hostage  for  your  people, 
As  a  pledge  of  good  behavior  !  " 

And  he  left  him,  grim  and  sulky, 
Sitting  in  the  morning  sunshine 
On  the  summit  of  the  wigwam, 
Croaking  fiercely  his  displeasure, 
Flapping  his  great  sable  pinions, 
Vainly  struggling  for  his  freedom, 
Vainly  calling  on  his  people  ! 

Summer  passed,  and  Shawondasee 


THE    SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


Breathed  his  sighs  o'er  all  the  landscape, 
From  the  South-land  sent  his  ardors, 
Wafted  kisses  warm  and  tender  ; 
And  the  maize-field  grew  and  ripened, 
Till  it  stood  in  all  the  splendor 
Of  its  garments  green  and  yellow, 
Of  its  tassels  and  its  plumage, 
And  the  maize-ears  full  and  shining 
Gleamed  from  bursting  sheaths  of  verdure. 

Then  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Spake,  and  said  to  Minnehaha  : 
"  'T  is  the  Moon  when  leaves  are  falling  ; 
All  the  wild  rice  has  been  gathered, 
And  the  maize  is  ripe  and  ready  ; 
Let  us  gather  in  the  harvest, 
Let  us  wrestle  with  Mondamin, 
Strip  him  of  his  plumes  and  tassels, 
Of  his  garments  green  and  yellow  1  " 

And  the  merry  Laughing  Water 
Went  rejoicing  from  the  wigwam, 
With  Nokomis,  old  and  wrinkled, 
And  they  called  the  women  round  them, 
Called  the  young  men  and  the  maidens, 
To  the  harvest  of  the  cornfields, 
To  the  husking  of  the  maize-ear. 

On  the  border  of  the  forest, 
Underneath  the  fragrant  pine-trees, 
Sat  the  old  men  and  the  warriors 
Smoking  in  the  pleasant  shadow. 
In  uninterrupted  silence 
Looked  they  at  the  gamesome  labor 
Of  the  young  men  and  the  women  ; 
Listened  to  their  noisy  talking, 
To  their  laughter  and  their  singing, 
Heard  them  chattering  like  the  magpies, 
Heard  them  laughing  like  the  blue-jays, 
Heard  them  singing  like  the  robins. 

And  whene'er  some  lucky  maiden 
Found  a  red  ear  in  the  husking, 
Found  a  maize-ear  red  as  blood  is, 
"  Nushka  !  "  cried  they  all  together, 
"  Nushka  !  you  shall  have  a  sweetheart, 
You  shall  have  a  handsome  husband  !  " 
"  Ugh  !  "  the  old  men  all  responded 
From  their  seats  beneath  the  pine-trees. 

And  whene'er  a  youth  or  maiden 
Found  a  crooked  ear  in  husking, 
Found  a  maize-ear  in  the  husking 
Blighted,  mildewed,  or  misshapen, 
Then  they  laughed  and  sang  together, 
Crept  and  limped  about  the  cornfields, 
Mimicked  in  their  gait  and  gestures 
Some  old  man,  bent  almost  double, 
Singing  singly  or  together  : 
"  Wagemin,  the  thief  of  cornfields  ! 


Paimosaid,  who  steals  the  maize-ear  ! " 

Till  the  cornfields  rang  with  laughter, 
Till  from  Hiawatha's  wigwam 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
Screamed  and  quivered  in  his  anger, 
And  from  all  the  neighboring  tree-tops 
Cawed  and  croaked  the  black  marauders. 
"  Ugh  !  "  the  old  men  all  responded, 
From  their  seats  beneath  the  pine-trees  ! 


XIV 
PICTURE-WRITING 

IN  those  days  said  Hiawatha, 

"  Lo  !  how  all  things  fade  and  perish  ! 

From  the  memory  of  the  old  men 

Pass  away  the  great  traditions, 

The  achievements  of  the  warriors, 

The  adventures  of  the  hunters, 

All  the  wisdom  of  the  Medas, 

All  the  craft  of  the  Wabenos, 

All  the  marvellous  dreams  and  visions 

Of  the  Jossakeeds,  the  Prophets  ! 

"  Great  men  die  and  are  forgotten, 
Wise  men  speak  ;  their  words  of  wisdom 
Perish  in  the  ears  that  hear  them, 
Do  not  reach  the  generations 
That,  as  yet  unborn,  are  waiting 
In  the  great,  mysterious  darkness 
Of  the  speechless  days  that  shall  be  ! 

"  On  the  grave-posts  of  our  fathers 
Are  no  signs,  no  figures  painted  ; 
Who  are  in  those  graves  we  know  not, 
Only  know  they  are  our  fathers. 
Of  what  kith  they  are  and  kindred, 
From  what  old,  ancestral  Totem, 
Be  it  Eagle,  Bear,  or  Beaver, 
They  descended,  this  we  know  not, 
Only  know  they  are  our  fathers. 

"  Face  to  face  we  speak  together, 
But  we  cannot  speak  when  absent, 
Cannot  send  our  voices  from  us 
To  the  friends  that  dwell  afar  off  ; 
Cannot  send  a  secret  message, 
But  the  bearer  learns  our  secret, 
May  pervert  it,  may  betray  it, 
May  reveal  it  unto  others." 

Thus  said  Hiawatha,  walking 
In  the  solitary  forest, 
Pondering,  musing  in  the  forest, 
On  the  welfare  of  his  people. 

From  his  pouch  he  took  his  colors, 
Took  his  paints  of  different  colors, 


146 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


On  the  smooth  bark  of  a  birch-tree 
Painted  many  shapes  and  figures, 
Wonderful  and  mystic  figures, 
And  each  figure  had  a  meaning, 
Each  some  word  or  thought  suggested. 

Gitche  Manito  the  Mighty, 
He,  the  Master  of  Life,  was  painted 
As  an  egg,  with  points  projecting 
To  the  four  winds  of  the  heavens. 
Everywhere  is  the  Great  Spirit, 
Was  the  meaning  of  this  symbol. 

Mitche  Manito  the  Mighty, 
He  the  dreadful  Spirit  of  Evil, 
As  a  serpent  was  depicted, 
As  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpent. 
Very  crafty,  very  cunning, 
Is  the  creeping  Spirit  of  Evil, 
Was  the  meaning  of  this  symbol. 

Life  and  Death  he  drew  as  circles, 
Life  was  white,  but  Death  was  darkened  ; 
Sun  and  moon  and  stars  he  painted, 
Man  and  beast,  and  fish  and  reptile, 
Forests,  mountains,  lakes,  and  rivers. 

For  the  earth  he  drew  a  straight  line, 
For  the  sky  a  bow  above  it  ; 
White  the  space  between  for  daytime, 
Filled  with  little  stars  for  night-time  ; 
On  the  left  a  point  for  sunrise, 
On  the  right  a  point  for  sunset, 
On  the  top  a  point  for  noontide, 
And  for  rain  and  cloudy  weather 
Waving  lines  descending  from  it. 

Footprints  pointing  towards  a  wigwam 
Were  a  sign  of  invitation, 
Were  a  sign  of  guests  assembling  ; 
Bloody  hands  with  palms  uplifted 
Were  a  symbol  of  destruction, 
Were  a  hostile  sign  and  symbol. 

All  these  things  did  Hiawatha 
Show  unto  his  wondering  people, 
And  interpreted  their  meaning, 
And  he  said  :  "  Behold,  your  grave-posts 
Have  no  mark,  no  sign,  nor  symbol, 
Go  and  paint  them  all  with  figures  ; 
Each  one  with  its  household  symbol, 
With  its  own  ancestral  Totem  ; 
So  that  those  who  follow  after 
May  distinguish  them  and  know  them." 

And  they  painted  on  the  grave-posts 
On  the  graves  yet  unforgotten, 
Each  his  own  ancestral  Totem, 
Each  the  symbol  of  his  household  ; 
Figures  of  the  Bear  and  Reindeer, 
Of  the  Turtle,  Crane,  and  Beaver, 
Each  inverted  as  a  token 


That  the  owner  was  departed, 
That  the  chief  who  bore  the  symbol 
Lay  beneath  in  dust  and  ashes. 

And  the  Jossakeeds,  the  Prophets, 
The  Wabenos,  the  Magicians, 
And  the  Medicine-men,  the  Medas, 
Painted  upon  bark  and  deer-skin 
Figures  for  the  songs  they  chanted, 
For  each  song  a  separate  symbol, 
Figures  mystical  and  awful, 
Figures  strange  and  brightly  colored  ; 
And  each  figure  had  its  meaning, 
Each  some  magic  song  suggested. 

The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 
Flashing  light  through  all  the  heaven  ; 
The  Great  Serpent,  the  Kenabeek, 
With  his  bloody  crest  erected, 
Creeping,  looking  into  heaven  ; 
In  the  sky  the  sun,  that  listens, 
And  the  moon  eclipsed  and  dying  ; 
Owl  and  eagle,  crane  and  hen-hawk, 
And  the  cormorant,  bird  of  magic  ; 
Headless  men,  that  walk  the  heavens, 
Bodies  lying  pierced  with  arrows, 
Bloody  hands  of  death  uplifted, 
Flags  on  graves,  and  great  war-captains 
Grasping  both  the  earth  and  heaven  ! 

Such  as  these  the  shapes  they  painted 
On  the  birch-bark  and  the  deer-skin  ; 
Songs  of  war  and  songs  of  hunting, 
Songs  of  medicine  and  of  magic, 
All  were  written  in  these  figures, 
For  each  figure  had  its  meaning, 
Each  its  separate  song  recorded. 

Nor  forgotten  was  the  Love-Song, 
The  most  subtle  of  all  medicines, 
The  most  potent  spell  of  magic, 
Dangerous  more  than  war  or  hunting ! 
Thus  the  Love-Song  was  recorded, 
Symbol  and  interpretation. 

First  a  human  figure  standing, 
Painted  in  the  brightest  scarlet  ; 
'T  is  the  lover,  the  musician, 
And  the  meaning  is,  "  My  painting 
Makes  me  powerful  over  others." 

Then  the  figure  seated,  singing, 
Playing  on  a  drum  of  magic, 
And  the  interpretation,  "  Listen  ! 
'T  is  my  voice  you  hear,  my  singing  !  " 

Then  the  same  red  figure  seated 
In  the  shelter  of  a  wigwam, 
And  the  meaning  of  the  symbol, 
"  I  will  come  and  sit  beside  you 
In  the  mystery  of  my  passion  !  " 

Then  two  figures,  man  and  woman, 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


147 


Standing  hand  in  hand  together 
With  their  hands  so  clasped  together 
That  they  seemed  in  one  united, 
And  the  words  thus  represented 
Are,  "  I  see  your  heart  within  you, 
And  your  cheeks  are  red  with  blushes  ! " 

Next  the  maiden  on  an  island, 
In  the  centre  of  an  island  ; 
And  the  song  this  shape  suggested 
Was,  "  Though  you  were  at  a  distance, 
Were  upon  some  far-off  island, 
Such  the  spell  I  cast  upon  you, 
Such  the  magic  power  of  passion, 
I  could  straightway  draw  yon  to  me  !  " 

Then  the  figure  of  the  maiden 
Sleeping,  and  the  lover  near  her, 
Whispering  to  her  in  her  slumbers, 
Saying,  "  Though  you  were  far  from  me 
In  the  land  of  Sleep  and  Silence, 
Still  the  voice  of  love  would  reach  you  ! " 

And  the  last  of  all  the  figures 
Was  a  heart  within  a  circle, 
Drawn  within  a  magic  circle  ; 
And  the  image  had  this  meaning  : 
"  Naked  lies  your  heart  before  me, 
To  your  naked  heart  I  whisper  !  " 

Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha, 
In  his  wisdom,  taught  the  people 
All  the  mysteries  of  painting, 
All  the  art  of  Picture- Writing, 
On  the  smooth  bark  of  the  birch-tree, 
On  the  white  skin  of  the  reindeer, 
On  the  grave-posts  of  the  village. 


XV 
HIAWATHA'S   LAMENTATION 

IN  those  days  the  Evil  Spirits, 
All  the  Manitos  of  mischief, 
Fearing  Hiawatha's  wisdom, 
And  his  love  for  Chibiabos, 
Jealous  of  their  faithful  friendship, 
And  their  noble  words  and  actions, 
Made  at  length  a  league  against  them, 
To  molest  them  and  destroy  them. 

Hiawatha,  wise  and  wary, 
Often  said  to  Chibiabos, 
"  O  my  brother  !  do  not  leave  me, 
Lest  the  Evil  Spirits  harm  you  !  " 
Chibiabos,  young  and  heedless, 
Laughing  shook  his  coal-black  tresses, 
Answered  ever  sweet  and  childlike, 


"  Do  not  fear  for  me,  O  brother  ! 
Harm  and  evil  come  not  near  me  !  " 

Once  when  Peboan,  the  Winter, 
Roofed  with  ice  the  Big-Sea-Water, 
When  the  snow-flakes,  whirling  downward, 
Hissed  among  the  withered  oak-leaves, 
Changed  the  pine-trees  into  wigwams, 
Covered  all  the  earth  with  silence,  — 
Armed  with  arrows,  shod  with  snow-shoes, 
Heeding  not  his  brother's  warning, 
Fearing  not  the  Evil  Spirits, 
Forth  to  hunt  the  deer  with  antlers 
All  alone  went  Chibiabos. 

Right  across  the  Big-Sea-Water 
Sprang  with  speed  the  deer  before  him. 
With  the  wind  and  snow  he  followed, 
O'er  the  treacherous  ice  he  followed, 
Wild  with  all  the  fierce  commotion 
And  the  rapture  of  the  hunting. 

But  beneath,  the  Evil  Spirits 
Lay  in  ambush,  waiting  for  him, 
Broke  the  treacherous  ice  beneath  him, 
Dragged  him  downward  to  the  bottom, 
Buried  in  the  sand  his  body. 
Unktahee,  the  god  of  water, 
He  the  god  of  the  Dacotahs, 
Drowned  him  in  the  deep  abysses 
Of  the  lake  of  Gitche  Gumee. 

From  the  headlands  Hiawatha 
Sent  forth  such  a  wail  of  anguish, 
Such  a  fearful  lamentation. 
That  the  bison  paused  to  listen, 
And  the  wolves  howled  from  the  prairies, 
And  the  thunder  in  the  distance 
Starting  answered  "  Baim-wawa  !  " 

Then  his  face  with  black  he  painted, 
With  his  robe  his  head  he  covered, 
In  his  wigwam  sat  lamenting, 
Seven  long  weeks  he  sat  lamenting, 
Uttering  still  this  moan  of  sorrow  :  — 

"  He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  ! 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  ! 
He  has  gone  from  us  forever, 
He  has  moved  a  little  nearer 
To  the  Master  of  all  music, 
To  the  Master  of  all  singing  ! 
O  my  brother,  Chibiabos  !  " 

And  the  melancholy  fir-trees 
Waved  their  dark  green  fans  above  him, 
Waved  their  purple  cones  above  him, 
Sighing  with  him  to  console  him, 
Mingling  with  his  lamentation 
Their  complaining,  their  lamenting. 

Came  the  Spring,  and  all  the  forest 
Looked  in  vain  for  Chibiabos  ; 


148 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


Sighed  the  rivulet,  Sebowisha, 
Sighed  the  rushes  in  the  meadow. 

From  the  tree-tops  sang  the  bluebird, 
Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
"  Chibiabos  !  Chibiabos  ! 
He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  !  " 

From  the  wigwam  sang  the  robin, 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
"  Chibiabos  !  Chibiabos  ! 
He  is  dead,  the  sweetest  singer  !  " 

And  at  night  through  all  the  forest 
Went  the  whippoorwill  complaining, 
Wailing  went  the  Wawonaissa, 
"  Chibiabos  !  Chibiabos  ! 
He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  ! 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  !  " 

Then  the  Medicine-men,  the  Medas, 
The  magicians,  the  Wabenos, 
And  the  Jossakeeds,  the  Prophets, 
Came  to  visit  Hiawatha  ; 
Built  a  Sacred  Lodge  beside  him, 
To  appease  him,  to  console  him, 
Walked  in  silent,  grave  procession, 
Bearing  each  a  pouch  of  healing, 
Skin  of  beaver,  lynx,  or  otter, 
Filled  with  magic  roots  and  simples, 
Filled  with  very  potent  medicines. 

When  he  heard  their  steps  approaching, 
Hiawatha  ceased  lamenting, 
Called  no  more  on  Chibiabos  ; 
Naught  he  questioned,  naught  he  answered, 
But  his  mournful  head  uncovered, 
From  his  face  the  mourning  colors 
Washed  he  slowly  and  in  silence, 
Slowly  and  in  silence  followed 
Onward  to  the  Sacred  Wigwam. 

There  a  magic  drink  they  gave  him, 
Made  of  Nahma-wusk,  the  spearmint, 
And  Wabeno-wusk,  the  yarrow, 
Roots  of  power,  and  herbs  of  healing  ; 
Beat  their  drums,  and  shook  their  rattles  ; 
Chanted  singly  and  in  chorus, 
Mystic  songs  like  these,  they  chanted. 

"  I  myself,  myself  !  behold  me  ! 
'T  is  the  great  Gray  Eagle  talking  ; 
Come,  ye  white  crows,  come  and  hear  him  ! 
The  loud-speaking  thunder  helps  me  ; 
All  the  unseen  spirits  help  me  ; 
I  can  hear  their  voices  calling, 
All  around  the  sky  I  hear  them  ! 
I  can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother, 
I  can  heal  you,  Hiawatha  !  " 

"  Hi-au-ha  !  "  replied  the  chorus, 
"  Way-ha-way  !  "  the  mystic  chorus. 

"  Friends  of  mine  are  all  the  serpents  ! 


Hear  me  shake  my  skin  of  hen-hawk  1 
Mahng,  the  white  loon,  I  can  kill  him  ; 
I  can  shoot  your  heart  and  kill  it ! 
I  can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother, 
I  can  heal  you,  Hiawatha  !  " 

"  Hi-au-ha  !  "  replied  the  chorus. 
"  Way-ha-way  !  "  the  mystic  chorus. 

"  I  myself,  myself  !  the  prophet ! 
When  I  speak  the  wigwam  trembles, 
Shakes  the  Sacred  Lodge  with  terror, 
Hands  unseen  begin  to  shake  it ! 
When  I  walk,  the  sky  I  tread  on 
Bends  and  makes  a  noise  beneath  me  ! 
I  can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother  ! 
Rise  and  speak,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 

"  Hi-au-ha  !  "    replied  the  chorus, 
"  Way-ha-way  !  "  the  mystic  chorus. 

Then  they  shook  their  medicine-pouches 
O'er  the  head  of  Hiawatha, 
Danced  their  medicine-dance  around  him  ; 
And  upstarting  wild  and  haggard, 
Like  a  man  from  dreams  awakened, 
He  was  healed  of  all  his  madness. 
As  the  clouds  are  swept  from  heaven, 
Straightway  from  his  brain  departed 
All  his  moody  melancholy  ; 
As  the  ice  is  swept  from  rivers, 
Straightway  from  his  heart  departed 
All  his  sorrow  and  affliction. 

Then  they  summoned  Chibiabos 
From  his  grave  beneath  the  waters, 
From  the  sands  of  Gitche  Gumee 
Summoned  Hiawatha's  brother. 
And  so  mighty  was  the  magic 
Of  that  cry  and  invocation, 
That  he  heard  it  as  he  lay  there 
Underneath  the  Big-Sea-Water  ; 
From  the  sand  he  rose  and  listened, 
Heard  the  music  and  the  singing, 
Came,  obedient  to  the  summons, 
To  the  doorway  of  the  wigwam, 
But  to  enter  they  forbade  him. 

Through  a  chink  a  coal  they  gave  him, 
Through  the  door  a  burning  fire-brand  ; 
Ruler  in  the  Land  of  Spirits, 
Ruler  o'er  the  dead,  they  made  him, 
Telling  him  a  fire  to  kindle 
For  all  those  that  died  thereafter, 
Camp-fires  for  their  night  encampments 
On  their  solitary  journey 
To  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 

From  the  village  of  his  childhood, 
From  the  homes  of  those  who  knew  him, 
Passing  silent  through  the  forest, 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


149 


Like  a  smoke-wreath  wafted  sideways, 

Slowly  vanished  Chibiabos  ! 

Where  he  passed,  the  branches  moved  not, 

Where  he  trod,  the  grasses  bent  not, 

And  the  fallen  leaves  of  last  year 

Made  no  sound  beneath  his  footsteps. 

Four  whole  days  he  journeyed  onward 
Down  the  pathway  of  the  dead  men  ; 
On  the  dead-man's  strawberry  feasted, 
Crossed  the  melancholy  river, 
On  the  swinging  log  he  crossed  it, 
Came  unto  the  Lake  of  Silver, 
In  the  Stone  Canoe  was  carried 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  land  of  ghosts  and  shadows. 

On  that  journey,  moving  slowly, 
Many  weary  spirits  saw  he, 
Panting  under  heavy  burdens, 
Laden  with  war-clubs,  bows  and  arrows, 
Robes  of  fur,  and  pots  and  kettles, 
And  with  food  that  friends  had  given 
For  that  solitary  journey. 

"  Ay  !  why  do  the  living,"  said  they, 
"  Lay  such  heavy  burdens  on  us  ! 
Better  were  it  to  go  naked, 
Better  were  it  to  go  fasting, 
Than  to  bear  such  heavy  burdens 
On  our  long  and  weary  journey  !  " 

Forth  then  issued  Hiawatha, 
Wandered  eastward,  wandered  westward, 
Teaching  men  the  use  of  simples 
And  the  antidotes  for  poisons, 
And  the  cure  of  all  diseases. 
Thus  was  first  made  known  to  mortals 
All  the  mystery  of  Medamin, 
All  the  sacred  art  of  healing. 


XVI 

PAU-PUK-KEEWIS 

You  shall  hear  how  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
He,  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 
Whom  the  people  called  the  Storm-Fool, 
Vexed  the  village  with  disturbance; 
You  shall  hear  of  all  his  mischief, 
And  his  flight  from  Hiawatha, 
And  his  wondrous  transmigrations, 
And  the  end  of  his  adventures. 

On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water 
Stood  the  lodge  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
It  was  he  who  in  his  frenzy 


Whirled  these  drifting  sands  together, 
On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo, 
When,  among  the  guests  assembled, 
He  so  merrily  and  madly 
Danced  at  Hiawatha's  wedding, 
Danced    the    Beggar's    Dance    to    please 
them. 

Now,  in  search  of  new  adventures, 
From  his  lodge  went  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Came  with  speed  into  the  village, 
Found  the  young  men  all  assembled 
In  the  lodge  of  old  lagoo, 
Listening  to  his  monstrous  stories, 
To  his  wonderful  adventures. 

He  was  telling  them  the  story 
Of  Ojeeg,  the  Summer-Maker, 
How  he  made  a  hole  in  heaven, 
How  he  climbed  up  into  heaven, 
And  let  out  the  summer-weather, 
The  perpetual,  pleasant  Summer  ; 
How  the  Otter  first  essayed  it ; 
How  the  Beaver,  Lynx,  and  Badger 
Tried  in  turn  the  great  achievement, 
From  the  summit  of  the  mountain 
Smote  their  fists  against  the  heavens, 
Smote  against  the  sky  their  foreheads. 
Cracked  the  sky,  but  could  not  break  it  r 
How  the  Wolverine,  uprising, 
Made  him  ready  for  the  encounter, 
Bent  his  knees  clown,  like  a  squirrel, 
Drew  his  arms  back,  like  a  cricket. 

"  Once  he  leaped,"  said  old  lagoo, 
"  Once  he  leaped,  and  lo  !  above  him 
Bent  the  sky,  as  ice  in  rivers 
When  the  waters  rise  beneath  it  ; 
Twice  he  leaped,  and  lo  !  above  him 
Cracked  the  sky,  as  ice  in  rivers 
When  the  freshet  is  at  highest  ! 
Thrice  he  leaped,  and  lo  !  above  him 
Broke  the  shattered  sky  asunder, 
And  he  disappeared  within  it, 
And  Ojeeg,  the  Fisher  Weasel, 
With  a  bound  went  in  behind  him  !  " 

"  Hark  you  !  "  shouted  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway  ; 
"  I  am  tired  of  all  this  talking, 
Tired  of  old  lagoo's  stories, 
Tired  of  Hiawatha's  wisdom. 
Here  is  something  to  amuse  you, 
Better  than  this  endless  talking." 

Then  from  out  his  pouch  of  wolf-skin 
Forth  he  drew,  with  solemn  manner, 
All  the  game  of  Bowl  and  Counters, 
Pugasaing,  with  thirteen  pieces. 
White  on  one  side  were  they  painted, 


150 


THE   SONG  OF   HIAWATHA 


And  vermilion  on  the  other  ; 

Two  Kenabeeks  or  great  serpents, 

Two  Ininewug  or  wedge-men, 

One  great  war-club,  Pugamaugun, 

And  one  slender  fish,  the  Keego, 

Four  round  pieces,  Ozawabeeks, 

And  three  Sheshebwug  or  ducklings. 

All  were  made  of  bone  and  painted, 

All  except  the  Ozawabeeks  ; 

These  were  brass,  on  one  side  burnished, 

And  were  black  upon  the  other. 

In  a  wooden  bowl  he  placed  them, 
Shook  and  jostled  them  together, 
Threw  them  on  the  ground  before  him, 
Thus  exclaiming  and  explaining  : 
"  Red  side  up  are  all  the  pieces, 
And  one  great  Kenabeek  standing 
On  the  bright  side  of  a  brass  piece, 
On  a  burnished  Ozawabeek  ; 
Thirteen  tens  and  eight  are  counted." 

Then  again  he  shook  the  pieces, 
Shook  and  jostled  them  together, 
Threw  them  on  the  ground  before  him, 
Still  exclaiming  and  explaining  : 
"  White  are  both  the  great  Kenabeeks, 
White  the  Ininewug,  the  wedge-men, 
Red  are  all  the  other  pieces  ; 
Five  tens  and  an  eight  are  counted." 

Thus  he  taught  the  game  of  hazard, 
Thus  displayed  it  and  explained  it, 
Running  through  its  various  chances, 
Various  changes,  various  meanings  : 
Twenty  curious  eyes  stared  at  him, 
Full  of  eagerness  stared  at  him. 

"  Many  games,"  said  old  lagoo, 
"  Many  games  of  skill  and  hazard 
Have  I  seen  in  different  nations, 
Have  I  played  in  different  countries. 
He  who  plays  with  old  lagoo 
Must  have  very  nimble  fingers  ; 
Though  you  think  yourself  so  skilful, 
I  can  beat  you,  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
I  can  even  give  you  lessons 
In  your  game  of  Bowl  and  Counters  !  " 

So  they  sat  and  played  together, 
All  the  old  men  and  the  young  men, 
Played  for  dresses,  weapons,  wampum, 
Played  till  midnight,  played  till  morning, 
Played  until  the  Yenadizze, 
Till  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Of  their  treasures  had  despoiled  them, 
Of  the  best  of  all  their  dresses, 
Shirts  of  deer-skin,  robes  of  ermine, 
Belts  of  wampum,  crests  of  feathers, 
Warlike  weapons,  pipes  and  pouches. 


Twenty  eyes  glared  wildly  at  him, 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  him. 

Said  the  lucky  Pau-Puk-Keewis  : 
"  In  my  wigwam  I  am  lonely, 
In  my  wanderings  and  adventures 
I  have  need  of  a  companion, 
Fain  would  have  a  Meshinauwa, 
An  attendant  and  pipe-bearer. 
I  will  venture  all  these  winnings, 
All  these  garments  heaped  about  me, 
All  this  wampum,  all  these  feathers, 
On  a  single  throw  will  venture 
All  against  the  young  man  yonder  ! " 
'T  was  a  youth  of  sixteen  summers, 
'T  was  a  nephew  of  lagoo  ; 
Face-in-a-Mist,  the  people  called  him. 

As  the  fire  burns  in  a  pipe-head 
Dusky  red  beneath  the  ashes, 
So  beneath  his  shaggy  eyebrows 
Glowed  the  eyes  of  old  lagoo. 
"  Ugh  !  "  he  answered  very  fiercely  ; 
"  Ugh  !  "  they  answered  all  and  each  one. 

Seized  the  wooden  bowl  the  old  man, 
Closely  in  his  bony  fingers 
Clutched  the  fatal  bowl,  Onagon, 
Shook  it  fiercely  and  with  fury, 
Made  the  pieces  ring  together 
As  he  threw  them  down  before  him. 

Red  were  both  the  great  Kenabeeks, 
Red  the  Ininewug,  the  wedge-men, 
Red  the  Sheshebwug,  the  ducklings, 
Black  the  four  brass  Ozawabeeks, 
White  alone  the  fish,  the  Keego  ; 
Only  five  the  pieces  counted  ! 

Then  the  smiling  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Shook  the  bowl  and  threw  the  pieces  ; 
Lightly  in  the  air  he  tossed  them, 
And  they  fell  about  him  scattered  ; 
Dark  and  bright  the  Ozawabeeks, 
Red  and  white  the  other  pieces, 
And  upright  among  the  others 
One  Ininewug  was  standing, 
Even  as  crafty  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Stood  alone  among  the  players, 
Saying,  "  Five  tens  !  mine  the  game  is  ! " 

Twenty  eyes  glared  at  him  fiercely, 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  him, 
As  he  turned  and  left  the  wigwam, 
Followed  by  his  Meshinauwa, 
By  the  nephew  of  lagoo, 
By  the  tall  and  graceful  stripling, 
Bearing  in  his  arms  the  winnings, 
Shirts  of  deer-skin,  robes  of  ermine, 
Belts  of  wampum,  pipes  and  weapons. 

"  Carry  them,"  said  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


Pointing  with  his  fan  of  feathers, 
"  To  my  wigwam  far  to  eastward, 
On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo  !  " 

Hot  and  red  with  smoke  and  gambling 
Were  the  eyes  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As  he  came  forth  to  the  freshness 
Of  the  pleasant  Summer  morning. 
All  the  birds  were  singing  gayly, 
All  the  streamlets  flowing  swiftly, 
And  the  heart  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sang  with  pleasure  as  the  birds  sing, 
Beat  with  triumph  like  the  streamlets, 
As  he  wandered  through  the  village, 
In  the  early  gray  of  morning, 
With  his  fan  of  turkey-feathers, 
With  his  plumes  and  tufts  of  swan's  down, 
Till  he  reached  the  farthest  wigwam, 
Reached  the  lodge  of  Hiawatha. 

Silent  was  it  and  deserted  ; 
No  one  met  him  at  the  doorway, 
No  one  came  to  bid  him  welcome  ; 
But  the  birds  were  singing  round  it, 
In  and  out  and  round  the  doorway, 
Hopping,  singing,  fluttering,  feeding, 
And  aloft  upon  the  ridge-pole 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
Sat  with  fiery  eyes,  and,  screaming, 
Flapped  his  wings  at  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

"  All  are  gone  !  the  lodge  is  empty  ! " 
Thus  it  was  spake  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
In  his  heart  resolving  mischief  ;  — 
"  Gone  is  wary  Hiawatha, 
Gone  the  silly  Laughing  Water, 
Gone  Nokornis,  the  old  woman, 
And  the  lodge  is  left  unguarded  !  " 

By  the  neck  he  seized  the  raven, 
Whirled  it  round  him  like  a  rattle, 
Like  a  medicine-pouch  he  shook  it, 
Strangled  Kahgahgee,  the  raven, 
From  the  ridge-pole  of  the  wigwam 
Left  its  lifeless  body  hanging, 
As  an  insult  to  its  master, 
As  a  taunt  to  Hiawatha. 

With  a  stealthy  step  he  entered, 
Round  the  lodge  in  wild  disorder 
Threw  the  household  things  about  him, 
Piled  together  in  confusion 
Bowls  of  wood  and  earthen  kettles, 
Robes  of  buffalo  and  beaver, 
Skins  of  otter,  lynx,  and  ermine, 
As  an  insult  to  Nokomis, 
As  a  taunt  to  Minnehaha. 

Then  departed  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Whistling,  singing  through  the  forest, 
Whistling  gayly  to  the  squirrels, 


Who  from  hollow  boughs  above  him 
Dropped  their  acorn-shells  upon  him, 
Singing  gayly  to  the  wood  birds, 
Who  from  out  the  leafy  darkness 
Answered  with  a  song  as  merry. 

Then  he  climbed  the  rocky  headlands, 
Looking  o'er  the  Gitche  Gumee, 
Perched  himself  upon  their  summit, 
Waiting  full  of  mirth  and  mischief 
The  return  of  Hiawatha. 

Stretched  upon  his  back  he  lay  there  ; 
Far  below  him  plashed  the  waters, 
Plashed  and  washed  the  dreamy  waters  ; 
Far  above  him  swam  the  heavens, 
Swam  the  dizzy,  dreamy  heavens  ; 
Round  him  hovered,  fluttered,  rustled 
Hiawatha's  mountain  chickens, 
Flock-wise  swept  and  wheeled  about  him, 
Almost  brushed  him  with  their  pinions. 

And  he  killed  them  as  he  lay  there, 
Slaughtered  them  by  tens  and  twenties, 
Threw  their  bodies  down  the  headland, 
Threw  them  on  the  beach  below  him, 
Till  at  length  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gull, 
Perched  upon  a  crag  above  them, 
Shouted  :   "  It  is  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! 
He  is  slaying  us  by  hundreds  ! 
Send  a  message  to  our  brother, 
Tidings  send  to  Hiawatha  !  " 


XVII 
THE    HUNTING    OF    PAU-PUK-KEEWIS 

FULL  of  wrath  was  Hiawatha 
When  he  came  into  the  village, 
Found  the  people  in  confusion, 
Heard  of  all  the  misdemeanors, 
All  the  malice  and  the  mischief, 
Of  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

Hard  his  breath  came  through  his  nos 
trils, 

Through  his  teeth  he  buzzed  and  muttered 
Words  of  anger  and  resentment, 
Hot  and  humming,  like  a  hornet. 
"  I  will  slay  this  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Slay  this  mischief-maker  !  "  said  he. 
"  Not  so  long  and  wide  the  world  is, 
Not  so  rude  and  rough  the  way  is, 
That  my  wrath  shall  not  attain  him, 
That  my  vengeance  shall  not  reach  him  1 " 

Then  in  swift  pursuit  departed 
Hiawatha  and  the  hunters 
On  the  trail  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


152 


THE   SONG  OF   HIAWATHA 


Through  the  forest,  where  he  passed  it, 

To  the  headlands  where  he  rested  ; 

But  they  found  not  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Only  in  the  trampled  grasses, 

In  the  whortleberry-bushes, 

Found  the  couch  where  he  had  rested, 

Found  the  impress  of  his  body. 

From  the  lowlands  far  beneath  them, 
From  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
Pau-Puk-Keewis,  turning  backward, 
Made  a  gesture  of  defiance, 
Made  a  gesture  of  derision  ; 
And  aloud  cried  Hiawatha, 
From  the  summit  of  the  mountains  : 
"  Not  so  long  and  wide  the  world  is, 
Not  so  rude  and  rough  the  way  is, 
But  my  wrath  shall  overtake  you, 
And  my  vengeance  shall  attain  you  !  " 

Over  rock  and  over  river, 
Thorough  bush,  and  brake,  and  forest, 
Ran  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ; 
Like  an  antelope  he  bounded, 
Till  he  came  unto  a  streamlet 
In  the  middle  of  the  forest, 
To  a  streamlet  still  and  tranquil, 
That  had  overflowed  its  margin, 
To  a  dam  made  by  the  beavers, 
To  a  pond  of  quiet  water, 
Where  knee-deep  the  trees  were  standing, 
Where  the  water-lilies  floated, 
Where  the  rushes  waved  and  whispered. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
On  the  dam  of  trunks  and  branches, 
Through  whose  chinks  the  water  spouted, 
O'er  whose  summit  flowed  the  streamlet. 
From  the  bottom  rose  the  beaver, 
Looked  with  two  great  eyes  of  wonder, 
Eyes  that  seemed  to  ask  a  question, 
At  the  stranger,  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er  his  ankles  flowed  the  streamlet, 
Flowed  the  bright  and  silvery  water, 
And  he  spake  unto  the  beaver, 
With  a  smile  he  spake  in  this  wise  : 

"  O  my  friend  Ahmeek,  the  beaver, 
Cool  and  pleasant  is  the  water  ; 
Let  me  dive  into  the  water, 
Let  me  rest  there  in  your  lodges  ; 
Change  me,  too,  into  a  beaver  !  " 

Cautiously  replied  the  beaver, 
With  reserve  he  thus  made  answer  : 
"  Let  me  first  consult  the  others, 
Let  me  ask  the  other  beavers." 
Down  he  sank  into  the  water, 
Heavily  sank  he,  as  a  stone  sinks, 


Down  among  the  leaves  and  branches, 
Brown  and  matted  at  the  bottom. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er  his  ankles  flowed  the  streamlet, 
Spouted  through  the  chinks  below  him, 
Dashed  upon  the  stones  beneath  him, 
Spread  serene  and  calm  before  him, 
And  the  sunshine  and  the  shadows 
Fell  in  flecks  and  gleams  upon  him, 
Fell  in  little  shining  patches, 
Through  the  waving,  rustling  branches. 

From  the  bottom  rose  the  beavers, 
Silently  above  the  surface 
Rose  one  head  and  then  another, 
Till  the  pond  seemed  full  of  beavers, 
Full  of  black  and  shining  faces. 

To  the  beavers  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Spake  entreating,  said  in  this  wise  : 
"  Very  pleasant  is  your  dwelling, 
O  my  friends  !  and  safe  from  danger ; 
Can  you  not,  with  all  your  cunning, 
All  your  wisdom  and  contrivance, 
Change  me,  too,  into  a  beaver  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  "  replied  Ahmeek,  the  beaver, 
He  the  King  of  all  the  beavers, 
"  Let  yourself  slide  down  among  us, 
Down  into  the  tranquil  water." 

Down  into  the  pond  among  them 
Silently  sank  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ; 
Black  became  his  shirt  of  deer-skin, 
Black  his  moccasins  and  leggings, 
In  a  broad  black  tail  behind  him 
Spread  his  fox-tails  and  his  fringes  ; 
He  was  changed  into  a  beaver. 

"  Make  me  large,"  said  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
"  Make  me  large  and  make  me  larger, 
Larger  than  the  other  beavers." 
"  Yes,"  the  beaver  chief  responded, 
"  When  our  lodge  below  you  enter, 
In  our  wigwam  we  will  make  you 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  others." 

Thus  into  the  clear,  brown  water 
Silently  sank  Pau-Puk-Keewis  : 
Found  the  bottom  covered  over 
With  the  trunks  of  trees  and  branches, 
Hoards  of  food  against  the  winter, 
Piles  and  heaps  against  the  famine  ; 
Found  the  lodge  with  arching  doorway, 
Leading  into  spacious  chambers. 

Here  they  made  him  large  and  larger, 
Made  him  largest  of  the  beavers, 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  others. 
"  You  shall  be  our  ruler,"  said  they  ; 
"  Chief  and  King  of  all  the  beavers." 

But  not  long  had  Pau-Puk-Keewis 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


'S3 


Sat  in  state  among  the  beavers, 
When  there  came  a  voice  of  warning 
From  the  watchman  at  his  station 
In  the  water-flags  and  lilies, 
Saying,  "  Here  is  Hiawatha  ! 
Hiawatha  with  his  hunters  !  " 

Then  they  heard  a  cry  above  them, 
Heard  a  shouting  and  a  tramping, 
Heard  a  crashing  and  a  rushing, 
And  the  water  round  and  o'er  them. 
Sank  and  sucked  away  in  eddies, 
And  they  knew  their  dam  was  broken. 

On  the  lodge's  roof  the  hunters 
Leaped,  and  broke  it  all  asunder  ; 
Streamed  the  sunshine  through  the  crevice, 
Sprang  the  beavers  through  the  doorway, 
Hid  themselves  in  deeper  water, 
In  the  channel  of  the  streamlet  ; 
But  the  mighty  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Could  not  pass  beneath  the  doorway  ; 
He  was  puffed  with  pride  and  feeding, 
He  was  swollen  like  a  bladder. 

Through  the  roof  looked  Hiawatha, 
Cried  aloud,  "  O  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! 
Vain  are  all  your  craft  and  cunning, 
Vain  your  manifold  disguises  ! 
Well  I  know  you,  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! " 
With   their   clubs   they   beat  and  bruised 

him, 

Beat  to  death  poor  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pounded  him  as  maize  is  pounded, 
Till  his  skull  was  crushed  to  pieces. 

Six  tall  hunters,  lithe  and  limber, 
Bore  him  home  on  poles  and  branches, 
Bore  the  body  of  the  beaver  ; 
But  the  ghost,  the  Jeebi  in  him, 
Thought  and  felt  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Still  lived  on  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

And  it  fluttered,  strove,  and  struggled, 
Waving  hither,  waving  thither, 
As  the  curtains  of  a  wigwam 
Struggle  with  their  thongs  of  deer-skin, 
When  the  wintry  wind  is  blowing  ; 
Till  it  drew  itself  together, 
Till  it  rose  up  from  the  body, 
Till  it  took  the  form  and  features 
Of  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Vanishing  into  the  forest. 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha 
Saw  the  figure  ere  it  vanished, 
Saw  the  form  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Glide  into  the  soft  blue  shadow 
Of  the  pine-trees  of  the  forest  ; 
Toward  the  squares  of  white  beyond  it, 
Toward  an  opening  in  the  forest, 


Like  a  wind  it  rushed  and  panted, 
Bending  all  the  boughs  before  it, 
And  behind  it,  as  the  rain  comes, 
Came  the  steps  of  Hiawatha. 

To  a  lake  with  many  islands 
Came  the  breathless  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Where  among  the  water-lilies 
Pishnekuh,  the  brant,  were  sailing  ; 
Through  the  tufts  of  rushes  floating, 
Steering  through  the  reedy  islands. 
Now  their  broad  black  beaks  they  lifted, 
Now  they  plunged  beneath  the  water, 
Now  they  darkened  in  the  shadow, 
Now  they  brightened  in  the  sunshine. 

"  Pishnekuh  !  "  cried  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
"  Pishnekuh  !  my  brothers  !  "  said  he, 
"  Change  me  to  a  brant  with  plumage, 
With  a  shining  neck  and  feathers, 
Make  me  large,  and  make  me  larger, 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  others." 

Straightway  to  a  brant  they  changed  him, 
With  two  huge  and  dusky  pinions, 
With  a  bosom  smooth  and  rounded, 
With  a  bill  like  two  great  paddles, 
Made  him  larger  than  the  others, 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  largest, 
Just  as,  shouting  from  the  forest, 
On  the  shore  stood  Hiawatha. 

Up  they  rose  with  cry  and  clamor, 
With  a  whir  and  beat  of  pinions, 
Rose  up  from  the  reedy  islands, 
From  the  water-flags  and  lilies. 
And  they  said  to  Pau-Puk-Keewis  : 
"  In  your  flying,  look  not  downward, 
Take  good  heed  and  look  not  downward, 
Lest  some  strange  mischance  should  hap 
pen, 
Lest  some  great  mishap  befall  you  !  " 

Fast  and  far  they  fled  to  northward, 
Fast  and  far  through  mist  and  sunshine, 
Fed  among  the  moors  and  fen-lands, 
Slept  among  the  reeds  and  rushes. 

On  the  morrow  as  they  journeyed, 
Buoyed  and  lifted  by  the  South-wind, 
Wafted  onward  by  the  South-wind, 
Blowing  fresh  and  strong  behind  them, 
Rose  a  sound  of  human  voices, 
Rose  a  clamor  from  beneath  them, 
From  the  lodges  of  a  village, 
From  the  people  miles  beneath  them. 

For  the  people  of  the  village 
Saw  the  flock  of  brant  with  wonder, 
Saw  the  wings  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Flapping  far  up  in  the  ether, 
Broader  than  two  doorway  curtains. 


154 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


Pau-Puk-Keewis  heard  the  shouting, 
Knew  the  voice  of  Hiawatha, 
Knew  the  outcry  of  lagoo, 
And,  forgetful  of  the  warning, 
Drew  his  neck  in,  and  looked  downward, 
And  the  wind  that  blew  behind  him 
Caught  his  mighty  fan  of  feathers, 
Sent  him  wheeling,  whirling  downward  ! 

All  in  vain  did  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Struggle  to  regain  his  balance  ! 
Whirling  round  and  round  and  downward, 
He  beheld  in  turn  the  village 
And  in  turn  the  flock  above  him, 
Saw  the  village  coining  nearer, 
And  the  flock  receding  farther, 
Heard  the  voices  growing  louder, 
Heard  the  shouting  and  the  laughter  ; 
Saw  no  more  the  flocks  above  him, 
Only  saw  the  earth  beneath  him  ; 
Dead  out  of  the  empty  heaven, 
Dead  among  the  shouting  people, 
With  a  heavy  sound  and  sullen, 
Fell  the  brant  with  broken  pinions. 

But  his  soul,  his  ghost,  his  shadow, 
Still  survived  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Took  again  the  form  and  features 
Of  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 
And  again  went  rushing  onward, 
Followed  fast  by  Hiawatha, 
Crying  :  "  Not  so  wide  the  world  is, 
Not  so  long  and  rough  the  way  is, 
But  my  wrath  shall  overtake  you, 
But  my  vengeance  shall  attain  you  ! " 

And  so  near  he  came,  so  near  him, 
That  his  hand  was  stretched  to  seize  him, 
His  right  hand  to  seize  and  hold  him, 
When  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Whirled  and  spun  about  in  circles, 
Fanned  the  air  into  a  whirlwind, 
Danced  the  dust  and  leaves  about  him, 
And  amid  the  whirling  eddies 
Sprang  into  a  hollow  oak-tree, 
Changed  himself  into  a  serpent, 
Gliding  out  through  root  and  rubbish. 

With  his  right  band  Hiawatha 
Smote  amain  the  hollow  oak-tree, 
Rent  it  into  shreds  and  splinters, 
Left  it  lying  there  in  fragments. 
But  in  vain  ;  for  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Once  again  in  human  figure, 
Full  in  sight  ran  on  before  him, 
Sped  away  in  gust  and  whirlwind, 
On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
Westward  by  the  Big-Sea-Water, 
Came  unto  the  rocky  headlands, 


To  the  Pictured  Rocks  of  sandstone, 
Looking  over  lake  and  landscape. 

And  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain, 
He  the  Manito  of  Mountains, 
Opened  wide  his  rocky  doorways, 
Opened  wide  his  deep  abysses, 
Giving  Pau-Puk-Keewis  shelter 
In  his  caverns  dark  and  dreary, 
Bidding  Pau-Puk-Keewis  welcome 
To  his  gloomy  lodge  of  sandstone. 

There  without  stood  Hiawatha, 
Found  the  doorways  closed  against  him, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Smote  great  caverns  in  the  sandstone, 
Cried  aloud  in  tones  of  thunder, 
"  Open  !  I  am  Hiawatha  !  " 
But  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain 
Opened  not,  and  made  no  answer 
From  the  silent  crags  of  sandstone, 
From  the  gloomy  rock  abysses. 

Then  he  raised  his  hands  to  heaven, 
Called  imploring  on  the  tempest, 
Called  VVaywassimo,  the  lightning, 
And  the  thunder,  Annemeekee  ; 
And  they  came  with  night  and  darkness, 
Sweeping  down  the  Big-Sea-Water 
From  the  distant  Thunder  Mountains  ; 
And  the  trembling  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Heard  the  footsteps  of  the  thunder, 
Saw  the  red  eyes  of  the  lightning, 
Was  afraid,  and  crouched  and  trembled. 

Then  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
Smote  the  doorways  of  the  caverns, 
With  his  war-club  smote  the  doorways, 
Smote  the  jutting  crags  of  sandstone, 
And  the  thunder,  Annemeekee, 
Shouted  down  into  the  caverns, 
Saying,  "  Where  is  Pau-Puk-Keewis  !  " 
And  the  crags  fell,  and  beneath  them 
Dead  among  the  rocky  ruins 
Lay  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Lay  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 
Slain  in  his  own  human  figure. 

Ended  were  his  wild  adventures, 
Ended  were  his  tricks  and  gambols, 
Ended  all  his  craft  and  cunning, 
Ended  all  his  mischief-making, 
All  his  gambling  and  his  dancing. 
All  his  wooing  of  the  maidens. 

Then  the  noble  Hiawatha 
Took  his  soul,  his  ghost,  his  shadow, 
Spake  and  said  :  "  O  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Never  more  in  human  figure 
Shall  you  search  for  new  adventures  ; 
Never  more  with  jest  and  laughter 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


155 


Dance  the  dust  and  leaves  in  whirlwinds  ; 

But  above  there  in  the  heavens 

You  shall  soar  and  sail  in  circles  ; 

I  will  change  you  to  an  eagle, 

To  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 

Chief  of  all  the  fowls  with  feathers, 

Chief  of  Hiawatha's  chickens." 

And  the  name  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Lingers  still  among  the  people, 
Lingers  still  among  the  singers, 
And  among  the  story-tellers  ; 
And  in  Winter,  when  the  snow-flakes 
Whirl  in  eddies  round  the  lodges, 
When  the  wind  in  gusty  tumult 
O'er  the  smoke-flue  pipes  and  whistles, 
"There,"  they  cry,  "comes  Pau-Puk-Kee 
wis  ; 

He  is  dancing  through  the  village, 
He  is  gathering  in  his  harvest ! " 


XVIII 
THE   DEATH   OF  KWASIND 

FAR  and  wide  among  the  nations 
Spread  the  name  and  fame  of  Kwasind ; 
No  man  dared  to  strive  with  Kwasind, 
No  man  could  compete  with  Kwasind. 
But  the  mischievous  Puk-Wudjies, 
They  the  envious  Little  People, 
They  the  fairies  and  the  pygmies, 
Plotted  and  conspired  against  him. 

"  If  this  hateful  Kwasind,"  said  they, 
"  If  this  great,  outrageous  fellow 
Goes  on  thus  a  little  longer, 
Tearing  everything  he  touches, 
Rending  everything  to  pieces, 
Filling  all  the  world  with  wonder, 
What  becomes  of  the  Puk- Wudjies  ? 
Who  will  care  for  the  Puk-Wudjies  ? 
He  will  tread  us  down  like  mushrooms, 
Drive  us  all  into  the  water, 
Give  our  bodies  to  be  eaten 
By  the  wicked  Nee-ba-naw-baigs, 
By  the  Spirits  of  the  water  !  " 

So  the  angry  Little  People 
All  conspired  against  the  Strong  Man, 
AH  conspired  to  murder  Kwasind, 
Yes,  to  rid  the  world  of  Kwasind, 
The  audacious,  overbearing, 
Heartless,  haughty,  dangerous  Kwasind  ! 

Now  this  wondrous  strength  of  Kwasind 
In  his  crown  alone  was  seated  ; 
In  his  crown  too  was  his  weakness  ; 


There  alone  could  he  be  wounded, 
Nowhere  else  could  weapon  pierce  him, 
Nowhere  else  could  weapon  harm  him. 

Even  there  the  only  weapon 
That  could  wound  him,  that  could  slay  him, 
Was  the  seed-cone  of  the  pine-tree, 
Was  the  blue  cone  of  the  fir-tree. 
This  was  Kwasind's  fatal  secret, 
Known  to  no  man  among  mortals  ; 
But  the  cunning  Little  People, 
The  Puk-Wudjies,  knew  the  secret, 
Knew  the  only  way  to  kill  him. 

So  they  gathered  cones  together, 
Gathered  seed-cones  of  the  pine-tree, 
Gathered  blue  cones  of  the  fir-tree, 
In  the  woods  by  Taquamenaw, 
Brought  them  to  the  river's  margin, 
Heaped  them  in  great  piles  together, 
Where  the  red  rocks  from  the  margin 
Jutting  overhang  the  river. 
There  they  lay  in  wait  for  Kwasind, 
The  malicious  Little  People. 

'T  was  an  afternoon  in  Summer  ; 
Very  hot  and  still  the  air  was, 
Very  smooth  the  gliding  river, 
Motionless  the  sleeping  shadows  : 
Insects  glistened  in  the  sunshine, 
Insects  skated  on  the  water, 
Filled  the  drowsy  air  with  buzzing, 
With  a  far  resounding  war-cry. 

Down  the  river  came  the  Strong  Man, 
In  his  birch  canoe  came  Kwasind, 
Floating  slowly  down  the  current 
Of  the  sluggish  Taquamenaw, 
Very  languid  with  the  weather, 
Very  sleepy  with  the  silence. 

From  the  overhanging  branches, 
From  the  tassels  of  the  birch-trees, 
Soft  the  Spirit  of  Sleep  descended  ; 
By  his  airy  hosts  surrounded, 
His  invisible  attendants, 
Came  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin  ; 
Like  a  burnished  Dush-kwo-ne-she, 
Like  a  dragon-fly,  he  hovered 
O'er  the  drowsy  head  of  Kwasind. 

To  his  ear  there  came  a  murmur 
As  of  waves  upon  a  sea-shore, 
As  of  far-off  tumbling  waters, 
As  of  winds  among  the  pine-trees  ; 
And  he  felt  upon  his  forehead 
Blows  of  little  airy  war-clubs, 
Wielded  by  the  slumbrous  legions 
Of  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin, 
As  of  some  one  breathing  on  him. 

At  the  first  blow  of  their  war-clubs, 


1 56 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


Fell  a  drowsiness  on  Kwasind  ; 
At  the  second  blow  they  smote  him, 
Motionless  his  paddle  rested  ; 
At  the  third,  before  his  vision 
Reeled  the  landscape  into  darkness, 
Very  sound  asleep  was  Kwasind. 

So  he  floated  down  the  river, 
Like  a  blind  man  seated  upright, 
Floated  down  the  Taquamenaw, 
Underneath  the  trembling  birch-trees, 
Underneath  the  wooded  headlands, 
Underneath  the  war  encampment 
Of  the  pygmies,  the  Puk-Wudjies. 

There  they  stood,  all  armed  and  waiting, 
Hurled  the  pine-cones  down  upon  him, 
Struck  him  on  his  brawny  shoulders, 
On  his  crown  defenceless  struck  him. 
"  Death  to  Kwasind  !  "  was  the  sudden 
War-cry  of  the  Little  People. 

And  he  sideways  swayed  and  tumbled, 
Sideways  fell  into  the  river, 
Plunged  beneath  the  sluggish  water 
Headlong,  as  an  otter  plunges  ; 
And  the  birch  canoe,  abandoned, 
Drifted  empty  down  the  river, 
Bottom  upward  swerved  and  drifted  : 
Nothing  more  was  seen  of  Kwasind. 

But  the  memory  of  the  Strong  Man 
Lingered  long  among  the  people, 
And  whenever  through  the  forest 
Raged  and  roared  the  wintry  tempest, 
And  the  branches,  tossed  and  troubled, 
Creaked  and  groaned  and  split  asunder, 
"  Kwasind  !  "  cried  they;  "  that  is  Kwasind  ! 
He  is  gathering  in  his  fire-wood  !  " 


XIX 
THE  GHOSTS 

NEVER  stoops  the  soaring  vulture 
On  his  quarry  in  the  desert, 
On  the  sick  or  wounded  bison, 
But  another  vulture,  watching 
From  his  high  aerial  look-out, 
Sees  the  downward  plunge,  and  follows  ; 
And  a  third  pursues  the  second, 
Coming  from  the  invisible  ether, 
First  a  speck,  and  then  a  vulture, 
Till  the  air  is  dark  with  pinions. 
So  disasters  come  not  singly  ; 
But  as  if  they  watched  and  waited, 
Scanning  one  another's  motions, 
When  the  first  descends,  the  others 


Follow,  follow,  gathering  flock-wise 
Round  their  victim,  sick  and  wounded, 
First  a  shadow,  then  a  sorrow, 
Till  the  air  is  dark  with  anguish. 

Now,  o'er  all  the  dreary  North-land, 
Mighty  Peboan,  the  Winter, 
Breathing  on  the  lakes  and  rivers, 
Into  stone  had  changed  their  waters. 
From  his  hair  he  shook  the  snow-flakes, 
Till  the  plains  were  strewn  with  whiteness, 
One  uninterrupted  level, 
As  if,  stooping,  the  Creator 
With  his  hand  had  smoothed  them  over. 

Through  the  forest,  wide  and  wailing, 
Roamed  the  hunter  on  his  snow-shoes  ; 
In  the  village  worked  the  women, 
Pounded  maize,  or  dressed  the  deer-skin  ; 
And  the  young  men  played  together 
On  the  ice  the  noisy  ball-play, 
On  the  plain  the  dance  of  snow-shoes. 

One  dark  evening,  after  sundown, 
In  her  wigwam  Laughing  Water 
Sat  with  old  Nokomis,  waiting 
For  the  steps  of  Hiawatha 
Homeward  from  the  hunt  returning. 

On  their  faces  gleamed  the  firelight, 
Painting  them  with  streaks  of  crimson, 
In  the  eyes  of  old  Nokomis 
Glimmered  like  the  watery  moonlight, 
In  the  eyes  of  Laughing  Water 
Glistened  like  the  sun  in  water  ; 
And  behind  them  crouched  their  shadows 
In  the  corners  of  the  wigwam, 
And  the  smoke  in  wreaths  above  them 
Climbed  and  crowded  through  the  smoke- 
flue. 

Then  the  curtain  of  the  doorway 
From  without  was  slowly  lifted  ; 
Brighter  glowed  the  fire  a  moment, 
And  a  moment  swerved  the  smoke-wreath, 
As  two  women  entered  softly, 
Passed  the  doorway  uninvited, 
Without  word  of  salutation, 
Without  sign  of  recognition, 
Sat  down  in  the  farthest  corner, 
Crouching  low  among  the  shadows. 

From  their  aspect  and  their  garments, 
Strangers  seemed  they  in  the  village  ; 
Very  pale  and  haggard  were  they, 
As  they  sat  there  sad  and  silent, 
Trembling,  cowering  with  the  shadows. 

Was  it  the  wind  above  the  smoke-flue, 
Muttering  down  into  the  wigwam  ? 
Was  it  the  owl,  the  Koko-koho, 
Hooting  from  the  dismal  forest  ? 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


157 


Sure  a  voice  said  in  the  silence  : 
"  These  are  corpses  clad  in  garments, 
These  are  ghosts  that  come  to  haunt  you, 
From  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
From  the  land  of  the  Hereafter !  " 

Homeward  now  came  Hiawatha 
From  his  hunting  in  the  forest, 
With  the  snow  upon  his  tresses, 
And  the  red  deer  on  his  shoulders. 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Down  he  threw  his  lifeless  burden  ; 
Nobler,  handsomer  she  thought  him, 
Than  when  first  he  came  to  woo  her, 
First  threw  down  the  deer  before  her, 
As  a  token  of  his  wishes, 
As  a  promise  of  the  future. 

Then  he  turned  and  saw  the  strangers, 
Cowering,  crouching  with  the  shadows  ; 
Said  within  himself,  "  Who  are  they  ? 
What  strange  guests  has  Minnehaha  ?  " 
But  he  questioned  not  the  strangers, 
Only  spake  to  bid  them  welcome 
To  his  lodge,  his  food,  his  fireside. 

When  the  evening  meal  was  ready, 
And  the  deer  had  been  divided, 
Both  the  pallid  guests,  the  strangers, 
Springing  from  among  the  shadows, 
Seized  upon  the  choicest  portions, 
Seized  the  white  fat  of  the  roebuck, 
Set  apart  for  Laughing  Water, 
For  the  wife  of  Hiawatha  ; 
Without  asking,  without  thanking, 
Eagerly  devoured  the  morsels, 
Flitted  back  among  the  shadows 
In  the  corner  of  the  wigwam. 

Not  a  word  spake  Hiawatha, 
Not  a  motion  made  Nokomis, 
Not  a  gesture  Laughing  Water  ; 
Not  a  change  came  o'er  their  features  ; 
Only  Minnehaha  softly 
Whispered,  saying,  "  They  are  famished  ; 
Let  them  do  what  best  delights  them  ; 
Let  them  eat,  for  they  are  famished." 

Many  a  daylight  dawned  and  darkened, 
Many  a  night  shook  off  the  daylight 
As  the  pine  shakes  off  the  snow-flakes 
From  the  midnight  of  its  branches  ; 
Day  by  day  the  guests  unmoving 
Sat  there  silent  in  the  wigwam  ; 
But  by  night,  in  storm  or  starlight, 
Forth  they  went  into  the  forest, 
Bringing  fire- wood  to  the  wigwam, 
Bringing  pine-cones  for  the  burning, 
Always  sad  and  always  silent. 

And  whenever  Hiawatha 


Came  from  fishing  or  from  hunting, 
When  the  evening  meal  was  ready, 
And  the  food  had  been  divided, 
Gliding  from  their  darksome  corner, 
Came  the  pallid  guests,  the  strangers, 
Seized  upon  the  choicest  portions 
Set  aside  for  Laughing  Water, 
And  without  rebuke  or  question 
Flitted  back  among  the  shadows. 

Never  once  had  Hiawatha 
By  a  word  or  look  reproved  them  ; 
Never  once  had  old  Nokomis 
Made  a  gesture  of  impatience  ; 
Never  once  had  Laughing  Water 
Shown  resentment  at  the  outrage. 
All  had  they  endured  in  silence, 
That  the  rights  of  guest  and  stranger, 
That  the  virtue  of  free-giving, 
By  a  look  might  not  be  lessened, 
By  a  word  might  not  be  broken. 

Once  at  midnight  Hiawatha, 
Ever  wakeful,  ever  watchful, 
In  the  wigwam,  dimly  lighted 
By  the  brands  that  still  were  burning, 
By  the  glimmering,  flickering  firelight, 
Heard  a  sighing,  oft  repeated, 
Heard  a  sobbing,  as  of  sorrow. 

From  his  couch  rose  Hiawatha, 
From  his  shaggy  hides  of  bison, 
Pushed  aside  the  deer-skin  curtain, 
Saw  the  pallid  guests,  the  shadows, 
Sitting  upright  on  their  couches, 
WTeeping  in  the  silent  midnight. 

And  he  said  :  "  O  guests  !  why  is  it 
That  your  hearts  are  so  afflicted, 
That  you  sob  so  in  the  midnight  ? 
Has  perchance  the  old  Nokomis, 
Has  my  wife,  my  Minnehaha, 
Wronged  or  grieved  you  by  unkindness, 
Failed  in  hospitable  duties  ?  " 

Then  the  shadows  ceased  from  weeping, 
Ceased  from  sobbing  and  lamenting, 
And  they  said,  with  gentle  voices  : 
"  We  are  ghosts  of  the  departed, 
Souls  of  those  who  once  were  with  you. 
From  the  realms  of  Chibiabos 
Hither  have  we  come  to  try  you, 
Hither  have  we  come  to  warn  you. 

"  Cries  of  grief  and  lamentation 
Reach  us  in  the  Blessed  Islands  ; 
Cries  of  anguish  from  the  living, 
Calling  back  their  friends  departed, 
Sadden  us  with  useless  sorrow. 
Therefore  have  we  come  to  try  you  ; 
No  one  knows  us,  no  one  heeds  us. 


THE   SONG  OF   HIAWATHA 


We  are  but  a  burden  to  you, 
And  we  see  that  the  departed 
Have  no  place  among  the  living. 

"  Think  of  this,  O  Hiawatha  ! 
Speak  of  it  to  all  the  people, 
That  henceforward  and  forever 
They  no  more  with  lamentations 
Sadden  the  souls  of  the  departed 
In  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 

"  Do  not  lay  such  heavy  burdens 
In  the  graves  of  those  you  bury, 
Not  such  weight  of  furs  and  wampum, 
Not  such  weight  of  pots  and  kettles, 
For  the  spirits  faint  beneath  them. 
Only  give  them  food  to  carry, 
Only  give  them  fire  to  light  them. 

"  Four  days  is  the  spirit's  journey 
To  the  land  of  ghosts  and  shadows, 
Four  its  lonely  night  encampments  ; 
Four  times  must  their  fires  be  lighted. 
Therefore,  when  the  dead  are  buried, 
Let  a  fire,  as  night  approaches, 
Four  times  on  the  grave  be  kindled, 
That  the  soul  upon  its  journey 
May  not  lack  the  cheerful  firelight, 
May  not  grope  about  in  darkness. 

"  Farewell,  noble  Hiawatha  ! 
We  have  put  you  to  the  trial, 
To  the  proof  have  put  your  patience, 
By  the  insult  of  our  presence, 
By  the  outrage  of  our  actions. 
We  have  found  you  great  and  noble. 
Fail  not  in  the  greater  trial, 
Faint  not  in  the  harder  struggle." 

When  they  ceased,  a  sudden  darkness 
Fell  and  filled  the  silent  wigwam. 
Hiawatha  heard  a  rustle 
As  of  garments  trailing  by  him, 
Heard  the  curtain  of  the  doorway 
Lifted  by  a  hand  he  saw  not, 
Felt  the  cold  breath  of  the  night  air, 
For  a  moment  saw  the  starlight  ; 
But  he  saw  the  ghosts  no  longer, 
Saw  no  more  the  wandering  spirits 
From  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
From  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 


XX 

THE   FAMINE 

the:  long  and  dreary  Winter  ! 
Oh  the  cold  and  cruel  Winter  ! 
Ever  thicker,  thicker,  thicker 


Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river, 
Ever  deeper,  deeper,  deeper 
Fell  the  snow  o'er  all  the  landscape, 
Fell  the  covering  snow,  and  drifted 
Through  the  forest,  round  the  village. 

Hardly  from  his  buried  wigwam 
Could  the  hunter  force  a  passage  ; 
With  his  mittens  and  his  snow-shoes 
Vainly  walked  he  through  the  forest, 
Sought  for  bird  or  beast  and  found  none, 
Saw  no  track  of  deer  or  rabbit, 
In  the  snow  beheld  no  footprints, 
In  the  ghastly,  gleaming  forest 
Fell,  and  could  not  rise  from  weakness, 
Perished  there  from  cold  and  hunger. 

Oh  the  famine  and  the  fever  ! 
Oh  the  wasting  of  the  famine  ! 
Oh  the  blasting  of  the  fever  ! 
Oh  the  wailing  of  the  children  ! 
Oh  the  anguish  of  the  women  ! 

All  the  earth  was  sick  and  famished  ; 
Hungry  was  the  air  around  them, 
Hungry  was  the  sky  above  them, 
And  the  hungry  stars  in  heaven 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  them  ! 

Into  Hiawatha's  wigwam 
Came  two  other  guests,  as  silent 
As  the  ghosts  were,  and  as  gloomy, 
Waited  not  to  be  invited, 
Did  not  parley  at  the  doorway, 
Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome 
In  the  seat  of  Laughing  Water  ; 
Looked  with  haggard  eyes  and  hollow 
At  the  face  of  Laughing  Water. 

And  the  foremost  said  :  "  Behold  me  ! 
I  am  Famine,  Bukadawin  !  " 
And  the  other  said  :  "  Behold  me  ! 
I  am  Fever,  Ahkosewin  !  " 

And  the  lovely  Minnehaha 
Shuddered  as  they  looked  upon  her, 
Shuddered  at  the  words  they  uttered, 
Lay  down  on  her  bed  in  silence, 
Hid  her  face,  but  made  no  answer  ; 
Lay  there  trembling,  freezing,  burning 
At  the  looks  they  cast  upon  her, 
At  the  fearful  words  they  uttered. 

Forth  into  the  empty  forest 
Rushed  the  maddened  Hiawatha ; 
In  his  heart  was  deadly  sorrow, 
In  his  face  a  stony  firmness  ; 
On  his  brow  the  sweat  of  anguish 
Started,  but  it  froze  and  fell  not. 

Wrapped  in  furs  and  armed  for  hunting, 
With  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 
With  his  quiver  full  of  arrows, 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 

Into  the  vast  and  vacant  forest 

On  his  snow-shoes  strode  he  forward. 

"  Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty  !  " 
Cried  he  with  his  face  uplifted 
In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 
"Give  your  children  food,  O  father  ! 
Give  us  food,  or  we  must  perish  !  r 
Give  me  food  for  Minnehaha, 
For  my  dying  Minnehaha  !  " 

Through  the  far-resounding  forest, 
Through  the  forest  vast  and  vacant 
Rang  that  cry  of  desolation, 
But  there  came  no  other  answer 
Than  the  echo  of  his  crying, 
Than  the  echo  of  the  woodlands, 
"  Minnehaha  !  Minnehaha  !  " 

All  day  long  roved  Hiawatha 
In  that  melancholy  forest, 
Through  the  shadow  of  whose  thickets, 
In  the  pleasant  days  of  Summer, 
Of  that  ne'er  forgotten  Summer, 
He  had  brought  his  young  wife  homeward 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ; 
When  the  birds  sang  in  the  thickets, 
And  the  streamlets  laughed  and  glistened, 
And  the  air  was  full  of  fragrance, 
And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Said  with  voice  that  did  not  tremble, 
"  I  will  follow  you,  my  husband  !  " 

In  the  wigwam  with  Nokomis, 
With  those  gloomy  guests  that  watched  her,. 
With  the  Famine  and  the  Fever, 
She  was  lying,  the  Beloved, 
She,  the  dying  Minnehaha. 

"  Hark  !  "  she  said  ;  "  I  hear  a  rushing, 
Hear  a  roaring  and  a  rushing, 
Hear  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  me  from  a  distance  !  " 
"  No,  my  child  !  "  said  old  Nokomis, 
"  'T  is  the  night-wind  in  the  pine-trees  !  " 

"  Look  !  "  she  said  ;  "  I  see  my  father 
Standing  lonely  at  his  doorway, 
Beckoning  to  me  from  his  wigwam 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  !  " 
"  No,  my  child  !  "  said  old  Nokomis. 
"  'T  is   the  smoke,  that  waves  and  beck 
ons  ! " 

"  Ah  ! "  said  she,  "  the  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  me  in  the  darkness, 
I  can  feel  his  icy  fingers 
Clasping  mine  amid  the  darkness  ! 
Hiawatha  !  Hiawatha  !  " 

And  the  desolate  Hiawatha, 
Far  away  amid  the  forest, 


Miles  away  among  the  mountains, 
Heard  that  sudden  cry  of  anguish, 
Heard  the  voice  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  in  the  darkness, 
"  Hiawatha  !  Hiawatha  !  " 

Over  snow-fields  waste  and  pathless, 
Under  snow-encumbered  branches, 
Homeward  hurried  Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed,  heavy-hearted, 
Heard  Nokomis  moaning,  wailing  : 
"  Wahonowin  !  Wahonowin  ! 
Would  that  I  had  perished  for  you, 
Would  that  I  were  dead  as  you  are  ! 
Wahonowin  !  Wahonowin  !  " 

And  he  rushed  into  the  wigwam, 
Saw  the  old  Nokomis  slowly 
Rocking  to  and  fro  and  moaning, 
Saw  his  lovely  Minnehaha 
Lying  dead  and  cold  before  him, 
And  his  bursting  heart  within  him 
Uttered  such  a  cry  of  anguish, 
That  the  forest  moaned  and  shuddered, 
That  the  very  stars  in  heaven 
Shook  and  trembled  with  his  anguish. 

Then  he  sat  down,  still  and  speechless, 
On  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water, 
At  those  willing  feet,  that  never 
More  would  lightly  run  to  meet  him, 
Never  more  would  lightly  follow. 

With  both  hands  his  face  he  covered, 
Seven  long  days  and  nights  he  sat  there, 
As  if  in  a  swoon  he  sat  there, 
Speechless,  motionless,  unconscious 
Of  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 

Then  they  buried  Minnehaha  ; 
In  the  snow  a  grave  they  made  her, 
In  the  forest  deep  and  darksome, 
Underneath  the  moaning  hemlocks  ; 
Clothed  her  in  her  richest  garments, 
Wrapped  her  in  her  robes  of  ermine, 
Covered  her  with  snow,  like  ermine  ; 
Thus  they  buried  Minnehaha. 

And  at  night  a  fire  was  lighted, 
On  her  grave  four  times  was  kindled, 
For  her  soul  upon  its  journey 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 
From  his  doorway  Hiawatha 
Saw  it  burning  in  the  forest, 
Lighting  up  the  gloomy  hemlocks  ; 
From  his  sleepless  bed  uprising, 
From  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
Stood  and  watched  it  at  the  doorway, 
That  it  might  not  be  extinguished, 
Might  not  leave  her  in  the  darkness. 


l6o 


THE   SONG  OF   HIAWATHA 


"  Farewell  !  "  said  he,  "  Minnehaba  ! 
Farewell,  O  ray  Laughing  Water  ! 
All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you, 
All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you  ! 
Come  not  back  again  to  labor, 
Come  not  back  again  to  suffer, 
Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 
Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body. 
Soon  my  task  will  be  completed, 
Soon  your  footsteps  I  shall  follow 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter  !  " 


XXI 

THE   WHITE   MAN'S   FOOT 

Ix  his  lodge  beside  a  river, 
Close  beside  a  frozen  river, 
Sat  an  old  man,  sad  and  lonely. 
White  his  hair  was  as  a  snow-drift  ; 
Dull  and  low  his  fire  was  burning, 
And  the  old  man  shook  and  trembled, 
Folded  in  his  Waubewyon, 
In  his  tattered  white-skin-wrapper, 
Hearing  nothing  but  the  tempest 
As  it  roared  along  the  forest, 
Seeing  nothing  but  the  snow-storm, 
As  it  whirled  and  hissed  and  drifted. 

All  the  coals  were  white  with  ashes, 
And  the  fire  was  slowly  dying, 
As  a  young  man,  walking  lightly, 
At  the  open  doorway  entered. 
Red  with  blood  of  youth  his  cheeks  were, 
Soft  his  eyes,  as  stars  in  Spring-time, 
Bound  his  forehead  was  with  grasses  ; 
Bound  and  plumed  with  scented  grasses, 
On  his  lips  a  smile  of  beauty, 
Filling  all  the  lodge  with  sunshine, 
In  his  hand  a  bunch  of  blossoms 
Filling  all  the  lodge  with  sweetness. 

"  Ah,  my  son  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
"  Happy  are  my  eyes  to  see  you. 
Sit  here  on  the  mat  beside  me, 
Sit  here  by  the  dying  embers, 
Let  us  pass  the  night  together, 
Tell  me  of  your  strange  adventures, 
Of  the  lands  where  you  have  travelled  ; 
I  will  tell  you  of  my  prowess, 
Of  my  many  deeds  of  wonder." 

From  his  pouch  he  drew  his  peace-pipe, 
Very  old  and  strangely  fashioned  ; 
Made  of  red  stone  was  the  pipe-head, 


And  the  stem  a  reed  with  feathers  ; 
Filled  the  pipe  with  bark  of  willow, 
Placed  a  burning  coal  upon  it, 
Gave  it  to  his  guest,  the  stranger, 
And  began  to  speak  in  this  wise  : 
"  When  I  blow  my  breath  about  me, 
When  I  breathe  upon  the  landscape, 
Motionless  are  all  the  rivers, 
Hard  as  stone  becomes  the  water  !  " 

And  the  young  man  answered,  smiling  : 
"  When  I  blow  my  breath  about  me, 
When  I  breathe  upon  the  landscape, 
Flowers  spring  up  o'er  all  the  meadows, 
Singing,  onward  rush  the  rivers  !  " 

"  When  I  shake  my  hoary  tresses," 
Said  the  old  man  darkly  frowning, 
"  All  the  land  with  snow  is  covered  ; 
All  the  leaves  from  all  the  branches 
Fall  and  fade  and  die  and  wither, 
For  I  breathe,  and  lo  !  they  are  not. 
From  the  waters  and  the  marshes 
Rise  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron, 
Fly  away  to  distant  regions, 
For  I  speak,  and  lo  !  they  are  not. 
And  where'er  my  footsteps  wander, 
All  the  wild  beasts  of  the  forest 
Hide  themselves  in  holes  and  caverns, 
And  the  earth  becomes  as  flintstone  ! " 

"  When  I  shake  my  flowing  ringlets," 
Said  the  young  man,  softly  laughing, 
"  Showers    of    rain    fall    warm    and    wel 
come, 

Plants  lift  up  their  heads  rejoicing, 
Back  into  their  lakes  and  marshes 
Come  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron, 
Homeward  shoots  the  arrowy  swallow, 
Sing  the  bluebird  and  the  robin, 
And  where'er  my  footsteps  wander, 
All  the  meadows  wave  with  blossoms, 
All  the  woodlands  ring  with  music, 
All  the  trees  are  dark  with  foliage  ! " 

While  they  spake,  the  night  departed  : 
From  the  distant  realms  of  Wabun, 
From  his  shining  lodge  of  silver, 
Like  a  warrior  robed  and  painted, 
Came  the  sun,  and  said,  "  Behold  me 
Gheezis,  the  great  sun,  behold  me  ! " 

Then  the  old  man's  tongue  was  speech 
less 

And  the  air  grew  warm  and  pleasant, 
And  upon  the  wigwam  sweetly 
Sang  the  bluebird  and  the  robin, 
And  the  stream  began  to  murmur, 
And  a  scent  of  growing  grasses 
Through  the  lodge  was  gently  wafted. 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


161 


And  Segwun,  the  youthful  stranger, 
More  distinctly  in  the  daylight 
Saw  the  icy  face  before  him  ; 
It  was  Peboan,  the  Winter  ! 

From  his  eyes  the  tears  were  flowing, 
As  from  melting  lakes  the  streamlets, 
And  his  body  shrunk  and  dwindled 
As  the  shouting  sun  ascended, 
Till  into  the  air  it  faded, 
Till  into  the  ground  it  vanished, 
And  the  young  man  saw  before  him, 
On  the  hearth-stone  of  the  wigwam, 
Where  the   fire    had   smoked   and   smoul 
dered, 

Saw  the  earliest  flower  of  Spring-time, 
Saw  the  Beauty  of  the  Spring-time, 
Saw  the  Miskocleed  in  blossom. 

Thus  it  was  that  in  the  North-land 
After  that  unheard-of  coldness, 
That  intolerable  Winter, 
Came  the  Spring  with  all  its  splendor, 
All  its  birds  and  all  its  blossoms, 
All  its  flowers  and  leaves  and  grasses. 

Sailing  on  the  wind  to  northward, 
Flying  in  great  flocks,  like  arrows, 
Like  huge  arrows  shot  through  heaven, 
Passed  the  swan,  the  Mahnahbezee, 
Speaking  almost  as  a  man  speaks  ; 
And  iu  long  lines  waving,  bending 
Like  a  bow-string  snapped  asunder, 
Came  the  white  goose,  Waw-be-wawa  ; 
And  in  pairs,  or  singly  flying, 
Mahng  the  loon,  with  clangorous  pinions, 
The  blue  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gab, 
And  the  grouse,  the  Mushkodasa. 

In  the  thickets  and  the  meadows 
Piped  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
On  the  summit  of  the  lodges 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
In  the  covert  of  the  pine-trees 
Cooed  the  pigeon,  the  Omemee  ; 
And  the  sorrowing  Hiawatha, 
Speechless  in  his  infinite  sorrow, 
Heard  their  voices  calling  to  him, 
Went  forth  from  his  gloomy  doorway, 
Stood  and  gazed  into  the  heaven, 
Gazed  upon  the  earth  and  waters. 

From  his  wanderings  far  to  eastward, 
From  the  regions  of  the  morning, 
From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun, 
Homeward  now  returned  lagoo, 
The  great  traveller,  the  great  boaster, 
Full  of  new  and  strange  adventures, 
Marvels  many  and  many  wonders. 

And  the  people  of  the  village 


Listened  to  him  as  he  told  them 
Of  his  marvellous  adventures, 
Laughing  answered  him  in  this  wise  : 
"  Ugh  !  it  is  indeed  lagoo  ! 
No  one  else  beholds  such  wonders  !  " 

He  had  seen,  he  said,  a  water 
Bigger  than  the  Big-Sea-Water, 
Broader  than  the  Gitche  Gumee, 
Bitter  so  that  none  could  drink  it  ! 
At  each  other  looked  the  warriors, 
Looked  the  women  at  each  other, 
Smiled,  and  said,  "  It  cannot  be  so  ! 
Kaw  !  "  they  said,  "  it  cannot  be  so  ! " 

O'er  it,  said  he,  o'er  this  water 
Came  a  great  canoe  with  pinions, 
A  canoe  with  wings  came  flying, 
Bigger  than  a  grove  of  pine-trees, 
Taller  than  the  tallest  tree-tops  ! 
And  the  old  men  and  the  women 
Looked  and  tittered  at  each  other  ; 
"Kaw!"    they   said,    "we   don't   believe 
it!" 

From  its  mouth,  he  said,  to  greet  him, 
Came  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
Came  the  thunder,  Annemeekee  ! 
And  the  warriors  and  the  women 
Laughed  aloud  at  poor  lagoo  ; 
"  Kaw  ! "  they  said,  "  what  tales  you  tell 
us!"   ' 

In  it,  said  he,  came  a  people, 
In  the  great  canoe  with  pinions 
Came,  he  said,  a  hundred  warriors  ; 
Painted  white  were  all  their  faces 
And  with  hair  their  chins  were  covered  ! 
And  the  warriors  and  the  women 
Laughed  and  shouted  in  derision, 
Like  the  ravens  on  the  tree-tops, 
Like  the  crows  upon  the  hemlocks. 
"  Kaw  ! "  they   said,   "  what   lies   you  tell 

us  ! 
Do  not  think  that  we  believe  them  !  " 

Only  Hiawatha  laughed  not, 
But  he  gravely  spake  and  answered 
To  their  jeering  and  their  jesting  : 
"  True  is  all  lagoo  tells  us  ; 
I  have  seen  it  in  a  vision, 
Seen  the  great  canoe  with  pinions, 
Seen  the  people  with  white  faces, 
Seen  the  coming  of  this  bearded 
People  of  the  wooden  vessel 
From  the  regions  of  the  morning, 
From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun. 

"  Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 
Sends  them  hither  on  his  errand. 


1 62 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


Sends  them  to  us  with  his  message. 
Wheresoe'er  they  move,  before  them 
Swarms  the  stinging  fly,  the  Ahmo, 
Swarms  the  bee,  the  honey-maker  ; 
Wheresoe'er  they  tread,  beneath  them 
Springs  a  flower  unknown  among  us, 
Springs  the  White-man's  Foot  in  blossom. 

"  Let  us  welcome,  then,  the  strangers, 
Hail  them  as  our  friends  and  brothers, 
And  the  heart's  right  hand  of  friendship 
Give  them  when  they  come  to  see  us. 
Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
Said  this  to  me  in  my  vision. 

"  I  beheld,  too,  in  that  vision 
All  the  secrets  of  the  future, 
Of  the  distant  days  that  shall  be. 
I  beheld  the  westward  marches 
Of  the  unknown,  crowded  nations. 
All  the  laud  was  full  of  people, 
Restless,  struggling,  toiling,  striving, 
Speaking  many  tongues,  yet  feeling 
But  one  heart-beat  in  their  bosoms. 
In  the  woodlands  rang  their  axes, 
Smoked  their  towns  in  all  the  valleys, 
Over  all  the  lakes  and  rivers 
Rushed  their  great  canoes  of  thunder. 

"  Then  a  darker,  drearier  vision 
Passed  before  me,  vague  and  cloud-like  ; 
I  beheld  our  nation  scattered, 
All  forgetful  of  my  counsels, 
Weakened,  warring  with  each  other  : 
Saw  the  remnants  of  our  people 
Sweeping  westward,  wild  and  woful, 
Like  the  cloud-rack  of  a  tempest, 
Like  the  withered  leaves  of  Autumn  ! " 


XXII 
HIAWATHA'S  DEPARTURE 

BY  the  shore  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
At  the  doorway  of'his  wigwam, 
In  the  pleasant  Summer  morning, 
Hiawatha  stood  and  waited. 
All  the  air  was  full  of  freshness, 
All  the  earth  was  bright  and  joyous, 
And  before  him,  through  the  sunshine, 
Westward  toward  the  neighboring  forest 
Passed  in  golden  swarms  the  Ahmo, 
Passed  the  bees,  the  honey-makers, 
Burning,  singing  in  the  sunshine. 

Bright  above  him  shone  the  heavens, 
Level  spread  the  lake  before  him  ; 


From  its  bosom  leaped  the  sturgeon, 
Sparkling,  flashing  in  the  sunshine  ; 
On  its  margin  the  great  forest 
Stood  reflected  in  the  water, 
Every  tree-top  had  its  shadow, 
Motionless  beneath  the  water. 
From  the  brow  of  Hiawatha 
Gone  was  every  trace  of  sorrow, 
As  the  fog  from  off  the  water, 
As  the  mist  from  off  the  meadow. 
With  a  smile  of  joy  and  triumph, 
With  a  look  of  exultation, 
As  of  one  who  in  a  vision 
Sees  what  is  to  be,  but  is  not, 
Stood  and  waited  Hiawatha. 

Toward  the  sun  his  hands  were  lifted, 
Both  the  palms  spread  out  against  it, 
And  between  the  parted  fingers 
Fell  the  sunshine  on  his  features, 
Flecked  with  light  his  naked  shoulders, 
As  it  falls  and  flecks  an  oak-tree 
Through  the  rifted  leaves  and  branches. 

O'er  the  water  floating,  flying, 
Something  in  the  hazy  distance, 
Something  in  the  mists  of  morning, 
Loomed  and  lifted  from  the  water, 
Now  seemed  floating,  now  seemed  flying, 
Coming  nearer,  nearer,  nearer. 
Was  it  Shingebis  the  diver  ? 
Or  the  pelican,  the  Shada  ? 
Or  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah  ? 
Or  the  white  goose,  Waw-be-wawa, 
With  the  water  dripping,  flashing, 
From  its  glossy  neck  and  feathers  ? 

It  was  neither  goose  nor  diver, 
Neither  pelican  nor  heron, 
O'er  the  water  floating,  flying, 
Through  the  shining  mist  of  morning, 
But  a  birch  canoe  with  paddles, 
Rising,  sinking  on  the  water, 
Dripping,  flashing  in  the  sunshine  ; 
And  within  it  came  a  people 
From  the  distant  land  of  Wabun, 
From  the  farthest  realms  of  morning 
Came  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Prophet, 
He  the  Priest  of  Prayer,  the  Pale-face, 
With  his  guides  and  his  companions. 

And  the  noble  Hiawatha, 
With  his  hands  aloft  extended, 
Held  aloft  in  sign  of  welcome, 
Waited,  full  of  exultation, 
Till  the  birch  canoe  with  paddles 
Grated  on  the  shining  pebbles, 
Stranded  on  the  sandy  margin, 
Till  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Pale-face, 


THE   SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 


163 


With  the  cross  upon  his  bosom, 
Landed  on  the  sandy  margin. 

Then  the  joyous  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud  and  spake  in  this  wise  : 
"  Beautiful  is  the  sun,  O  strangers, 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! 
All  our  town  in  peace  awaits  you, 
All  our  doors  stand  open  for  you  ; 
You  shall  enter  all  our  wigwams, 
For  the  heart's  right  hand  we  give  you. 

"  Never  bloomed  the  earth  so  gayly, 
Never  shone  the  sun  so  brightly, 
As  to-day  they  shine  and  blossom 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! 
Never  was  our  lake  so  tranquil, 
Nor  so  free  from  rocks  and  sand-bars  ; 
For  your  birch  canoe  in  passing 
Has  removed  both  rock  and  sand-bar. 

"  Never  before  had  our  tobacco 
Such  a  sweet  and  pleasant  flavor, 
Never  the  broad  leaves  of  our  cornfields 
Were  so  beautiful  to  look  on, 
As  they  seem  to  us  this  morning, 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  !  " 

And  the  Black-Robe  chief  made  answer, 
Stammered  in  his  speech  a  little, 
Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar  : 
"  Peace  be  with  you,  Hiawatha, 
Peace  be  wit'h  you  and  your  people, 
Peace  of  prayer,  and  peace  of  pardon, 
Peace  of  Christ,  and  joy  of  Mary  !  " 

Then  the  generous  Hiawatha 
Led  the  strangers  to  his  wigwam, 
Seated  them  on  skins  of  bison, 
Seated  them  on  skins  of  ermine, 
And  the  careful  old  Nokomis 
Brought  them  food  in  bowls  of  basswood, 
Water  brought  in  birchen  dippers, 
And  the  calumet,  the  peace-pipe, 
Filled  and  lighted  for  their  smoking. 

All  the  old  men  of  the  village, 
All  the  warriors  of  the  nation, 
All  the  Jossakeeds,  the  Prophets, 
The  magicians,  the  Wabenos, 
And  the  Medicine-men,  the  Medas, 
Came  to  bid  the  strangers  welcome  ; 
"  It  is  well,"  they  said,  "  O  brothers, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! " 

In  a  circle  round  the  doorway, 
With  their  pipes  they  sat  in  silence, 
Waiting  to  behold  the  strangers, 
Waiting  to  receive  their  message  ; 
Till  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Pale-face, 
From  the  wigwam  came  to  greet  them, 
Stammering  in  his  speech  a  little, 


Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar  ; 

"  It  is  well,"  they  said,  "  O  brother, 

That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  !  " 

Then  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Prophet, 
Told  his  message  to  the  people, 
Told  the  purport  of  his  mission, 
Told  them  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
And  her  blessed  Son,  the  Saviour, 
How  in  distant  lands  and  ages 
He  had  lived  on  earth  as  we  do  ; 
How  he  fasted,  prayed,  and  labored  ; 
How  the  Jews,  the  tribe  accursed, 
Mocked  him,  scourged  him,  crucified  him  i 
How  he  rose  from  where  they  laid  him, 
Walked  again  with  his  disciples, 
And  ascended  into  heaven. 

And  the  chiefs  made  answer,  saying  : 
"  We  have  listened  to  your  message, 
We  have  heard  your  words  of  wisdom, 
We  will  think  on  what  you  tell  us. 
It  is  well  for  us,  0  brothers, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  !  " 

Then  they  rose  up  and  departed 
Each  one  homeward  to  his  wigwam, 
To  the  young  men  and  the  women 
Told  the  story  of  the  strangers 
Whom  the  Master  of  Life  had  sent  them 
From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun. 

Heavy  with  the  heat  and  silence 
Grew  the  afternoon  of  Summer  ; 
With  a  drowsy  sound  the  forest 
Whispered  round  the  sultry  wigwam, 
With  a  sound  of  sleep  the  water 
Rippled  on  the  beach  below  it  ; 
From  the  cornfields  shrill  and  ceaseless 
Sang  the  grasshopper,  Pah-puk-keena  ; 
And  the  guests  of  Hiawatha, 
Weary  with  the  heat  of  Summer, 
Slumbered  in  the  sultry  wigwam. 

Slowly  o'er  the  simmering  landscape 
Fell  the  evening's  dusk  and  coolness, 
And  the  long  and  level  sunbeams 
Shot  their  spears  into  the  forest, 
Breaking  through  its  shields  of  shadow, 
Rushed  into  each  secret  ambush, 
Searched  each  thicket,  dingle,  hollow  ; 
Still  the  guests  of  Hiawatha 
Slumbered  in  the  silent  wigwam. 

From  his  place  rose  Hiawatha, 
Bade  farewell  to  old  Nokomis, 
Spake  in  whispers,  spake  in  this  wise, 
Did  not  wake  the  guests,  that  slumbered  : 

"  I  am  going,  O  Nokomis, 
On  a  long  and  distant  journey, 
To  the  portals  of  the  Sunset, 


1 64 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES    STANDISH 


To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind, 
Of  the  North  west- Wind,  Keewaydin. 
But  these  guests  I  leave  behind  me, 
In  your  watch  and  ward  I  leave  them  ; 
See  that  never  harm  comes  near  them, 
See  that  never  fear  molests  them, 
Never  danger  nor  suspicion, 
Never  want  of  food  or  shelter, 
In  the  lodge  of  Hiawatha  !  " 

Forth  into  the  village  went  he, 
Bade  farewell  to  all  the  warriors, 
Bade  farewell  to  all  the  young  men, 
Spake  persuading,  spake  in  this  wise  : 

"  I  am  going,  O  my  people, 
On  a  long  and  distant  journey  ; 
Many  moons  and  many  winters 
Will  have  come,  and  will  have  vanished, 
Ere  I  come  again  to  see  you. 
But  my  guests  I  leave  behind  me  ; 
Listen  to  their  words  of  wisdom, 
Listen  to  the  truth  they  tell  you, 
For  the  Master  of  Life  has  sent  them 
From  the  land  of  light  and  morning  !  " 

On  the  shore  stood  Hiawatha, 
Turned  and  waved  his  hand  at  parting  ; 
On  the  clear  and  luminous  water 
Launched  his  birch  canoe  for  sailing, 
From  the  pebbles  of  the  margin 
Shoved  it  forth  into  the  water  ; 
Whispered  to  it,  "  Westward  !  westward  !  " 
And  with  speed  it  darted  forward. 

And  the  evening  sun  descending 
Set  the  clouds  on  fire  with  redness, 
Burned  the  broad  sky,  like  a  prairie, 


Left  upon  the  level  water 
One  long  track  and  trail  of  splendor, 
Down  whose  stream,  as  down  a  river, 
Westward,  westward  Hiawatha 
Sailed  into  the  fiery  sunset, 
Sailed  into  the  purple  vapors, 
Sailed  into  the  dusk  of  evening. 

And  the  people  from  the  margin 
Watched  him  floating,  rising,  sinking, 
Till  the  birch  canoe  seemed  lifted 
High  into  that  sea  of  splendor, 
Till  it  sank  into  the  vapors 
Like  the  new  moon  slowly,  slowly 
Sinking  in  the  purple  distance. 

And  they  said,  "  Farewell  forever  !  " 
Said,  "  Farewell,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 
And  the  forests,  dark  and  lonely, 
Moved  through  all  their  depths  of  darkness, 
Sighed,  "  Farewell,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 
And  the  waves  upon  the  margin 
Rising,  rippling  on  the  pebbles, 
Sobbed,  "  Farewell,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  haunts  among  the  fen-lands, 
Screamed,  "  Farewell,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha, 
Hiawatha  the  Beloved, 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 
In  the  purple  mists  of  evening, 
To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind, 
Of  the  Northwest-Wind,  Keewaydin, 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter ! 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES   STANDISH 


It  is  possible  that  the  unmistakable  success  of  Hia 
watha  made  Mr.  Longfellow  more  ready  to  occupy  him 
self  with  another  subject  of  American  life.  At  any 
rate,  a  few  weeks  after  the  publication  of  that  poem 
one  of  his  friends  urged  him  to  write  a  poem  on  the 
Puritans  and  Quakers.  "  A  good  subject  for  a  tragedy," 
he  remarks,  and  began  looking  over  books  which  would 
give  him  incidents.  The  first  outcome  was  the  begin 
ning  of  The  New  England  Tragedies.  Then  he  appears 
to  have  begun  as  an  alternative,  lighter  work  a  drama, 
The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish.  This  was  December 
2,  1856.  Exactly  a  year  later  he  writes  in  his  diary : 
"  Soft  as  spring.  I  begin  a  new  poem,  PriscUla,  to  be 
a  kind  of  Puritan  pastoral ;  the  subject,  the  courtship 
of  Miles  Standish.  This,  I  think,  will  be  a  better  treat 
ment  of  the  subject  than  the  dramatic  owe  I  wrote 
some  time  ago ;  "  and  the  next  day :  "  My  poem  is  in 
hexameters ;  an  idyl  of  the  Old  Colony  times.  What  it 
will  turn  out  I  do  not  know ;  but  it  gives  me  pleasure 
to  write  it ;  and  that  I  count  for  something." 

He  seems  to  have  made  a  fresh  start  on  the  poem, 
January  29,  1858,  and  then  to  have  carried  it  rapidly 
forward  to  completion,  for  the  first  draft  was  finished 


March  22d,  although  the  book,  which  contained  besides 
a  collection  of  his  recent  short  poems,  was  not  published 
until  September.  When  midway  in  the  writing  he 
changed  the  title  to  that  which  the  poem  now  bears.  The 
incident  of  Priscilla's  reply,  on  which  the  story  turns, 
was  a  tradition,  and  John  Alden  was  a  maternal  ances 
tor  of  the  poet.  For  the  rest,  he  drew  his  material  from 
the  easily  accessible  historical  resources.  Dr.  Young 
had  published  his  valuable  Chronicles  of  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers,  and  Mr.  Charles  Wyllis  Elliott  his  entertaining 
History  of  New  England,  in  which  he  had  attempted 
to  reconstruct  the  interior,  household  life  in  greater 
detail  than  had  other  learned  writers.  Mr.  Longfellow 
did  not  think  it  necessary  to  follow  the  earty  Plymouth 
history  with  scrupulous  reference  to  chronology  ;  it  was 
sufficient  for  him  to  catch  the  broad  features'  of  the 
colonial  life  and  to  reproduce  the  spirit  of  the  relations 
existing  between  Plymouth  and  the  Indians.  The  hex 
ameter  verse  differs  hi  its  general  effect  from  that  pro 
duced  by  the  more  stately  form  used  in  Evangeline, 
through  its  greater  elasticity.  A  crispness  of  touch  is 
gained  by  a  more  varying  accent  and  a  freer  use  of 
trochees. 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES    STANDISH 


165 


THE    COURTSHIP   OF    MILES 
STANDISH 


I 


MILES   STANDISH 

IN  the  Old  Colony  days,  in  Plymouth  the 

land  of  the  Pilgrims, 
To  and  fro  in  a  room  of  his  simple  and 

primitive  dwelling, 

Clad  in  doublet  and  hose,  and  boots  of  Cor 
dovan  leather, 
Strode,  with  a  martial  air,  Miles  Standish 

the  Puritan  Captain. 
Buried   in   thought   he    seemed,    with   his 

hands  behind  him,  and  pausing 
Ever   and   anon   to   behold   his    glittering 

weapons  of  warfare, 
Hanging  in  shining  array  along  the  walls 

of  the  chamber,  — 
Cutlass  and  corselet  of  steel,  and  his  trusty 

sword  of  Damascus, 
Curved  at  the  point  and  inscribed  with  its 

mystical  Arabic  sentence, 
While  underneath,  in  a  corner,  were  fowl 
ing-piece,  musket,  and  matchlock. 
Short  of  stature  he  was,  but  strongly  built 

and  athletic, 
Broad  in  the  shoulders,  deep-chested,  with 

muscles  and  sinews  of  iron  ; 
Brcwn  as  a  nut  was  his  face,  but  his  russet 

beard  was  already 
Flaked  with   patches  of   snow,  as  hedges 

sometimes  in  November. 
Near  him  was  seated  John  Alden,  his  friend 

and  household  companion, 
Writing  with  diligent  speed  at  a  table  of 

pine  by  the  window  ; 
Fair-haired,  azure-eyed,  with  delicate  Saxon 

complexion, 
Having    the   dew   of   his   youth,    and    the 

beauty  thereof,  as  the  captives 
Whom  Saint  Gregory  saw,  and  exclaimed, 

"  Not  Angles,  but  Angels." 
Youngest  of  all  was  he  of   the  men  who 

came  in  the  Mayflower. 

Suddenly  breaking  the  silence,  the  dili 
gent  scribe  interrupting, 

Spake,  in  the  pride  of  his  heart,  Miles 
Standish  the  Captain  of  Plymouth. 

lt  Look  at  these  arms,"  he  said,  "  the  war 
like  weapons  that  hang  here 


Burnished  and  bright  and  clean,  as  if  for 

parade  or  inspection  ! 
This  is  the  sword  of  Damascus  I  fought 

with  in  Flanders  ;  this  breastplate, 
Well  I  remember  the  day  !  once  saved  my 

life  in  a  skirmish  ; 
Here  in  front  you  can  see  the  very  dint  of 

the  bullet 
Fired  point-blank  at  my  heart  by  a  Spanish 

arcabucero. 

Had  it   not  been  of   sheer  steel,  the  for 
gotten  bones  of  Miles  Standish 
Would  at  this  moment  be  mould,  in  their 

grave  in  the  Flemish  morasses." 
Thereupon     answered     John     Alden,    but 

looked  not  up  from  his  writing  : 
"  Truly  the  breath  of  the  Lord  hath  slack 
ened  the  speed  of  the  bullet  ; 
He  in  his  mercy  preserved  you,  to  be  our 

shield  and  our  weapon  !  " 
Still  the  Captain  continued,  unheeding  the 

words  of  the  stripling  : 
"  See,  how  bright  they  are  burnished,  as  if 

in  an  arsenal  hanging  ; 
That  is  because  I  have  done  it  myself,  and 

not  left  it  to  others. 
Serve  yourself,  would  you  be  well  served, 

is  an  excellent  adage  ; 
So  I  take  care  of  my  arms,  as  you  of  your 

pens  and  your  inkhoin. 
Then,  too,  there  are  my  soldiers,  my  great, 

invincible  army, 
Twelve  men,  all  equipped,  having  each  his 

rest  and  his  matchlock, 
Eighteen  shillings  a  month,  together  with 

diet  and  pillage, 
And,  like  Caesar,  I  know  the  name  of  each 

of  my  soldiers  !  " 
This  he  said  with  a  smile,  that  danced  in 

his  eyes,  as  the  sunbeams 
Dance  on  the  waves  of  the  sea,  and  vanish 

again  in  a  moment. 
Alden  laughed  as  he  wrote,  and  still  the 

Captain  continued  : 
"  Look  !  you  can  see  from  this  window  my 

brazen  howitzer  planted 
High  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  a  preacher 

who  speaks  to  the  purpose, 
Steady,  straightforward,  and  strong,  with 

irresistible  logic, 
Orthodox,  flashing  conviction  right  into  the 

hearts  of  the  heathen. 
Now  we  are  ready,  I  think,  for  any  assault 

of  the  Indians ; 


i66 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES    STANDISH 


Let  them  come,  if  they  like,  and  the  sooner 

they  try  it  the  better,  — 
Let  them  come,  if  they  like,  be  it  sagamore, 

sachem,  or  pow-wow, 
Aspinet,  Samoset,  Corbitant,  Squauto,   or 

Tokamahamon  !  " 

Long  at  the  window  he  stood,  and  wist 
fully  gazed  on  the  landscape, 

Washed  with  a  cold  gray  mist,  the  vapory 
breath  of  the  east-wind, 

Forest  and  meadow  and  hill,  and  the  steel- 
blue  rim  of  the  ocean, 

Lying  silent  and  sad,  in  the  afternoon  shad 
ows  and  sunshine. 

Over  his  countenance  flitted  a  shadow  like 
those  on  the  landscape, 

Gloom  intermingled  with  light ;  and  his 
voice  was  subdued  with  emotion, 

Tenderness,  pity,  regret,  as  after  a  pause 
he  proceeded  : 

"  Yonder  there,  on  the  hill  by  the  sea,  lies 
buried  Rose  Standish  ; 

Beautiful  rose  of  love,  that  bloomed  for  me 
by  the  wayside  ! 

She  was  the  first  to  die  of  all  who  came  in 
the  Mayflower  ! 

Green  above  her  is  growing  the  field  of 
wheat  we  have  sown  there, 

Better  to  hide  from  the  Indian  scouts  the 
graves  of  our  people, 

Lest  they  should  count  them  and  see  how 
many  already  have  perished  !  " 

Sadly  his  face  he  averted,  and  strode  up 
and  down,  and  was  thoughtful. 

Fixed  to  the  opposite  wall  was  a  shelf  of 
books,  and  among  them 

Prominent  three,  distinguished  alike  for 
bulk  and  for  binding  ; 

Bariffe's  Artillery  Guide,  and  the  Com 
mentaries  of  Csesar 

Out  of  the  Latin  translated  by  Arthur 
Goldinge  of  London, 

And,  as  if  guarded  by  these,  between  them 
was  standing  the  Bible. 

Musing  a  moment  before  them,  Miles 
Standish  paused,  as  if  doubtful 

Which  of  the  three  he  should  chocse  for 
his  consolation  and  comfort, 

Whether  the  wars  of  the  Hebrews,  the  fa 
mous  campaigns  of  the  Romans, 

Or  the  Artillery  practice,  designed  for  bel 
ligerent  Christians. 


Finally  down  from  its  shelf  he  dragged  the 

ponderous  Roman, 
Seated  himself  at  the  window,  and  opened 

the  book,  and  in  silence 
Turned  o'er  the  well-worn  leaves,  where 

thumb-marks  thick  on  the  margin, 
Like  the  trample  of  feet,  proclaimed  the 

battle  was  hottest. 
Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room   but  the 

hurrying  pen  of  the  stripling, 
Busily  writing  epistles  important,  to  go  by 

the  Mayflower, 
Ready  to  sail  on  the  morrow,  or  next  day 

at  latest,  God  willing  ! 
Homeward  bound  with  the  tidings  of  all 

that  terrible  winter, 
Letters  written  by  Alclen,  and  full  of  the 

name  of  Priscilla ! 

Full  of  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the  Pu 
ritan  maiden  Priscilla ! 


II 


LOVE  AND    FRIENDSHIP 

NOTHING  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the 
hurrying  pen  of  the  stripling, 

Or  an  occasional  sigh  from  the  laboring 
heart  of  the  Captain, 

Reading  the  marvellous  words  and  achieve 
ments  of  Julius  Csesar. 

After  a  while  he  exclaimed,  as  he  smote 
with  his  hand,  palm  downwards, 

Heavily  on  the  page  :  "  A  wonderful  man 
was  this  Csesar  ! 

You  are  a  writer,  and  I  am  a  fighter,  but 
here  is  a  fellow 

Who  could  both  write  and  fight,  and  in 
both  was  equally  skilful !  " 

Straightway  answered  and  spake  John 
Alden,  the  comely,  the  youthful  : 

"  Yes,  he  was  equally  skilled,  as  you  say, 
with  his  pen  and  his  weapons. 

Somewhere  have  I  read,  but  where  I  for 
get,  he  could  dictate 

Seven  letters  at  once,  at  the  same  time 
writing  his  memoirs." 

"  Truly,"  continued  the  Captain,  not  heed 
ing  or  hearing  the  other, 

"  Truly  a  wonderful  man  was  Cains  Julius 
Csesar  ! 

Better  be  first,  he  said,  in  a  little  Iberian 
village, 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF    MILES    STANDISH 


167 


Than  be  second  in  Rome,  and  I  think  he 
was  right  when  he  said  it. 

Twice  was  he  married  before  he  was 
twenty,  and  many  times  after  ; 

Battles  five  hundred  he  fought,  and  a 
thousand  cities  he  conquered  ; 

He,  too,  fought  in  Flanders,  as  he  himself 
has  recorded  ; 

Finally  he  was  stabbed  by  his  friend,  the 
orator  Brutus  ! 

Now,  do  you  know  what  he  did  on  a  cer 
tain  occasion  in  Flanders, 

When  the  rear-guard  of  his  army  retreated, 
the  front  giving  way  too, 

And  the  immortal  Twelfth  Legion  was 
crowded  so  closely  together 

There  was  no  room  for  their  swords  ? 
Why,  he  seized  a  shield  from  a  sol 
dier, 

Put  himself  straight  at  the  head  of  his 
troops,  and  commanded  the  captains, 

Calling  on  each  by  his  name,  to  order  for 
ward  the  ensigns  ; 

Then  to  widen  the  ranks,  and  give  more 
room  for  their  weapons  ; 

So  he  won  the  day,  the  battle  of  something- 
or-other. 

That 's  what  I  always  say  ;  if  you  wish  a 
thing  to  be  well  done, 

You  must  do  it  yourself,  you  must  not 
leave  it  to  others  !  " 

All  was  silent  again  ;  the  Captain  con 
tinued  his  reading. 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the 
hurrying  pen  of  the  stripling 

Writing  epistles  important  to  go  next  day 
by  the  Mayflower, 

Filled  with  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the 
Puritan  maiden  Priscilla  ; 

Every  sentence  began  or  closed  with  the 
name  of  Priscilla, 

Till  the  treacherous  pen,  to  which  he  con 
fided  the  secret, 

Strove  to  betray  it  by  singing  and  shouting 
the  name  of  Priscilla  ! 

Finally  closing  his  book,  with  a  bang  of  the 
ponderous  cover, 

Sudden  and  loud  as  the  sound  of  a  soldier 
grounding  his  musket, 

Thus  to  the  young  man  spake  Miles  Stan- 
dish  the  Captain  of  Plymouth  : 

"  When  you  have  finished  your  work,  I  have 
something  important  to  tell  you. 


Be  not  however   in  haste  ;  I  can   wait ;  I 

shall  not  be  impatient  !  " 
Straightway  Aiden  replied,  as  he  folded  the 

last  of  his  letters, 

Pushing  his  papers  aside,  and  giving  re 
spectful  attention  : 
"  Speak  ;   for  whenever  you  speak,    I   am 

always  ready  to  listen, 
Always  ready  to  hear  whatever  pertains  to 

Miles  Standish." 

Thereupon  answered  the  Captain,  embar 
rassed,  and  culling  his  phrases  : 
"  'T  is  not  good  for  a  man  to  be  alone,  say 

the  Scriptures. 
This   I   have    said   before,  and  again  and 

again  I  repeat  it  ; 
Every  hour  in  the  day,  I  think  it,  and  feel 

it,  and  say  it. 
Since  Rose  Standish  died,  my  life  has  been 

weary  and  dreary  ; 

Sick  at  heart  have  I  been,  beyond  the  heal 
ing  of  friendship  ; 
Oft  in  my  lonely  hours  have  I  thought  of 

the  maiden  Priscilla. 
She  is  alone  in  the  world  ;  her  father  and 

mother  and  brother 
Died  in  the  winter   together  ;  I  saw  her 

going  and  coming, 
Now  to  the  grave  of  the  dead,  and  now  to 

the  bed  of  the  dying, 
Patient,  courageous,  and  strong,  and  said 

to  myself,  that  if  ever 
There  were  angels  on  earth,  as  there  are 
-.**•        angels  in  heaven, 
/Two  have  I  seen  and  known  ;  and  the  angel 

whose  name  is  Priseilla 
Holds  in  my  desolate  life  the  place  which 

the  other  abandoned. 
Long  have  I  cherished   the    thought,   but 

never  have  dared  to  reveal  it, 
Being   a  coward    in   this,   though   valiant 

enough  for  the  most  part. 
Go   to    the  damsel  Priscilla,  the   loveliest 

maiden  of  Plymouth, 
Say  that  a  blunt  old  Captain,  a  man  not 

of  words  but  of  actions, 
Offers  his  hand  and  his  heart,  the  hand  and 

heart  of  a  soldier. 
Not  in  these  words,  you  know,  but  this  in 

short  is  my  meaning  ; 
I  am  a  maker  of  war,  and  not  a  maker  of 

phrases. 
You,  who  are  bred  as  a  scholar,  can  say  it 

in  elegant  language, 


1 68 


THE   COURTSHIP    OF   MILES    STANDISH 


Such  as  you  read  in  your  books  of  the 
pleadings  and  wooings  of  lovers, 

Such  as  you  think  best  adapted  to  win  thet 
heart  of  a  maiden." 

When  he  had  spoken,  John  Alden,  the 

fair-haired,  taciturn  stripling, 
All  aghast  at  his  words,  surprised,  embar 
rassed,  bewildered, 
Trying  to  mask  his  dismay  by  treating  the 

subject  with  lightness, 
Trying  to  smile,  and  yet  feeling  his  heart 

stand  still  in  his  bosom, 
Just  as  a  timepiece  stops  in  a  house  that  is 

stricken  by  lightning, 
Thus  made  answer  and  spake,  or  rather 

stammered  than  answered  : 
"Such   a   message    as   that,  I   am  sure  I 

should  mangle  and  mar  it  : 
If  you  would  have  it  well  done,  —  I  am 

only  repeating  your  maxim,  — 
You  must  do  it  yourself,  you  must  not  leave 

it  to  others  !  " 
But  with  the  air  of  a  man  whom  nothing 

can  turn  from  his  purpose, 
Gravely  shaking  his  head,  made  answer  the 

Captain  of  Plymouth  : 
"  Truly  the  maxim  is  good,  and  I  do  not 

mean  to  gainsay  it  ; 
But   we   must  use    it   discreetly,  and   not 

F        waste  powder  for  nothing, 
w,  as  I  said  before,  I  was  never  a  maker 
of  phrases. 
I  can  march  up  to  a  fortress  and  summon 

the  place  to  surrender, 
But  march  up  to  a  woman  with  such  a  pro 
posal,  I  dare  not. 
I  'm  not  afraid  of  bullets,  nor  shot  from  the 

mouth  of  a  cannon, 
But   of   a   thundering   '  No  ! '   point-blank 

from  the  mouth  of  a  woman, 
That  I  confess  I  'm  afraid  of,  nor   am   I 

ashamed  to  confess  it  ! 
So  you  must  grant  my  request,  for  you  are 

an  elegant  scholar, 
Having  the  graces  of  speech,  and  skill  in 

the  turning  of  phrases." 
Taking  the  hand  of  his    friend,  who    still 

was  reluctant  and  doubtful, 
Holding  it  long  in  his  own,  and  pressing  it 

kindly,  he  added  : 
"Though  I  have  spoken  thus  lightly,  yet 

deep  is  the  feeling  that  prompts  me  ; 
Surely  you  cannot  refuse  what  I  ask  in  the 

name  of  our  friendship  !  "  ^ 


Then   made    answer   John    Aldeii :    "  The 

name  of  friendship  is  sacred  ; 
What  you  demand  in  that  name,  I  have  not 

the  power  to  deny  you  !  " 
So  the  strong  will  prevailed,  subduing  and 

moulding  the  gentler, 
Friendship  prevailed  over  love,  and  Alden 

went  on  his  errand. 


Ill 


THE  LOVER'S   ERRAND 

So   the   strong  will  prevailed,  and  Alden 

went  on  his  errand, 
Out  of  the  street  of  the  village,  and  into 

the  paths  of  the  forest, 
Into  the  tranquil  woods,  where  bluebirds 

and  robins  were  building 
Towns  in  the  populous  trees,  with  hanging 

gardens  of  verdure, 
Peaceful,  aerial  cities  of  joy  and  affection 

and  freedom. 
All  around  him  was  calm,  but  within  him 

commotion  and  conflict, 
Love  contending  with  friendship,  and  self 

with  each  generous  impulse. 
To  and  fro  in  his  breast  his  thoughts  were 

heaving  and  dashing, 
As  in  a  foundering  ship,  with  every  roll  of 

the  vessel, 
Washes  the  bitter  sea,  the  merciless  surge 

of  the  ocean  ! 
"  Must  I  relinquish  it  all,"  he  cried  with  a 

wild  lamentation, — 
"  Must  I  relinquish  it  all,  the  joy,  the  hope, 

the  illusion  ? 
Was  it  for  this  I  have  loved,  and  waited, 

and  worshipped  in  silence  ? 
Was  it  for  this  I  have  followed  the  flying 

feet  and  the  shadow 

Over  the  wintry  sea,  to  the  desolate  shores 
*-.         of  New  England  ? 
[Truly  the  heart  is  deceitful,  and  out  of  its 

depths  of  corruption 

Rise,  like  an  exhalation,  the  misty  phan 
toms  of  passion  ; 
Angels   of  light  they  seem,  but   are  only 

delusions  of  SatanJ! 
All  is  clear  to  me  now*";'!  feel  it,  I  see  it 

distinctly  ! 
This  is  the  hand  of  the  Lord  ;  it  is  laid  upon 

me  in  anger, 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES    STANDISH 


169 


For  I  have  followed  too  much  the  heart's 

desires  and  devices, 
Worshipping  Astaroth  blindly,  and  impious 

idols  of  Baal. 
This  is  the  cross  I  must  bear  ;  the  sin  and 

the  swift  retribution." 

So   through  the  Plymouth   woods  John 

Alden  went  on  his  errand  ; 
Crossing  the  brook  at   the  ford,  where  it 

brawled  over  pebble  and  shallow, 
Gathering  still,  as  he  went,  the  May-flowers 

blooming  around  him, 
Fragrant,  filling  the  air  with  a  strange  and 

wonderful  sweetness, 
Children  lost   in  the  woods,  and   covered 

with  leaves  in  their  slumber. 
"  Puritan  flowers,"  he  said,  "  and  the  type 

of  Puritan  maidens, 
Modest   and  simple   and  sweet,  the   very 

type  of  Priscilla  ! 
So  I  will  take  them  to  her  ;  to  Priscilla  the 

Mayflower  of  Plymouth, 
Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  as  a  parting 

gift  will  I  take  them  ; 
Breathing   their  silent   farewells,  as   they 

fade  and  wither  and  perish, 
Soon  to  be  thrown  away  as  is  the  heart  of 

the  giver." 
So    through    the    Plymouth    woods    John 

Alden  went  on  his  errand  ; 
Came  to  an  open  space,  and  saw  the  disk 

of  the  ocean, 

Sailless,  sombre  and  cold  with  the  comfort 
less  breath  of  the  east-wind  ; 
Saw   the  new-built   house,  and   people    at 

work  in  a  meadow  ; 

Heard,  as  he  drew  near  the  door,  the  mu 
sical  voice  of  Priscilla 
Singing  the  hundredth   Psalm,  the  grand 

old  Puritan  anthem, 
Music  that  Luther  sang  to  the  sacred  words 

of  the  Psalmist, 
Full  of  the  breath  of  the  Lord,  consoling 

and  comforting  many. 
Then,  as  he  opened  the  door,  he  beheld  the 

form  of  the  maiden 
Seated   beside  her  wheel,  and  the  carded 

wool  like  a  snow-drift 
Piled  at  her  knee,  her  white  hands  feeding 

the  ravenous  spindle, 
While  with   her  foot   on   the   treadle    she 

guided  the  wheel  in  its  motion. 
Open  wide  on  her   lap  lay   the  well-worn 

psalm-book  of  Ainsworth, 


Printed  in  Amsterdam,  the  words  and  the 

music  together, 
Rough-hewn,  angular  notes,  like  stones  in 

the  wall  of  a  churchyard, 
Darkened    and  overhung   by    the  running 

vine  of  the  verses. 
Such  was  the  book  from  whose  pages  she 

sang  the  old  Puritan  anthem, 
She,  the  Puritan  girl,  in  the  solitude  of  the 

forest, 
Making  the  humble  house  and  the  modest 

apparel  of  homespun 
Beautiful  with  her  beauty,  and  rich  with 

the  wealth  of  her  being  ! 
Over  him  rushed,  like  a  wind  that  is  keen 

and  cold  and  relentless, 
Thoughts  of  what   might  have  been,  and 

the  weight  and  woe  of  his  errand  ; 
All  the  dreams  that  had  faded,  and  all  the 

hopes  that  had  vanished, 
All  his  life  henceforth  a  dreary  and  tenant- 
less  mansion, 

Haunted  by  vain  regrets,  and  pallid,  sorrow 
ful  faces. 
Still  he  said  to  himself,  and  almost  fiercely 

he  said  it, 
"  Let  not  him  that  putteth  his  hand  to  the 

plough  look  backwards  ; 
Though  the  ploughshare   cut   through  the 

flowers  of  life  to  its  fountains, 
Though  it  pass  o'er  the  graves  of  the  dead 

and  the  hearths  of  the  living, 
It  is  the  will  of  the  Lord  ;  and  his  mercy 

endureth  forever  !  " 

So  he  entered  the  house  :  and  the  hum  of 

the  wheel  and  the  singing 
Suddenly  ceased  ;  for  Priscilla,  aroused  by 

his  step  on  the  threshold, 
Rose  as  he  entered,  and  gave  him  her  hand, 

in  signal  of  welcome, 
Saying,  "  I  knew  it  was  you,  when  I  heard 

your  step  in  the  passage  ; 
For  I  was  thinking  of  you,  as  I  sat  there 

singing  and  spinning." 
Awkward  and  dumb   with  delight,  that  a 

thought  of  him  had  been  mingled 
Thus  in  the  sacred  psalm,  that  came  from 

the  heart  of  the  maiden, 
Silent  before  her  he  stood,  and  gave  her 

the  flowers  for  an  answer, 
Finding  no  words  for  his  thought.    He  re 
membered  that  day  in  the  winter, 
After  the  first  great  snow,  when  he  broke 

a  path  from  the  village. 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES   STANDISH 


Reeling  and  plunging  along  through  the 
drifts  that  encumbered  the  doorway, 

Stamping  the  snow  from  his  feet  as  he  en 
tered  the  house,  and  Priscilla 

Laughed  at  his  snowy  locks,  and  gave  him 
a  seat  by  the  fireside, 

Grateful  and  pleased  to  know  he  had 
thought  of  her  in  the  snow-storm. 

Had  he  but  spoken  then  !  perhaps  not  in 
vain  had  he  spoken  ; 

Now  it  was  all  too  late  ;  the  golden  mo 
ment  had  vanished  ! 

So  he  stood  there  abashed,  and  gave  her 
the  flowers  for  an  answer. 

Then  they  sat  down  and  talked  of  the 
birds  and  the  beautiful  Spring-time, 

Talked  of  their  friends  at  home,  and  the 
Mayflower  that  sailed  on  the  mor 
row. 

"I  have  been  thinking  all  day,"  said  gently 
the  Puritan  maiden, 

"  Dreaming  all  night,  and  thinking  all  day, 
of  the  hedge-rows  of  England,  — 

They  are  in  blossom  now,  and  the  country 
is  all  like  a  garden  : 

Thinking  of  lanes  and  fields,  and  the  song 
of  the  lark  and  the  linnet, 

Seeing  the  village  street,  and  familiar  faces 
of  neighbors 

Going  about  as  of  old,  and  stopping  to  gos 
sip  together, 

And,  at  the  end  of  the  street,  the  village 
church,  with  the  ivy 

Climbing  the  old  gray  tower,  and  the  quiet 
graves  in  the  churchyard. 

Kind  are  the  people  I  live  with,  and  dear 
to  me  my  religion  ; 

Still  my  heart  is  so  sad,  that  I  wish  myself 
back  in  Old  England. 

You  will  say  it  is  wrong,  but  I  cannot  help 
it  :  I  almost 

Wish  myself  back  in  Old  England,  I  feel 
so  lonely  and  wretched." 

Thereupon  answered  the  youth :  "  In 
deed  I  do  not  condemn  you  ; 

Stouter  hearts  than  a  woman's  have  quailed 
in  this  terrible  winter. 

Yours  is  tender  and  trusting,  and  needs 
a  stronger  to  lean  on  ; 

So  I  have  come  to  you  now,  with  an  offer 
and  proffer  of  marriage 

Made  by  a  good  man  and  true,  Miles  Stan- 
dish  the  Captain  of  Plymouth  !  " 


Thus  he  delivered  his  message,  the  dex 
terous  writer  of  letters,  — 
Did  not  embellish  the  theme,  nor  array  it 

in  beautiful  phrases, 
But  came  straight  to  the  point,  and  blurted 

it  out  like  a  school-boy  ; 
Even  the    Captain    himself    could   hardly 

have  said  it  more  bluntly. 
Mute  with  amazement  and  sorrow,  Priscilla 

the  Puritan  maiden 
Looked  into  Alden's  face,  her  eyes  dilated 

with  wonder, 
Feeling  his  words  like  a  blow,  that  stunned 

her  and  rendered  her  speechless  ; 
Till   at  length  she  exclaimed,  interrupting 

the  ominous  silence  : 
"  If  the  great  Captain  of  Plymouth  is  so 

very  eager  to  wed  me, 
Why  does  he  not  come  himself,  and  take 

the  trouble  to  woo  me  ? 
If  I  am  not  worth  the  wooing,  I  surely  am 

not  worth  the  winning  !  " 
Then    John   Alden   began   explaining  and 

smoothing  the  matter, 
Making  it  worse  as  he  went,  by  saying  the 

Captain  was  busy,  — 
Had  no  time  for  such  things  —  such  things  ! 

the  words  grating  harshly 
Fell  on  the  ear  of  Priscilla  ;  and  swift  as  a 

flash  she  made  answer  : 
"  Has  he  no  time  for  such  things,  as  you 

call  it,  before  he  is  married, 
Would  he  be  likely  to  find  it,  or  make  it, 

after  the  wedding  ? 
That  is  the  way  with  you  men  ;  you  don't 

understand  us,  you  cannot. 
When    you    have   made   up   your    minds, 

after  thinking  of  this  one  and  that 

one, 
Choosing,    selecting,   rejecting,    comparing 

one  with  another, 
Then  you  make  known  your  desire,  with 

abrupt  and  sudden  avowal, 
And  are  offended  and  hurt,  and  indignant 

perhaps,  that  a  woman 
Does  not  respond  at  once  to  a  love  that  she 

never  suspected, 
Does  not  attain  at  a  bound  the  height  to 

which  you  have  been  climbing. 
This  is  not  right  nor  just  :    for  surely  a 

woman's  affection 
Is  not  a  thing  to  be  asked  for,  and  had  for 

only  the  asking. 

When  one  is  truly  in  love,  one  not  only 
says  it,  but  shows  it. 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES    STANDISH 


171 


Had  he  but   waited  awhile,  had   he    only 

showed  that  he  loved  me, 
Even  this  Captain  of  yours  —  who  knows  ? 

—  at  last  might  have  won  me, 
Old  and  rough  as  he  is  ;  but  now  it  never 

can  happen." 

Still  John  Alden  went  on,  unheeding  the 

words  of  Priscilla, 
Urging  the  suit  of  his  friend,  explaining, 

persuading,  expanding  ; 
Spoke  of  his  courage  and  skill,  and  of  all 

his  battles  in  Flanders, 
How  with  the  people  of  God  he  had  chosen 

to  suffer  affliction  ; 
How,  in  return  for  his  zeal,  they  had  made 

him  Captain  of  Plymouth  ; 
He  was  a  gentleman  born,  could  trace  his 

pedigree  plainly 
Back  to  Hugh  Standish  of  Duxbury  Hall, 

in  Lancashire,  England, 
Who  was  the  son  of  Ralph,  and  the  grand 
son  of  Thurston  de  Standish  ; 
Heir  unto  vast   estates,  of  which  he   was 

basely  defrauded, 
Still  bore  the  family  arms,  and  had  for  his 

crest  a  cock  argent, 
Combed  and  wattled  gules,  and  all  the  rest 

of  the  blazon. 

He  was  a  man  of  honor,  of  noble  and  gen 
erous  nature  ; 
Though  he  was  rough,  he  was  kindly  ;  she 

knew  how  during  the  winter 
He  had  attended  the  sick,  with  a  hand  as 

gentle  as  woman's  ; 
Somewhat  hasty  and  hot,  he  could  not  deny 

it,  and  headstrong, 
Stern  as  a  soldier  might  be,  but  hearty,  and 

placable  always, 
Not  to  be  laughed  at  and  scorned,  because 

he  was  little  of  stature  ; 
For  he  was  great  of  heart,  magnanimous, 

courtly,  courageous  ; 
Any  woman  in  Plymouth,  nay,  any  woman 

in  England, 
Might  be  happy  and  proud  to  be  called  the 

wife  of  Miles  Standish  ! 

But  as  he  warmed   and  glowed,  in  his 

simple  and  eloquent  language, 
Quite  forgetful  of  self,  and  full  of  the  praise 

of  his  rival, 
Archly  the  maiden  smiled,  and,  with  eyes 

overrunning  with  laughter, 
Said,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  Why  don't  you 

speak  for  yourself,  John  ?  " 


IV 
JOHN  ALDEN 

INTO  the  open  air  John  Alden,  perplexed 

and  bewildered, 
Rushed  like  a  man  insane,  and  wandered 

alone  by  the  sea-side  ; 
Paced  up  and  down  the  sands,  and  bared 

his  head  to  the  east-wind, 
Cooling  his  heated  brow,  and  the  fire  and 

fever  within  him. 

Slowly  as  out  of  the  heavens,  with  apocalyp 
tical  splendors, 
Sank  the  City  of  God,  in  the  vision  of  John 

the  Apostle, 
So,    with   its    cloudy   walls    of    chrysolite, 

jasper,  and  sapphire, 
Sank  the  broad  red  sun,  and  over  its  turrets 

uplifted 
Glimmered  the  golden  reed  of  the  angel 

who  measured  the  city. 

"Welcome,  O  wind  of  the  East!"  he 
exclaimed  in  his  wild  exultation, 

"  Welcome,  O  wind  of  the  East,  from  the 
caves  of  the  misty  Atlantic  ! 

Blowing  o'er  fields  of  dulse,  and  measure 
less  meadows  of  sea-grass, 

Blowing  o'er  rocky  wastes,  and  the  grottoes 
and  gardens  of  ocean  ! 

Lay  thy  cold,  moist  hand  on  my  burning 
forehead,  and  wrap  me 

Close  in  thy  garments  of  mist,  to  allay  the 
fever  within  me  !  " 

Like  an  awakened  conscience,  the  sea 
was  moaning  and  tossing, 

Beating  remorseful  and  loud  the  mutable 
sands  of  the  sea-shore. 

Fierce  in  his  soul  was  the  struggle  and  tu 
mult  of  passions  contending  ; 

Love  triumphant  and  crowned,  and  friend 
ship  wounded  and  bleeding, 

Passionate  cries  of  desire,  and  importunate 
pleadings  of  duty  ! 

"  Is  it  my  fault,"  he  said,  "  that  the  maiden 
has  chosen  between  us  ? 

Is  it  my  fault  that  he  failed,  —  my  fault 
that  I  am  the  victor  ?  " 

Then  within  him  there  thundered  a  voice, 
like  the  voice  of  the  Prophet : 

"  It  hath  displeased  the  Lord  !  "  —  and  he 
thought  of  David's  transgression, 

Bathsheba's  beautiful  face,  and  his  friend 
in  the  front  of  the  battle  ! 


172 


TIIK  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH 


Shame  :in<l  confusion  of  !Miil(,aud  abase 
ment  and  self-condemnation, 

Overwhelmed  him  at  once  ;  and  he  cried 
in  the  deepest  eonl  ri(  ion  : 

"It  hath  displeased  Hie  Lord!  It  is  (ho 
temptation  of  Satan  !  " 

Then,  Uplifting  hil  head,  ho  looked  at  the 

sea,  and  behold  there 
Dimly  the  shadowy  I'm  -in  of  (ho  May  (lower 

riding  at  anchor, 
Hooked   on    the    rising    tide,  and    ready    to 

sad  on  the  morrow  ; 
Hoard  the  voiees  of  men  thron<;h   the  mist, 

the  rail  le  of  cordage 
Thrown    on    the   dock,    the    shouts    of    the 

mate,    and     the     sailors'    "  Ay,     av. 

Sir!" 
Clear    and    distinct,    hid     not    loud,    in    the 

dripping  air  of  the  twilight. 
Still   for  a    moment  he   stood,  and   listened, 

and  stared  at   the  vessel, 
Then  wont  hurriedly  on,  as  one  who,  soein<.;- 

a  phantom. 
Stops,  (hen   (piickens  his   pace,  and    follows 

t  he  beckoning  shadow. 
"  Yes,  it  is  plain  to  me  now,"  he  murmured  ; 

"  tho  hand  of  the  Lord  is 
Loading   me   out    of   tho   land   of   darkness, 

the  bondage  of  error. 
Through  the  sea,' that  shall  lift  (ho  walls  of 

its  waters  around   me. 
Hiding   mo,  ending  mo  otV,  from   tho  ernel 

thoughts  that   pursue  me. 
Back  will  1  £«>  o'er  the  ocean,  (his  dreary 

land  will  abandon. 
Her  whom  I  may  not    love,  and   him  whom 

my  heart  has  offended. 
Hotter  to  be   in  my  L^ravo   in  the   OTOOII  old 

ehnrelnard  in  F.n<;land, 
Close  by  my  mother's  side,  and   amonq;  tho 

dust  of  mv  kindred  ; 
Hotter   ho   doail    and    forgotten,  than  living 

in  shame  and  dishonor  ; 
Sacred  and  safe  and  unseen,  in  (lit1  dark  of 

(.ho  narrow  chamber 
AYith  mo   my  secret    shall  lie,  like  a  buried 

jewel  that  <H>mmors 
Hrii;-ht    on    the    hand    that    is  dust,   in    tho 

chambers  of  silence  and  darkness, 
^  es,  as   tht'  marriage    rino;  of   tho  ^reat   os- 

ponsal  hereafter  !  " 

Thus    as    he    spake,    lie    turned,    in     the 
strength  of  his  strong  resolution. 


Lea\iiiL;-  behind  him  the  shore,  and  hurried 

aloni;-  in  the  twilight, 
Through  the  congenial  L;loom  of  tin*   forest 

silent  and  sombre. 
Till  he  beheld  the  lights  in  the  seven  houses 

of  Plymouth, 

Shining   like   seven    stars   in   the    dusk  and 

mist  of  tho  evening. 
Soon   ho  entered   his  door,  and    found   the 

redoubtftbk  Captain 
Sitting  alone,  and   absorbed   in  (ho  martial 

pa^os  of  Ca>sar, 
Fighting  some  jn-cat  campaign  in  llainault 

or  Hrabaut  or  Flanders. 
"Lout;  have  you  been   on  your  errand,"  ho 

said  with  a  cheery  demeanor, 
Fvcn  as  one  who  is  waiting  an  answer,  and 

fears  not   tlu>  issm>. 
"Not   far  otV   is    the    house,  although    the 

\voods  ai't1  bet  ween  us  ; 
Hut    yon    ha\o    liiii';ered    so  lonj;-,  that  while 

\ou  wore  i;'oin«;-  and  eomini^ 
I  have  fought    ton   battles  and  sacked  and 

demolished  a  city. 
Come,  sit  down,  and  in   order  relate  to  me 

all  that  has  happened.'' 

Then  ,lohn  Aldeu  spake,  and  related   tho 

wondrous  adventure, 
From  bopnniii!;  to  end,  minutely,  just  as  it 

happened  ; 
How  he  had  seen  l'i  iscilla,  and  how  he  had 

sped  in  his  courtship. 
Only  smoothing  a  little,  and  softenint;-  down 

her  refusal. 
Hut    when  he   came  at  length    to  tho   words 

Hriscilla  had  spoken, 
AVonls   so   tender  and    cruel  :  "  AVhy  don't 

you  speak  for  yourself,  John?" 
I'p    leaped    the   Captain    of    Plymouth,  and 

stamped  on  tho  l'-oor.  till  his  armor 
v'lan^od  on  the  wall,  whei-e  it  hunt;,  with  a 

sound  «)f  sinister  omen. 

All  his  pent-up   wrath  burst  forth  in  a  sud 
den  explosion, 
K'eu   as   a    hand-grenade,  that  seatters  dc- 

strneiion  around  it. 
AVihlly    he    shouted,   and    loud  :  "  ,!ohn  Al- 

don  !   you  have  botrayoil  uu>  ! 
Me,  Miles  Standish,  your  friend  !  have  sup- 

plant(Ml,  tlofraiulotl,  hotrayod  mo! 
One  of  my  Muoos(ors  ran  his  sword  thrOUgO 

(he  hear)  of  Wat  T\  lor  ; 
^Vho   shall    pr«'vont     UH>    from    rnnuiuj:  my 

own  throiii;-h  the  heart  of  a  traitor  ? 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES   STANDISH 


173 


Yours  is  the  greater  treason,  for  yours  is  a 

treason  to  friendship  ! 
You,    who  lived  under  my    roof,   whom   I 

cherished  and  Loved  as  a  brother  ; 
You,  who  have  fed  at  my  board,  and  drunk 

at  my  euj>,  to  whose  keeping 
t    have  intrusted  my  honor,    my  thoughts 

the  most  saered  and  seeret, — 
You  too,  Brutus  !  ah  woe  to  the  name  of 

friendship  hereafter  ! 
Brutus  was  Caesar's   friend,  and  you  were 

mine,  but  hence  for  ward 
Let  there  be  nothing  between  us  save  war, 

and  implacable  hatred  !  " 

So  spake  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and 
strode  about  in  the  chamber, 

Chafing  and  choking  with  rage  ;  like  cords 
were  the  veins  on  his  temples. 

But  in  the  midst  of  his  anger  a  man  ap 
peared  at  the  doorwav, 

Bringing  in  uttermost  haste  a  message  of 
urgent  importance. 

Rumors  of  danger  and  war  and  hostile  in- 
eursions  of  Indians  ! 

Straightway  the  Captain  paused, and,  with 
out  further  question  or  parley, 

Took  from  the  nail  on  the  wall  his  sword 
with  its  scabbard  of  iron, 

Buckled  the  belt  round  his  waist,  and, 
frowning  fiercely,  departed. 

Alden  was  left  alone.  He  heard  the  clank 
of  the  scabbard 

Growing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  dying 
away  in  the  distance. 

Then  he  arose  from  his  seat,  and  looked 
forth  into  the  darkness. 

Felt  the  cool  air  blow  on  his  cheek,  that 
was  hot  with  the  insult, 

Lifted  his  eyes  to  the  heavens,  and,  folding 
his  hands  as  in  ehildhood, 

Prayed  in  the  silence  of  night  to  the  Father 
who  seeth  in  secret. 

Meanwhile  the  choleric   Captain   strode 

wrathful  away  to  the  council, 
Found    it    already    assembled,   impatiently 

waiting  his  coming  ; 
Men  in  the  middle  of  life,  austere  and  grave 

in  deportment, 
Only  one  of  them  old,  the    hill    that  was 

nearest  to  heaven. 
Covered  with  snow,  but  erect,  the  excellent 

Elder  of  Plymouth. 


God  had  sifted  three  kingdoms  to  find  the 

wheat  for  this  planting, 
Then   had  sifted  the  wheat,  as  the  living 

seed  of  a  nation  ; 
i  So  say  the  chronicles  old,  and  such  is  the 

faith  of  the  people  ! 

Near  them  was  standing  an  Indian,  in  atti 
tude  stern  and  defiant, 
Naked   down  to  the  waist,  and  grim  and 

ferocious  in  aspect  ; 
While  on  the  table  before  them  was  lying 

unopened  a  Bible, 
Ponderous,  bound  in  leather,  brass-studded, 

printed  in  Holland, 
And   beside  it   outstretched  the  skin  of  a 

rattlesnake  glittered, 
Filled,  like  a  quiver,  with  arrows  ;  a  signal 

and  challenge  of  warfare, 
Brought  by  the  Indian,  and  speaking  with 

arrowy  tongues  of  defiance. 
This  Miles  Standish  beheld,  as  he  entered, 

and  heard  them  debating 
What  were  an  answer  befitting  the  hostile 

message  and  menace, 

Talking  of  this  and  of  that,  contriving,  sug 
gesting,  objecting  ; 
One  voice   only  for   peace,   and   that   the 

voice  of  the  Elder, 
Judging  it  wise  and  well  that  some  at  least 

were  converted, 
Rather  than  any  were  slain,  for  this  was 

but  Christian  behavior  ! 
Then  out  spake  Miles  Staudish,  the   stal 
wart  Captain  of  Plymouth, 
Muttering  deep  in  his  throat,  for  his  voice 

was  husky  with  anger, 
"  What !  do  you  mean  to  make   war  with 

milk  and  the  water  of  roses  ? 
Is  it  to  shoot  red  squirrels  yon  have  your 

howitzer  planted 
There  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  or  is  it  to 

shoot  red  devils  ? 
Truly  the  only  tongue  that  is  understood 

by  a  savage 
Must  be  the  tongue  of  fire  that  speaks  from 

the  mouth  of  the  cannon  !" 
Thereupon  answered  and  said  the  excellent 

Khler  of  Plymouth, 

Somewhat  amazed  and  alarmed  at  this  ir 
reverent  language  ; 
"  Not  so  thought  St.  Paul,  nor  yet  the  other 

Apostles  ; 
Not  from    the    cannon's   month  were   the 

tongues  of  fire  they  spake  with  !  " 


174 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES   STANDISH 


But  unheeded  fell  this  mild  rebuke  on  the 

Captain, 
Who  had  advanced  to  the  table,  and  thus 

continued  discoursing  : 
"  Leave  this  matter  to  me,  for  to  me  by 

right  it  pertaineth. 
War  is  a  terrible  trade  ;  but  in  the  cause 

that  is  righteous, 
Sweet  is  the  smell  of  powder  ;  and  thus  I 

answer  the  challenge  ! " 

Then  from  the  rattlesnake's  skin,   with 

a  sudden,  contemptuous  gesture, 
Jerking  tbe  Indian  arrows,  he  filled  it  with 

powder  and  bullets 
Full  to  the  very  jaws,  and  handed  it  back 

to  the  savage, 
Saying,  in  thundering  tones  :  "  Here,  take 

it !  this  is  your  answer  !  " 
Silently  out   of  the  room  then  glided  the 

glistening  savage, 
Bearing   the   serpent's  skin,   and  seeming 

himself  like  a  serpent, 
Winding  his  sinuous  way  in  the  dark  to  the 

depths  of  the  forest. 


THE  SAILING  OF    THE   MAYFLOWER 

JUST  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  the  mists 

uprose  from  the  meadows, 
There  was  a  stir  and  a  sound  in  the  slum 
bering  village  of  Plymouth  ; 
Clanging   and   clicking  of  arms,  and   the 

order  imperative,  "  Forward  !  " 
Given  in  tone  suppressed,  a  tramp  of  feet, 

and  then  silence. 
Figures  ten,  in  the  mist,  marched  slowly 

out  of  the  village. 
Standish  the  stalwart  it  was,  with  eight  of 

his  valorous  army, 
Led  by  their  Indian  guide,  by  Hobomok, 

friend  of  the  white  men, 
Northward  marching  to  quell  the  sudden 

revolt  of  the  savage. 
Giants   they  seemed   in  the  midst,  or  the 

mighty  men  of  King  David  ; 
Giants  in  heart  they  were,  who  believed  in 

God  and  the  Bible,  — 
Ay,  who  believed  in  the  smiting  of  Midian- 

ites  and  Philistines. 
Over  them  gleamed   far  off  the  crimson 

banners  of  morning  ; 


Under  them  loud  on  the  sands,  the  serried 

billows,  advancing, 
Fired  along  the  line,  and  in  regular  order 

retreated. 

Many  a  mile  had  they  marched,  when  at 

length  the  village  of  Plymouth 
Woke  from  its  sleep,  and  arose,  intent  on 

its  manifold  labors. 
Sweet  was  the  air  and  soft  ;  and  slowly  the 

smoke  from  the  chimneys 
Rose   over  roofs   of  thatch,   and  pointed 

steadily  eastward  ; 
Men  came  forth  from  the  doors,  and  paused 

and  talked  of  the  weather, 
Said  that  the  wind  had  changed,  and  was 

blowing  fair  for  the  Mayflower  ; 
Talked  of  their  Captain's   departure,  and 

all  the  dangers  that  menaced, 
He  being  gone,  the  town,  and  what  should 

be  done  in  his  absence. 
Merrily   sang  the   birds,  and  the   tender 

voices  of  women 
Consecrated  with  hymns  the  common  cares 

of  the  household. 
Out  of  the  sea  rose  the  sun,  and  the  billows 

rejoiced  at  his  coming  ; 
Beautiful  were  his  feet  on  the  purple  tops 

of  the  mountains  ; 
Beautiful   on   the  sails  of  the   Mayflower 

riding  at  anchor, 
Battered  and  blackened  and  worn  by  all 

the  storms  of  the  winter. 
Loosely  against  her  masts  was  hanging  and 

flapping  her  canvas, 
Rent  by  so  many  gales,  and  patched  by  the 

hands  of  the  sailors. 
Suddenly  from  her  side,  as  the  sun  rose 

over  the  ocean, 

Darted  a  puff  of  smoke,  and  floated  sea 
ward  ;  anon  rang 
Loud   over  field   and  forest   the   cannon's 

roar,  and  the  echoes 

Heard  and  repeated  the  sound,  the  signal- 
gun  of  departure  ! 
Ah  !  but  with   louder  echoes   replied   the 

hearts  of  the  people  ! 
Meekly,  in  voices  subdued,  the  chapter  was 

read  from  the  Bible, 
Meekly  the  prayer  was  begun,  but  ended 

in  fervent  entreaty  ! 
Then  from  their  houses  in  haste  came  forth 

the  Pilgrims  of  Plymouth, 
Men  and  women  and  children,  all  hurrying 

down  to  the  sea-shore, 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES    STANDISH 


175 


Eager,  with  tearful  eyes,  to  say  farewell  to 

the  Mayflower, 
Homeward  bound  o'er  the  sea,  and  leaving 

them  here  in  the  desert. 

Foremost  among  them  was  Alden.  All 
night  he  had  lain  without  slum 
ber, 

Turning  and  tossing  about  in  the  heat  and 
unrest  of  his  fever. 

He  had  beheld  Miles  Standish,  who  came 
back  late  from  the  council, 

Stalking  into  the  room,  and  heard  him  mut 
ter  and  murmur  ; 

Sometimes  it  seemed  a  prayer,  and  some 
times  it  sounded  like  swearing. 

Once  he  had  come  to  the  bed,  and  stood 
there  a  moment  in  silence  ; 

Then  he  had  turned  away,  and  said  :  "  I 
will  not  awake  him  ; 

Let  him  sleep  on,  it  is  best ;  for  what  is  the 
use  of  more  talking  !  " 

Then  he  extinguished  the  light,  and  threw 
himself  down  on  his  pallet, 

Dressed  as  he  was,  and  ready  to  start  at 
the  break  of  the  morning,  —  . 

Covered  himself  with  the  cloak  he  had 
worn  in  his  campaigns  in  Flan 
ders,  — 

Slept  as  a  soldier  sleeps  in  his  bivouac, 
ready  for  action. 

But  with  the  dawn  he  arose  ;  in  the  twilight 
Alden  beheld  him 

Put  on  his  corselet  of  steel,  and  all  the  rest 
of  his  armor, 

Buckle  about  his  waist  his  trusty  blade  of 
Damascus, 

Take  from  the  corner  his  musket,  and  so 
stride  out  of  the  chamber. 

Often  the  heart  of  the  youth  had  burned 
and  yearned  to  embrace  him, 

Often  his  lips  had  essayed  to  speak,  im 
ploring  for  pardon  ; 

All  the  old  friendship  came  back,  with  its 
tender  and  grateful  emotions  ; 

But  his  pride  overmastered  the  nobler  na 
ture  within  him,  — 

Pride,  and  the  sense  of  his  wrong,  and  the 
burning  fire  of  the  insult. 

So  he  beheld  his  friend  departing  in  anger, 
but  spake  not, 

Saw  him  go  forth  to  danger,  perhaps  to 
death,  and  he  spake  not ! 

Then  he  arose  from  his  bed,  and  heard 
what  the  people  were  saying, 


Joined  in  the  talk  at  the  door,  with  Stephen 
and  Richard  and  Gilbert, 

Joined  in  the  morning  prayer,  and  in  the 
reading  of  Scripture, 

And,  with  the  others,  in  haste  went  hurry 
ing  down  to  the  sea-shore, 

Down  to  the  Plymouth  Rock,  that  had  been 
to  their  feet  as  a  doorstep 

Into  a  world  unknown,  —  the  corner-stone 
of  a  nation  ! 

There   with   his  boat   was   the   Master, 

already  a  little  impatient 
Lest  he  should  lose  the  tide,  or  the  wind 

might  shift  to  the  eastward, 
Square-built,    hearty,  and  strong,  with  an 

odor  of  ocean  about  him, 
S.peaking  with  this  one  and  that,  and  cram 
ming  letters  and  parcels 
Into  his  pockets  capacious,  and  messages 

mingled  together 
Into  his  narrow  brain,  till  at  last  he  was 

wholly  bewildered. 
Nearer  the  boat  stood  Alden,  with  one  foot 

placed  on  the  gunwale, 
One  still  firm  on  the  rock,  and  talking  at 

times  with  the  sailors, 
Seated  erect  on  the  thwarts,  all  ready  and 

eager  for  starting. 
He  too  was  eager  to  go,  and  thus  put  an 

end  to  his  anguish, 
Thinking  to  fly  from  despair,  that  swifter 

than  keel  is  or  canvas, 
Thinking   to  drown   in   the  sea  the  ghost 

that  would  rise  and  pursue  him. 
But  as  he  gazed  on  the  crowd,  he  beheld 

the  form  of  Priscilla 
Standing  dejected  among  them,  unconscious 

of  all  that  was  passing. 
Fixed  were  her  eyes  upon  his,  as  if  she  di 
vined  his  intention, 
Fixed  with  a  look  so  sad,  so  reproachful, 

imploring,  and  patient, 
That  with  a  sudden  revulsion  his  heart  re 
coiled  from  its  purpose, 
As  from  the  verge  of  a  crag,  where  one 

step  more  is  destruction. 
Strange  is  the  heart  of  man,  with  its  quick, 

mysterious  instincts  ! 
Strange  is  the  life  of  man,   and  fatal   or 

fated  are  moments, 
Whereupon  turn,  as  on  hinges,  the  gates  of 

the  wall  adamantine  ! 
"  Here  I   remain  ! "   he  exclaimed,    as   he 

looked  at  the  heavens  above  him, 


176 


THE  COURTSHIP   OF   MILES   STANDISH 


Thanking  the  Lord  whose  breath  had  scat 
tered  the  mist  and  the  madness, 

Wherein,  blind  and  lost,  to  death  he  was 
staggering  headlong. 

"Yonder  snow-white  cloud,  that  floats  in 
the  ether  above  me, 

Seems  like  a  hand  that  is  pointing  and  beck 
oning  over  the  ocean. 

There  is  another  hand,  that  is  not  so  spec 
tral  and  ghost-like, 

Holding  me,  drawing  me  back,  and  clasp 
ing  mine  for  protection. 

Float,  O  hand  of  cloud,  and  vanish  away  in 
the  ether  ! 

Roll  thyself  up  like  a  fist,  to  threaten  and 
daunt  me  ;  I  heed  not 

Either  your  warning  or  menace,  or  any 
omen  of  evil  ! 

There  is  no  land  so  sacred,  no  air  so  pure 
and  so  wholesome, 

As  is  the  air  she  breathes,  and  the  soil  that 
is  pressed  by  her  footsteps. 

Here  for  her  sake  will  I  stay,  and  like  an 
invisible  presence 

Hover  around  her  forever,  protecting,  sup 
porting  her  weakness  ; 

Yes  !  as  my  foot  was  the  first  that  stepped 
on  this  rock  at  the  landing, 

So,  with  the  blessing  of  God,  shall  it  be  the 
last  at  the  leaving  !  " 

Meanwhile  the  Master  alert,  but  with  dig 
nified  air  and  important, 
Scanning   with  watchful  eye  the  tide  and 

the  wind  and  the  weather, 
Walked  about  on  the  sands,  and  the  people 

crowded  around  him 
Saying  a  few  last  words,  and  enforcing  his 

careful  remembrance. 
Then,   taking   each  by  the  hand,  as  if  he 

were  grasping  a  tiller, 
Into  the   boat   he    sprang,    and    in   haste 

shoved  off  to  his  vessel, 
Glad  in  his  heart  to  get  rid  of  all  this  worry 

and  flurry, 
Glad  to  be  gone  from  a  land  of  sand  and 

sickness  and  sorrow, 
Short  allowance  of  victual,  and  plenty  of 

nothing  but  Gospel ! 
Lost  in  the  sound  of  the  oars  was  the  last 

farewell  of  the  Pilgrims. 
0  strong   hearts  and  true  !  not  one   went 

back  in  the  Mayflower  ! 
No,  not  one  looked  back,  who  had  set  his 

hand  to  this  ploughing  I 


Soon  were  heard  on  board  the  shouts 
and  songs  of  the  sailors 

Heaving  the  windlass  round,  and  hoisting 
the  ponderous  anchor. 

Then  the  yards  were  braced,  and  all  sails 
set  to  the  west-  wind, 

Blowing  steady  and  strong  ;  and  the  May 
flower  sailed  from  the  harbor, 

Rounded  the  point  of  the  Gurnet,  and  leav 
ing  far  to  the  southward 

Island  and  cape  of  sand,  and  the  Field  of 
the  First  Encounter, 

Took  the  wind  on  her  quarter,  and  stood 
for  the  open  Atlantic, 

Borne  on  the  send  of  the  sea,  and  the  swell 
ing  hearts  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Long  in  silence  they  watched  the  reced 
ing  sail  of  the  vessel, 
Much  endeared  to  them  all,  as  something 

living  and  human  ; 
Then,  as  if  filled  with  the  spirit,  and  wrapt 

in  a  vision  prophetic, 
Baring  his  hoary  head,  the  excellent  Elder 

of  Plymouth 
Said,  "  Let  us   pray  ! "    and   they  prayed, 

and    thanked    the    Lord   and    took 

courage. 
Mournfully  sobbed  the  waves  at  the  base 

of  the  rock,  and  above  them 
Bowed  and  whispered   the  wheat   on   the 

hill  of  death,  and  their  kindred 
Seemed  to  awake  in  their  graves,  and  to 

join    in    the   prayer   that   they   ut 
tered. 
Sun-illumined   and  white,   on   the   eastern 

verge  of  the  ocean 
Gleamed  the"'  departing  sail,  like  a  marble 

slab  in  a  graveyard  j 
Buried  beneath  it  lay  forever  all  hope  of 

escaping. 
Lo  !  as  they  turned  to  depart,  they  saw  the 

form  of  an  Indian, 
Watching  them  from  the  hill  ;  but  while 

they  spake  with  each  other, 
Pointing  with  outstretched  hands,  and  say 
ing,  "  Look  !  "  he  had  vanished. 
So  they  returned  to  their  homes  ;  but  Alden 

lingered  a  little, 
Musing  alone  on  the   shore,  and  watching 

the  wash  of  the  billows 
Round  the  base  of  the  rock,  and  the  sparkle 

and  flash  of  the  sunshine, 
Like  the  spirit  of  God,  moving  visibly  over 

the  waters. 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES    STANDISH 


177 


VI 


PRISCILLA 

THUS  for  a  while  he  stood,  and  mused  by 

the  shore  of  the  ocean, 
Thinking  of  many  things,  and  most  of  all 

of  Priscilla  ; 
And  as  if  thought  had  the  power  to  draw 

to  itself,  like  the  loadstone, 
Whatsoever  it  touches,  by  subtile  laws  of 

its  nature, 
Lo  !  as  he  turned  to  depart,  Priscilla  was 

standing  beside  him. 

"  Are  you  so  much  offended,  you  will  not 

speak  to  me  ?  "  said  she. 
"  Am  I  so  much  to  blame,  that  yesterday, 

when  you  were  pleading 
Warmly  the    cause  of  another,  my  heart, 

impulsive  and  wayward, 
Pleaded  your  own,  and  spake  out,  forgetful 

perhaps  of  decorum  ? 
Certainly  you  can  forgive  me  for  speaking 

so  frankly,  for  saying 
What  I  ought  not  to  have  said,  yet  now  I 

can  never  unsay  it  ; 
For  there  are  moments  in  life,  when  the 

heart  is  so  full  of  emotion, 
That  if  by  chance  it  be  shaken,  or  into  its 

depths  like  a  pebble 
Drops  some  careless  word,  it  overflows,  and 

its  secret, 
Spilt  on  the  ground  like  water,  can  never 

be  gathered  together. 
Yesterday  I  was  shocked,  when  I  heard 

you  speak  of  Miles  Standish, 
Praising  his  virtues,  transforming  his  very 

defects  into  virtues, 
Praising  his  courage  and  strength,  and  even 

his  fighting  in  Flanders, 
As  if  by  fighting  alone  you  could  win  the 

heart  of  a  woman, 
Quite  overlooking  yourself  and  the  rest,  in 

exalting  your  hero. 

Therefore   I  spake   as  I  did,  by  an  irre 
sistible  impulse. 
You  will  forgive  me,  I  hope,  for  the  sake 

of  the  friendship  between  us, 
Which  is  too  true  and  too  sacred  to  be  so 

easily  broken  ! " 
Thereupon     answered    John    Alden,     the 

scholar,  the   friend  of   Miles  Stan- 
dish  : 


"  I  was  not  angry  with  you,  with  myself 
alone  I  was  angry, 

Seeing  how  badly  I  managed  the  matter 
I  had  in  my  keeping." 

"  No  !  "  interrupted  the  maiden,  with  answer 
prompt  and  decisive  ; 

"  No  ;  you  were  angry  with  me,  for  speak 
ing  so  frankly  and  freely. 

It  was  wrong,  I  acknowledge  ;  for  it  is  the 
fate  of  a  woman 

Long  to  be  patient  and  silent,  to  wait  like 
a  ghost  that  is  speechless, 

Till  some  questioning  voice  dissolves  the 
spell  of  its  silence. 

Hence  is  the  inner  life  of  so  many  suffering 
women 

Sunless  and  silent  and  deep,  like  subter 
ranean  rivers 

Running  through  caverns  of  darkness,  un 
heard,  unseen,  and  unfruitful, 

Chafing  their  channels  of  stone,  with  end 
less  and  profitless  murmurs." 

Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  the  young 
man,  the  lover  of  women  : 

"Heaven  forbid  it,  Priscilla;  and  truly 
they  seem  to  me  always 

More  like  the  beautiful  rivers  that  watered 
the  garden  of  Eden, 

More  like  the  river  Euphrates,  through 
deserts  of  Havilah  flowing, 

Filling  the  land  with  delight,  and  memories 
sweet  of  the  garden  !  " 

"  Ah,  by  these  words,  I  can  see,"  again  in 
terrupted  the  maiden, 

"  How  very  little  you  prize  me,  or  care  for 
what  I  am  saying. 

When  from  the  depths  of  my  heart,  in  pain 
and  with  secret  misgiving, 

Frankly  I  speak  to  you,  asking  for  sym 
pathy  only  and  kindness, 

Straightway  you  take  up  my  words,  that 
are  plain  and  direct  and  in  ear 
nest, 

Turn  them  away  from  their  meaning,  and 
answer  with  flattering  phrases. 

This  is  not  right,  is  not  just,  is  not  true  to 
the  best  that  is  in  you  ; 

For  I  know  and  esteem  you,  and  feel  that 
your  nature  is  noble, 

Lifting  mine  up  to  a  higher,  a  more  ethereal 
level. 

Therefore  I  value  your  friendship,  and  feel 
it  perhaps  the  more  keenly 

If  you  say  aught  that  implies  I  am  only  as 
one  among  many, 


178 


THE    COURTSHIP   OF   MILES   STANDISH 


If  you  make  use  of  those  common  and  com 
plimentary  phrases 

Most  men  think  so  fine,  in  dealing  and 
speaking  with  women, 

But  which  women  reject  as  insipid,  if  not 
as  insulting." 

Mute  and  amazed  was  Alden  ;  and  lis 
tened  and  looked  at  Priscilla, 

Thinking  he  never  had  seen  her  more  fair, 
more  divine  in  her  beauty. 

He  who  but  yesterday  pleaded  so  glibly  the 
cause  of  another, 

Stood  there  embarrassed  and  silent,  and 
seeking  in  vain  for  an  answer. 

So  the  maiden  went  on,  and  little  divined 
or  imagined 

What  was  at  work  in  his  heart,  that  made 
him  so  awkward  and  speechless. 

"  Let  us,  then,  be  what  we  are,  and  speak 
what  we  think,  and  in  all  things 

Keep  ourselves  loyal  to  truth,  and  the  sa 
cred  professions  of  friendship. 

It  is  no  secret  I  tell  you,  nor  am  I  ashamed 
to  declare  it  : 

I  have  liked  to  be  with  you,  to  see  you,  to 
speak  with  you  always. 

So  I  was  hurt  at  your  words,  and  a  little 
affronted  to  hear  you 

Urge  me  to  marry  your  friend,  though 
he  were  the  Captain  Miles  Stan- 
dish. 

For  I  must  tell  you  the  truth  :  much  more 
to  me  is  your  friendship 

Than  all  the  love  he  could  give,  were  he 
twice  the  hero  you  think  him." 

Then  she  extended  her  hand,  and  Alden, 
who  eagerly  grasped  it, 

Felt  all  the  wounds  in  his  heart,  that  were 
aching  and  bleeding  so  sorely, 

Healed  by  the  touch  of  that  hand,  and  he 
said,  with  a  voice  full  of  feeling  : 

"  Yes,  we  must  ever  be  friends  ;  and  of  all 
who  offer  you  friendship 

Let  me  be  ever  the  first,  the  truest,  the 
nearest  and  dearest !  " 

Casting  a  farewell  look  at  the  glimmer 
ing  sail  of  the  Mayflower, 

Distant,  bu-t  still  in  sight,  and  sinking  be 
low  the  horizon, 

Homeward  together  they  walked,  with  a 
strange,  indefinite  feeling, 

That  all  the  rest  had  departed  and  left 
them  alone  in  the  desert. 


But,  as  they  went  through  the  fields  in  the 

blessing  and  smile  of  the  sunshine, 
Lighter   grew   their   hearts,  and   Priscilla 

said  very  archly  : 
"  Now  that  our  terrible  Captain  has  gone 

in  pursuit  of  the  Indians, 
Where  he  is  happier  far  than  he  would  be 

commanding  a  household, 
You  may  speak  boldly,  and  tell  me  of  all 

that  happened  between  you, 
When   you  returned  last   night,  and  said 

how  ungrateful  you  found  me." 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  and  told 

her  the  whole  of  the  story,  — 
Told  her  his  own  despair,  and  the  direful 

wrath  of  Miles  Standish. 
Whereat  the  maiden  smiled,  and  said  be 
tween  laughing  and«earnest, 
"  He  is  a  little  chimney,  and  heated  hot  in 

a  moment !  " 
But  as  he  gently  rebuked  her,  and  told  her 

how  he  had  suffered,  — 
How  he  had  even  determined  to  sail  that 

day  in  the  Mayflower, 
And  had  remained  for  her  sake,  on  hearing 

the  dangers  that  threatened,  — 
All  her  manner  was  changed,  and  she  said 

with  a  faltering  accent, 
"  Truly  I  thank   you  for  this  :  how  good 

you  have  been  to  me  always  !  " 

Thus,  as  a  pilgrim  devout,  who  toward 

Jerusalem  journeys, 
Taking   three   steps  in  advance,  and   one 

reluctantly  backward, 
Urged  by  importunate  zeal,  and  withheld 

by  pangs  of  contrition  ; 
Slowly  but  steadily  onward,  receding  yet 

ever  advancing, 
Journeyed  this  Puritan  youth  to  the  Holy 

Land  of  his  longings, 
Urged  by  the  fervor  of  love,  and  withheld 

by  remorseful  misgivings. 


VII 

THE   MARCH   OF    MILES   STANDISH 

MEANWHILE  the  stalwart  Miles  Standish 
was  marching  steadily  northward, 

Winding  through  forest  and  swamp,  and 
along  the  trend  of  the  sea-shore, 

All  day  long,  with  hardly  a  halt,  the  fire  of 
his  anger 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES   STANDISH 


179 


Burning  and  crackling  within,  and  the  sul 
phurous  odor  of  powder 
Seeming  more  sweet  to  his  nostrils  than  all 

the  scents  of  the  forest. 
Silent  and  moody  he  went,  and  much  he 

revolved  his  discomfort  ; 
He  who  was  used  to  success,  and  to  easy 

victories  always, 
Thus  to  be  flouted,  rejected,  and  laughed 

to  scorn  by  a  maiden, 
Thus  to  be  mocked  and  betrayed   by  the 

friend  whom  most  he  had  trusted  ! 
Ah !  't  was  too  much  to  be  borne,  and  he 

fretted  and  chafed  in  his  armor  ! 

"I   alone  am  to  blame,"  he    muttered, 

"  for  mine  was  the  folly. 
What  has  a  rough  old  soldier,  grown  grim 

and  gray  in  the  harness, 
Used  to  the  camp  and  its  ways,  to  do  with 

the  wooing  of  maidens  ? 
'T  was  but  a  dream,  —  let  it  pass,  —  let  it 

vanish  like  so  many  others  ! 
What  I  thought  was  a  flower,  is  only  a 

weed,  and  is  worthless  ; 
Out  of  my  heart  will  I  pluck  it,  and  throw 

it  away,  and  henceforward 
Be  but  a  fighter   of  battles,  a  lover  and 

wooer  of  dangers  !  " 
Thus   he   revolved   in   his  mind  his  sorry 

defeat  and  discomfort, 
While  he  was  marching  by  day  or  lying  at 

night  in  the  forest, 

Looking  up  at  the  trees,  and  the  constella 
tions  beyond  them. 

After  a  three  days'  march  he  came  to  an 

Indian  encampment 
Pitched  on  the  edge  of  a  meadow,  between 

the  sea  and  the  forest  ; 
Women  at  work  by  the  tents,  and  warriors, 

horrid  with  war-paint, 
Seated  about  a  fire,  and  smoking  and  talk 
ing  together  ; 
Who,  when  they  saw  from  afar  the  sudden 

approach  of  the  white  men, 
Saw  the  flash  of  the  sun  on  breastplate  and 

sabre  and  musket, 
Straightway  leaped  to  their  feet,  and  two, 

from  among  them  advancing, 
Came  to  parley  with  Standish,  and  offer  him 

furs  as  a  present  ; 
Friendship  was  in  their  looks,  but  in  their 

hearts  there  was  hatred. 


Braves  of  the  tribe  were  these,  and  brothers, 

gigantic  in  stature, 
Huge  as  Goliath  of  Gath,  or  the  terrible 

Og,  king  of  Bashan  ; 
One  was  Pecksuot   named,  and  the  other 

was  called  Wattawamat. 
Round  their  necks  were    suspended  their 

knives  in  scabbards  of  wampum, 
Two-edged,  trenchant  knives,  with  points  as 

sharp  as  a  needle. 
Other  arms  had  they  none,  for  they  were 

cunning  and  crafty. 
"  Welcome,  English  !  "  they  said,  —  these 

words   they  had   learned   from  the 

traders 
Touching  at  times  on  the  coast,  to  barter 

and  chaffer  for  peltries. 
Then  in  their  native  tongue  they  began  to 

parley  with  Standish, 
Through  his  guide  and  interpreter,  Hobo- 

mok,  friend  of  the  white  man, 
Begging  for  blankets  and  knives,  but  mostly 

for  muskets  and  powder, 
Kept  by   the  white   man,  they  said,  con 
cealed,  with  the  plague,  in  his  cel 
lars, 
Ready  to   be   let    loose,  and    destroy  his 

brother  the  red  man  ! 
But   when   Standish   refused,  and  said  he 

would  give  them  the  Bible, 
Suddenly  changing  their  tone,  they  began 

to  boast  and  to  bluster. 
Then  Wattawamat  advanced  with  a  stride 

in  front  of  the  other, 
And,  with  a  lofty  demeanor,  thus  vaunt- 

ingly  spake  to  the  Captain  : 
"  Now  Wattawamat  can  see,  by  the  fiery 

eyes  of  the  Captain, 
Angry  is  he  in  his  heart  ;  but  the  heart  of 

the  brave  Wattawamat 
Is  not  afraid  at  the   sight.      He  was   not 

born  of  a  woman, 

But  on  a  mountain  at  night,  from  an  oak- 
tree  riven  by  lightning, 
Forth  he  sprang  at  a  bound,  with  all  his 

weapons  about  him, 
Shouting,  '  Who  is  there  here  to  fight  with 

the  brave  Wattawamat  ?  ' ' 
Then  he  unsheathed  his  knife,  and,  whet 
ting  the  blade  on  his  left  hand, 
Held  it  aloft  and  displayed  a  woman's  face 

on  the  handle  ; 
Saying,  with  bitter  expression  and  look  of 

sinister  meaning; : 


i8o 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES   STANDISH 


"  I  have  another  at  home,  with  the  face  of 

a  man  on  the  handle  ; 
By  and  by  they  shall  marry  ;   and  there 

will  be  plenty  of  children  ! " 

Then  stood  Pecksuot  forth,  self-vaunt 
ing,  insulting  Miles  Standish  : 

While  with  his  fingers  he  patted  the  knife 
that  hung  at  his  bosom, 

Drawing  it  half  from  its  sheath,  and  plung 
ing  it  back,  as  he  muttered, 

"  By  and  by  it  shall  see  ;  it  shall  eat ;  ah, 
ha  !  but  shall  speak  not  ! 

This  is  the  mighty  Captain  the  white  men 
have  sent  to  destroy  us  ! 

He  is  a  little  man  ;  let  him  go  and  work 
with  the  women  !  " 

Meanwhile  Standish  had  noted  the  faces 

and  figures  of  Indians 
Peeping  and  creeping  about  from  bush  to 

tree  in  the  forest, 
Feigning  to  look  for  game,  with  arrows  set 

on  their  bow-strings, 
Drawing  about  him  still  closer  and  closer 

the  net  of  their  ambush. 
But  undaunted  he  stood,  and  dissembled 

and  treated  them  smoothly  ; 
So  the  old  chronicles  say,  that  were  writ  in 

the  days  of  the  fathers. 
But  when  he  heard  their  defiance,  the  boast, 

the  taunt,  and  the  insult, 
All  the  hot  blood  of  his  race,  of  Sir  Hugh 

and  of  Thurston  de  Standish, 
Boiled  and  beat  in  his  heart,  and  swelled  in 

the  veins  of  his  temples. 
Headlong  he  leaped  on  the  boaster,  and, 

snatching  his   knife   from  its  scab 
bard, 

Plunged  it  into  his  heart,  and,  reeling  back 
ward,  the  savage 

Fell  with  his  face  to  the  sky,  and  a  fiend- 
like  fierceness  upon  it. 
Straight  there  arose  from  the  forest  the 

awful  sound  of  the  war-whoop. 
And,  like  a  flurry  of  snow  on  the  whistling 

wind  of  December, 
Swift  and  sudden  and  keen  came  a  flight 

of  feathery  arrows. 
Then  came  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  out  of 

the  cloud  came  the  lightning, 
Out  of  the  lightning  thunder  ;  and  death 

unseen  ran  before  it. 
Frightened  the  savages  fled  for  shelter  in 

swamp  and  in  thicket, 


Hotly  pursued  and  beset ;  but  their  sachem, 
the  brave  Wattawamat, 

Fled  not ;  he  was  dead.  Unswerving  and 
swift  had  a  bullet 

Passed  through  his  brain,  and  he  fell  with 
both  hands  clutching  the  green 
sward, 

Seeming  in  death  to  hold  back  from  his  foe 
the  land  of  his  fathers. 

There  on  the  flowers  of  the  meadow  the 
warriors  lay,  and  above  them, 

Silent,  with  folded  arms,  stood  Hobomok, 
friend  of  the  white  man. 

Smiling  at  length  he  exclaimed  to  the  stal 
wart  Captain  of  Plymouth  :  — 

"  Pecksuot  bragged  very  loud,  of  his  cour 
age,  his  strength,  and  his  stature,  — 

Mocked  the  great  Captain,  and  called  him 
a  little  man  ;  but  I  see  now 

Big  enough  have  you  been  to  lay  him 
speechless  before  you  !  " 

Thus  the  first  battle  was  fought  and  won 

by  the  stalwart  Miles  Standish. 
When  the  tidings  thereof  were  brought  to 

the  village  of  Plymouth, 
And  as  a  trophy  of  war  the  head  of  the 

brave  Wattawamat 
Scowled  from  the  roof  of  the  fort,  which  at 

once  was  a  church  and  a  fortress, 
All  who  beheld  it  rejoiced,  and  praised  the 

Lord,  and  took  courage. 
Only  Priscilla  averted  her  face  from  this 

spectre  of  terror, 
Thanking  God  in  her  heart  that  she  had  not 

married  Miles  Standish  ; 
Shrinking,    fearing    almost,   lest,    coming 

home  from  his  battles, 
He  should   lay  claim  to  her  hand,  as  the 

prize  and  reward  of  his  valor. 


VIII 
THE  SPINNING-WHEEL 

MONTH  after  month  passed  away,  and  in 

Autumn  the  ships  of  the  merchants 
Came  with  kindred  and  friends,  with  cattle 

and  corn  for  the  Pilgrims. 
All  in  the  village  was  peace  ;  the  men  were 

intent  on  their  labors, 
Busy   with     hewing    and     building,    with 

garden-plot  and  with  merestead, 


THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES   STANDISH 


181 


Busy  with  breaking  the  glebe,  and  mowing 
the  grass  in  the  meadows, 

Searching  the  sea  for  its  fish,  and  hunting 
the  deer  in  the  forest. 

All  in  the  village  was  peace  ;  but  at  times 
the  rumor  of  warfare 

Filled  the  air  with  alarm,  and  the  appre 
hension  of  danger. 

Bravely  the  stalwart  Standish  was  scouring 
the  land  with  his  forces, 

Waxing  valiant  in  fight  and  defeating  the 
alien  armies, 

Till  his  name  had  become  a  sound  of  fear 
to  the  nations. 

Anger  was  still  in  his  heart,  but  at  times 
the  remorse  and  contrition 

Which  in  all  noble  natures  succeed  the  pas 
sionate  outbreak, 

Came  like  a  rising  tide,  that  encounters  the 
rush  of  a  river, 

Staying  its  current  awhile,  but  making  it 
bitter  and  brackish. 

Meanwhile  Alden  at  home  had  built  him 
a  new  habitation, 

Solid,  substantial,  of  timber  rough  -  hewn 
from  the  firs  of  the  forest. 

Wooden-barred  was  the  door,  and  the  roof 
was  covered  with  rushes  ; 

Latticed  the  windows  were,  and  the  win 
dow-panes  were  of  paper, 

Oiled  to  admit  the  light,  while  wind  and 
rain  were  excluded. 

There  too  he  dug  a  well,  and  around 
it  planted  an  orchard  : 

Still  may  be  seen  to  this  day  some  trace  of 
the  well  and  the  orchard. 

Close  to  the  house  was  the  stall,  where,  safe 
and  secure  from  annoyance, 

Raghorn,  the  snow-white  bull,  that  had 
fallen  to  Alden's  allotment 

In  the  division  of  cattle,  might  ruminate  in 
the  night-time 

Over  the  pastures  he  cropped,  made  fra 
grant  by  sweet  pennyroyal. 

Oft   when  his  labor  was   finished,   with 

eager  feet  would  the  dreamer 
Follow  the  pathway  that  ran  through  the 

woods  to  the  house  of  Priscilla, 
Led   by    illusions    romantic     and    subtile 

deceptions  of  fancy, 
Pleasure  disguised  as  duty,  and  love  in  the 

semblance  of  friendship. 


Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  fashioned 

the  walls  of  his  dwelling  ; 
Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when   he  delved 

in  the  soil  of  his  garden  ; 
Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  read  in 

his  Bible  on  Sunday 
Praise  of  the   virtuous  woman,   as   she  is 

described  in  the  Proverbs,  — 
How  the  heart  of  her  husband  doth  safely 

trust  in  her  always, 
How  all  the  days  of  her  life  she  will  do  him 

good,  and  not  evil, 
How  she  seeketh  the  wool  and  the  flax  and 

worketh  with  gladness, 
How  she  layeth  her  hand  to  the  spindle  and 

holdeth  the  distaff, 

How  she  is  not  afraid  of  the  snow  for  her 
self  or  her  household, 
Knowing  her   household   are  clothed  with 

the  scarlet  cloth  of  her  weaving  ! 

So  as  she  sat  at  her  wheel  one  afternoon 

in  the  Autumn, 
Alden,  who  opposite  sat,  and  was  watching 

her  dexterous  fingers, 
As  if  the  thread  she  was  spinning  were  that 

of  his  life  and  his  fortune, 
After  a  pause  in  their  talk,  thus  spake  to 

the  sound  of  the  spindle. 
"  Truly,  Priscilla,"  he   said,  "  when  I  sec 

you  spinning  and  spinning, 
Never   idle   a    moment,    but    thrifty    and 

thoughtful  of  others, 
Suddenly  you  are  transformed,  are  visibly 

changed  in  a  moment  ; 
You   are  no  longer   Priscilla,    but  Bertha 

the  Beautiful  Spinner." 
Here   the   light  foot  on  the  treadle  grew 

swifter  and  swifter  ;  the  spindle 
Uttered   an  angry   snarl,    and  the  thread 

snapped  short  in  her  fingers  ; 
While  the  impetuous  speaker,  not  heeding 

the  mischief,  continued  : 
"  You  are  the  beautiful  Bertha,  the  spinner, 

the  queen  of  Helvetia  ; 
She  whose  story  I  read  at  a  stall  in  the 

streets  of  Southampton, 
Who,   as    she   rode   on    her   palfrey,   o'er 

valley    and     meadow    and     moun 
tain, 
Ever  was  spinning  her  thread  from  a  distaff 

fixed  to  her  saddle. 
She  was  so  thrifty  and  good,  that  her  name 

passed  into  a  proverb. 


182 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES   STANDISH 


So  shall  it  be  with  your  own,  when  the 
spinning-wheel  shall  no  longer 

Hum  in  the  house  of  the  farmer,  and  fill 
its  chambers  with  music. 

Then  shall  the  mothers,  reproving,  relate 
how  it  was  in  their  childhood, 

Praising  the  good  old  times,  and  the  days 
of  Priscilla  the  spinner  !  " 

Straight  uprose  from  her  wheel  the  beau 
tiful  Puritan  maiden, 

Pleased  with  the  praise  of  her  thrift  from 
him  whose  praise  was  the  sweetest, 

Drew  from  the  reel  on  the  table  a  snowy 
skein  of  her  spinning, 

Thus  making  answer,  meanwhile,  to  the 
flattering  phrases  of  Alden  : 

"  Come,  you  must  not  be  idle  ;  if  I  am  a 
pattern  for  housewives, 

Show  yourself  equally  worthy  of  being 
the  model  of  husbands. 

Hold  this  skein  on  your  hands,  while  I  wind 
it,  ready  for  knitting  ; 

Then  who  knows  but  hereafter,  when  fash 
ions  have  changed  and  the  manners, 

Fathers  may  talk  to  their  sons  of  the  good 
old  times  of  John  Alden  !  " 

Thus,  with  a  jest  and  a  laugh,  the  skein  on 
his  hands  she  adjusted, 

He  sitting  awkwardly  there,  with  his  arms 
extended  before  him, 

She  standing  graceful,  erect,  and  winding 
the  thread  from  his  fingers, 

Sometimes  chiding  a  little  his  clumsy  man 
ner  of  holding, 

Sometimes  touching  his  hands,  as  she  dis 
entangled  expertly 

Twist  or  knot  in  the  yarn,  unawares  —  for 
how  could  she  help  it  ?  — 

Sending  electrical  thrills  through  every 
herve  in  his  body. 

Lo  !  in  the  midst  of  this  scene,  a  breath 
less  messenger  entered, 
Bringing   in   hurry   and   heat  the  terrible 

news  from  the  village. 
Yes  ;  Miles  Standish  was  dead  !  —  an  Indian 

had  brought  them  the  tidings,  — 
Slain  by  a  poisoned  arrow,  shot  down  in  the 

front  of  the  battle, 
Into  an  ambush  beguiled,  cut  off  with  the 

whole  of  his  forces  ; 
All  the  town  would  be  burned,  and  all  the 

people  be  murdered  ! 
Such  were  the  tidings  of  evil  that  burst  on 

the  hearts  of  the  hearers. 


Silent  and  statue-like  stood  Priscilla,  her 

face  looking  backward 
Still  at  the  face  of  the  speaker,  her  arms 

uplifted  in  horror  ; 
But  John  Alden,  upstarting,  as  if  the  barb 

of  the  arrow 
Piercing  the  heart  of  his  friend  had  struck 

his  own,  and  had  sundered 
Once  and  forever  the  bonds  that  held  him 

bound  as  a  captive, 
Wild  with  excess  of  sensation,  the  awful 

delight  of  his  freedom, 
Mingled  with  pain  and  regret,  unconscious 

of  what  he  was  doing, 
Clasped,  almost  with  a  groan,  the  motion 
less  form  of  Priscilla, 
Pressing  her  close  to  his  heart,  as  forever 

his  own,  and  exclaiming  : 
"  Those  whom  the  Lord  hath  united,  let  no 

man  put  them  asunder  ! " 

Even  as  rivulets  twain,  from  distant  and 

separate  sources, 
Seeing  each  other  afar,  as  they  leap  from 

the  rocks,  and  pursuing 
Each  one  its   devious   path,   but   drawing 

nearer  and  nearer, 
Rush  together  at  last,  at  their  trystiug-place 

in  the  forest ; 
So    these  lives  that  had  run   thus  far  in 

separate  channels, 

Coming  in  sight  of  each  other,  then  swerv 
ing  and  flowing  asunder, 
Parted    by  barriers   strong,   but   drawing 

nearer  and  nearer, 
Rushed  together  at  last,  and  one  was  lost  ] 

in  the  other. 


IX 


THE  WEDDING-DAY 

FORTH  from  the   curtain  of  clouds,  from 

the  tent  of  purple  and  scarlet. 
Issued  the  sun,  the  great  High-Priest,  in 

his  garments  resplendent, 
Holiness  unto  the  Lord,  in  letters  of  light, 

on  his  forehead, 
Round  the  hem  of  his  robe  the  golden  bells 

and  pomegranates. 
Blessing  the  world  he  came,  and  the  bars 

of  vapor  beneath  him 
Gleamed  like  a  grate  of  brass,  and  the  sea 

at  his  feet  was  a  laver  ! 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES   STANDISH 


183 


This  was  the  wedding  morn  of  Priscilla 

the  Puritan  maiden. 
Friends    were    assembled    together  ;    the 

Elder  and  Magistrate  also 
Graced  the  scene  with  their  presence,  and 

stood  like  the  Law  and  the  Gospel, 
One  with  the  sanction  of  earth  and  one  with 

the  blessing  of  heaven. 
Simple  and  brief  was  the  wedding,  as  that 

of  Ruth  and  of  Boaz. 
Softly  the  youth  and  the  maiden  repeated 

the  words  of  betrothal, 
Taking  each  other  for  husband  and  wife  in 

the  Magistrate's  presence, 
After  the  Puritan  way,  and  the  laudable 

custom  of  Holland. 
Fervently  then,  and  devoutly,  the  excellent 

Elder  of  Plymouth 
Prayed  for  the  hearth  and  the  home,  that 

were  founded  that  day  in  affection, 
Speaking  of  life  and  of  death,  and  implor 
ing  Divine  benedictions. 

Lo  !  when  the  service  was  ended,  a  form 

appeared  on  the  threshold, 
Clad  in  armor  of  steel,  a  sombre  and  sor 
rowful  figure  ! 
Why  does  the  bridegroom  start  and  stare 

at  the  strange  apparition  ? 
Why  does  the  bride  turn  pale,  and  hide  her 

face  on  his  shoulder  ? 
Is  it  a  phantom  of  air,  —  a  bodiless,  spectral 

illusion  ? 
Is  it  a  ghost  from  the  grave,  that  has  come 

to  forbid  the  betrothal  ? 
Long  had  it  stood  there  unseen,  a  guest 

uninvited,  unwelcomed  ; 
Over  its  clouded  eyes  there  had  passed  at 

times  an  expression 
Softening  the  gloom  and  revealing  the  warm 

heart  hidden  beneath  them, 
As  when  across  the  sky  the  driving  rack  of 

the  rain-cloud 
Grows  for  a  moment  thin,  and  betrays  the 

sun  by  its  brightness. 
Once  it  had  lifted  its  hand,  and  moved  its 

lips,  but  was  silent, 
As  if  an  iron  will  had  mastered  the  fleeting 

intention. 
But  when  were  ended  the  troth   and  the 

prayer  and  the  last  benediction, 
Into  the  room  it  strode,  and  the  people  be 
held  with  amazement 
Bodily  there  in  his  armor  Miles  Standish, 

the  Captain  of  Plymouth  1 


Grasping  the  bridegroom's  kand,  he   said 

with  emotion,  "  Forgive  me  ! 
I   have    been   angry  and  hurt,  —  too  long 

have  I  cherished  the  feeling  ; 
I  have  been  cruel  and  hard,  but  now,  thank 

God  !  it  is  ended. 
Mine  is  the  same  hot  blood  that  leaped  in 

the  veins  of  Hugh  Standish, 
Sensitive,  swift  to  resent,  but  as  swift  in 

atoning  for  error. 
Never  so  much  as  now  was  Miles  Standish 

the  friend  of  John  Alden." 
Thereupon  answered  the  bridegroom  :  "  Let 

all  be  forgotten  between  us,  — 
All  save  the  dear  old  friendship,  and  that 

shall  grow  older  and  dearer  !  " 
Then  the  Captain  advanced,  and,  bowing, 

saluted  Priscilla, 

Gravely,  and  after  the  manner  of  old-fash 
ioned  gentry  in  England, 
Something  of  camp  and  of  court,  of  town 

and  of  country,  commingled, 
Wishing  her  joy  of  her  wedding,  and  loudly 

lauding  her  husband. 
Then  he  said  with  a  smile  :  "  I  should  have 

remembered  the  adage,  — 
If  you  would  be  well  served,  you  must  serve 

yourself  ;  and  moreover, 
No  man  can  gather  cherries  in  Kent  at  the 

season  of  Christmas  !  " 

Great  was  the  people's  amazement,  and 

greater  yet  their  rejoicing, 
Thus  to  behold  once  more  the   sunburnt 

face  of  their  Captain, 
Whom  they  had  mourned  as  dead  ;  and  they 

gathered  and  crowded  about  him, 
Eager  to  see  him  and  hear  him,  forgetful 

of  bride  and  of  bridegroom, 
Questioning,  answering,  laughing,  and  each 

interrupting  the  other, 
Till  the  good  Captain  declared,  being  quite 

overpowered  and  bewildered, 
He  had  rather  by  far  break  into  an  Indian 

encampment, 
Than  come  again  to  a  wedding  to  which  he 

had  not  been  invited. 

Meanwhile   the   bridegroom  went   forth 

and   stood   with    the   bride    at    the 

doorway, 
Breathing  the  perfumed  air  of  that  warm 

and  beautiful  morning. 
Touched  with  autumnal   tints,  but   lonely 

and  sad  in  the  sunshine, 


1 84 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


Lay  extended  before  them  the  land  of  toil 

and  privation  ; 
There  were  the  graves  of  the  dead,  and  the 

barren  waste  of  the  sea-shore, 
There  the    familiar  fields,  the   groves   of 

pine,  and  the  meadows  ; 
But  to  their  eyes  transfigured,  it  seemed 

as  the  Garden  of  Eden, 
Filled  with   the  presence   of   God,  whose 

voice  was  the  sound  of  the  ocean. 

Soon  was  their  vision  disturbed  by  the 

noise  and  stir  of  departure, 
Friends  coming  forth  from  the  house,  and 

impatient  of  longer  delaying, 
Each  with  his  plan  for  the  day,  and   the 

work  that  was  left  uncompleted. 
Then  from  a  stall  near  at  hand,  amid  ex 
clamations  of  wonder, 
Alden  the  thoughtful,  the  careful,  so  happy, 

so  proud  of  Priscilla, 
Brought  out  his  snow-white  bull,  obeying 

the  hand  of  its  master, 
Led  by  a  cord  that  was  tied  to  an  iron  ring 

in  its  nostrils, 
Covered  with  crimson  cloth,  and  a  cushion 

placed  for  a  saddle. 
She  should  not  walk,  he  said,  through  the 

dust  and  heat  of  the  noonday  ; 
Nay,  she  should  ride  like  a  queen,  not  plod 

along  like  a  peasant. 
Somewhat  alarmed  at  first,  but  reassured 

by  the  others, 
Placing  her  hand  on  the  cushion,  her  foot 

in  the  hand  of  her  husband, 


Gayly,  with  joyous  laugh,  Priscilla  mounted 

her  palfrey. 
"  Nothing  is  wanting  now,"  he  said  with  a 

smile,  "  but  the  distaff  ; 
Then  you  would  be  in  truth  my  queen,  my 

beautiful  Bertha  ! " 

Onward  the  bridal  procession  now 
moved  to  their  new  habitation, 

Happy  husband  and  wife,  and  friends  con 
versing  together. 

Pleasantly  murmured  the  brook,  as  they 
crossed  the  ford  in  the  forest, 

Pleased  with  the  image  that  passed,  like  a 
dream  of  love,  through  its  bosom, 

Tremulous,  floating  in  air,  o'er  the  depths 
of  the  azure  abysses. 

Down  through  the  golden  leaves  the  sun 
was  pouring  his  splendors, 

Gleaming  on  purple  grapes,  that,  from 
branches  above  them  suspended, 

Mingled  their  odorous  breath  with  the  balm 
of  the  pine  and  the  fir-tree, 

Wild  and  sweet  as  the  clusters  that  grew 
in  the  valley  of  Eshcol. 

Like  a  picture  it  seemed  of  the  primitive, 
pastoral  ages, 

Fresh  with  the  youth  of  the  world,  and  re 
calling  Rebecca  and  Isaac, 

Old  and  yet  ever  new,  and  simple  and  beau 
tiful  always, 

Love  immortal  and  young  in  the  endless 
succession  of  lovers. 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  passed 
onward  the  bridal  procession. 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


.  .  .  come  i  gru  van  cantando  lor  lai, 
Facendo  in  aer  di  se  lunga  riga. 

DANTE. 


FLIGHT   THE   FIRST 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

This  poem,  originally  published  in  The  Seaside  and 
the  Fireside,  afforded  the  poet  a  convenient  title  under 
which  to  group  successively  poems  contributed  to  vari 
ous  periodicals,  especially  Putnam's  Monthly  and  The 
Atlantic  Monthly ;  it  has  therefore  been  made  the  in 
troductory  poem.  The  several  Flights  were  printed  as 
the  miscellaneous  poems  in  volumes  containing  longer 
works.  The  first  was  contained  in  the  volume  which 
held  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish. 


BLACK  shadows  fall 
From  the  lindens  tall, 
That  lift  aloft  their  massive  wall 
Against  the  southern  sky  ; 

And  from  the  realms 
Of  the  shadowy  elms 
A  tide-like  darkness  overwhelms 
The  fields  that  round  us  lie. 


PROMETHEUS 


185 


But  the  night  is  fair, 
And  everywhere 
A  warm,  soft  vapor  fills  the  air, 
And  distant  sounds  seem  near  ; 

And  above,  in  the  light 
Of  the  star-lit  night, 
Swift  birds  of  passage  wing  their  flight 
Through  the  dewy  atmosphere. 

I  hear  the  beat 
Of  their  pinions  fleet, 
As  from  the  land  of  snow  and  sleet 
They  seek  a  southern  lea. 

I  hear  the  cry 
Of  their  voices  high 
Falling  dreamily  through  the  sky, 
But  their  forms  I  cannot  see. 

Oh,  say  not  so  ! 
Those  sounds  that  flow 
In  murmurs  of  delight  and  woe 
Come  not  from  wings  of  birds. 

They  are  the  throngs 

Of  the  poet's  songs, 

Murmurs    of    pleasures,    and    pains,   and 

wrongs, 
The  sound  of  winged  words. 

This  is  the  cry 
Of  souls,  that  high 
On  toiling,  beating  pinions,  fly, 
Seeking  a  warmer  clime. 

From  their  distant  flight 
Through  realms  of  light 
It  falls  into  our  world  of  night, 

With  the  murmuring  sound  of  rhyme. 


PROMETHEUS 

OR   THE   POET'S   FORETHOUGHT 

The  two  poems  Prometheus  and  Epimelheus  were 
originally  conceived  as  a  single  poem,  bearing  both  the 
names  in  the  title. 

OF  Prometheus,  how  undaunted 

On  Olympus'  shining  bastions 
His  audacious  foot  he  planted, 
Myths  are  told  and  songs  are  chanted, 

Full  of  promptings  and  suggestions. 


Beautiful  is  the  tradition 

Of  that  flight  through  heavenly  portals. 
The  old  classic  superstition 
Of  the  theft  and  the  transmission 

Of  the  fire  of  the  Immortals  ! 

First  the  deed  of  noble  daring, 

Born  of  heavenward  aspiration, 

Then  the  fire  with  mortals  sharing, 

Then  the  vulture,  —  the  despairing 

Cry  of  pain  on  crags  Caucasian. 

All  is  but  a  symbol  painted 

Of  the  Poet,  Prophet,  Seer  ; 
Only  those  are  crowned  and  sainted 
Who  with  grief  have  been  acquainted, 

Making  nations  nobler,  freer. 

In  their  feverish  exultations, 

In  their  triumph  and  their  yearning, 
In  their  passionate  pulsations, 
In  their  words  among  the  nations, 
The  Promethean  fire  is  burning. 

Shall  it,  then,  be  unavailing, 

All  this  toil  for  human  culture  ? 
Through  the  cloud-rack,  dark  and  trailing, 
Must  they  see  above  them  sailing 
O'er  life's  barren  crags  the  vulture  ? 

Such  a  fate  as  this  was  Dante's, 

By  defeat  and  exile  maddened  ; 
Thus  were  Milton  and  Cervantes, 
Nature's  priests  and  Corybantes, 
By  affliction  touched  and  saddened. 

But  the  glories  so  transcendent 

That  around  their  memories  cluster, 
And,  on  all  their  steps  attendant, 
Make  their  darkened  lives  resplendent 
With  such  gleams  of  inward  lustre  ! 

All  the  melodies  mysterious, 

Through  the  dreary  darkness  chanted ; 
Thoughts  in  attitudes  imperious, 
Voices  soft,  and  deep,  and  serious, 

Words     that     whispered,     songs     that 
haunted  ! 

All  the  soul  in  rapt  suspension, 

All  the  quivering,  palpitating' 
Chords  of  life  in  utmost  tension, 
With  the  fervor  of  invention, 

With  the  rapture  of  creating  1 


1 86 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


Ah,  Prometheus  !  heaven-scaling  ! 

In  such  hours  of  exultation 
Even  the  faintest  heart,  unquailing, 
Might  behold  the  vulture  sailing 

Round  the  cloudy  crags  Caucasian  ! 

Though  to  all  there  be  not  given 

Strength  for  such  sublime  endeavor, 
Thus  to  scale  the  walls  of  heaven, 
And  to  leaven  with  fiery  leaven, 
All  the  hearts  of  men  forever  ; 

Yet  all  bards,  whose  hearts  uublighted 

Honor  and  believe  the  presage, 
Hold  aloft  their  torches  lighted, 
Gleaming  through  the  realms  benighted, 
As  they  onward  bear  the  message  1 


EPIMETHEUS 

OR   THE   POET'S   AFTERTHOUGHT 

HAVE  I  dreamed  ?  or  was  it  real, 

What  I  saw  as  in  a  vision, 
When  to  marches  hymeneal 
In  the  land  of  the  Ideal 

Moved  my  thought  o'er  Fields  Elysian  ? 

What !  are  these  the  guests  whose  glances 
Seemed  like  sunshine  gleaming  round  me? 

These  the  wild,  bewildering  fancies, 

That  with  dithyrambic  dances 

As  with  magic  circles  bound  me  ? 

Ah  !  how  cold  are  their  caresses  ! 

Pallid  cheeks,  and  haggard  bosoms  ! 
Spectral  gleam  their  snow-white  dresses, 
A-nd  from  loose,  dishevelled  tresses 

Fall  the  hyacinthiue  blossoms  ! 

O  my  songs  !  whose  winsome  measures 
Filled  my  heart  with  secret  rapture  ! 

Children  of  my  golden  leisures  ! 

Must  even  your  delights  and  pleasures 
Fade  and  perish  with  the  capture  ? 

Fair  they  seemed,  those  songs  sonorous, 

When  they  came  to  me  unbidden  ; 
Voices  single,  and  in  chorus, 
Like  the  wild  birds  singing  o'er  us 
In  the  dark  of  branches  hidden. 

Disenchantment  !     Disillusion  1 
Must  each  noble  aspiration 


Come  at  last  to  this  conclusion, 
Jarring  discord,  wild  confusion, 
Lassitude,  renunciation  ? 

Not  with  steeper  fall  nor  faster, 
From  the  sun's  serene  dominions, 

Not  through  brighter  realms  nor  vaster, 

In  swift  ruin  and  disaster, 

Icarus  fell  with  shattered  pinions  ! 

Sweet  Pandora  !  dear  Pandora  ! 

Why  did  mighty  Jove  create  thee 
Coy  as  Thetis,  fair  as  Flora, 
Beautiful  as  young  Aurora, 

If  to  win  thee  is  to  hate  thee  ? 

No,  not  hate  thee  !  for  this  feeling 

Of  unrest  and  long  resistance 
Is  but  passionate  appealing, 
A  prophetic  whisper  stealing 

O'er  the  chords  of  our  existence. 

Him  whom  thou  dost  once  enamor, 

Thou,  beloved,  never  leavest  ; 
In  life's  discord,  strife,  and  clamor, 
Still  he  feels  thy  spell  of  glamour  ; 
Him  of  Hope  thou  ne'er  bereavest. 

Weary  hearts  by  thee  are  lifted, 

Struggling   souls  by  thee  are  strength 
ened, 

Clouds  of  fear  asunder  rifted, 

Truth  from  falsehood  cleansed  and  sifted, 
Lives,  like  days  in  summer,  lengthened  ! 

Therefore  art  thou  ever  dearer, 

O  my  Sibyl,  my  deceiver  ! 
For  thou  makest  each  mystery  clearer, 
And  the  unattained  seems  nearer, 

When  thou  fillest  my  heart  with  fever ! 

Muse  of  all  the  Gifts  and  Graces  ! 

Though  the  fields  around  us  wither, 
There  are  ampler  realms  and  spaces, 
Where  no  foot  has  left  its  traces  : 

Let  us  turn  and  wander  thither ! 


THE    LADDER    OF    SAINT 
AUGUSTINE 

SAINT  AUGUSTINE  !  well  hast  thou  said, 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 

A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 

Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame  ! 


THE   PHANTOM   SHIP 


187 


All  common  things,  each  day's  events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design, 
That  makes  another's  virtues  less  ; 

The  revel  of  the  ruddy  wine, 
And  all  occasions  of  excess  ; 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things  ; 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth  ; 
The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 

Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth  ; 

All  thoughts  of  ill ;  all  evil  deeds, 

That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill ; 

Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will ;  — 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 

In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar  ; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more, 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 

That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs, 

When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 
Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies, 

Are  crossed  by  pathways,  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 


fri 


The   heights   by  great   men   reached   and 
kept 

Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight, 
But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 

Were  toiling  upward  in  the  nightj 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 

With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes, 

We  may  discern  —  unseen  before  — 
A  path  to  higher  destinies, 

M^» 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past 
As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 

If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 
To  something  nobler  we  attain.  \ 


THE   PHANTOM    SHIP 

IN  Mather's  Magnalia  Christi, 

Of  the  old  colonial  time, 
May  be  found  in  prose  the  legend 

That  is  here  set  down  in  rhyme. 

A  ship  sailed  from  New  Haven, 
And  the  keen  and  frosty  airs, 

That  filled  her  sails  at  parting, 

Were  heavy  with  good  men's  prayers. 

"  O  Lord  !  if  it  be  thy  pleasure  "  — 
Thus  prayed  the  old  divine  — 

"  To  bury  our  friends  in  the  ocean, 
Take  them,  for  they  are  thine  ! " 

But  Master  Lamberton  muttered, 
And  under  his  breath  said  he, 

"  This  ship  is  so  crank  and  walty, 
I  fear  our  grave  she  will  be  !  " 

And  the  ships  that  came  from  England, 
When  the  winter  months  were  gone, 

Brought  no  tidings  of  this  vessel 
Nor  of  Master  Lamberton. 

This  put  the  people  to  praying 

That  the  Lord  would  let  them  hear 

What  in  his  greater  wisdom 

He  had  done  with  friends  so  dear. 

And  at  last  their  prayers  were  answered  : 

It  was  in  the  month  of  June, 
An  hour  before  the  sunset 

Of  a  windy  afternoon, 

When,  steadily  steering  landward, 

A  ship  was  seen  below, 
And  they  knew  it  was  Lamberton,  Master, 

Who  sailed  so  long  ago. 

On  she  came,  with  a  cloud  of  canvas, 
Right  against  the  wind  that  blew, 

Until  the  eye  could  distinguish 
The  faces  of  the  crew. 

Then  fell  her  straining  topmasts, 
Hanging  tangled  in  the  shrouds, 

And  her  sails  were  loosened  and  lifted, 
And  blown  away  like  clouds, 

And  the  masts,  with  all  their  rigging, 
Fell  slowly,  one  by  one, 


i88 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


And  the  hulk  dilated  and  vanished, 
As  a  sea-mist  in  the  sun  ! 

And  the  people  who  saw  this  marvel 

Each  said  unto  his  friend, 
That  this  was  the  mould  of  their  vessel, 

And  thus  her  tragic  end. 

And  the  pastor  of  the  village 
Gave  thanks  to  God  in  prayer, 

That,  to  quiet  their  troubled  spirits, 
He  had  sent  this  Ship  of  Air. 


THE   WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE 
PORTS 

Written  in  October,  1852.     The  Warden  was  the  Duke 
Of  Wellington,  who  died  September  13. 

A  MIST  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel, 

The  day  was  just  begun, 
And   through   the  window-panes,  on  floor 
and  panel, 

Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 

It  glanced   on   flowing  flag   and   rippling 

pennon, 

And  the  white  sails  of  ships  ; 
And,  from  the  frowning  rampart,  the  black 

cannon 
Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 

Sandwich  and   Romney,  Hastings,    Hithe, 

and  Dover 

Were  all  alert  that  day, 
To  see  the  French  war-steamers  speeding 

over, 
When  the  fog  cleared  away. 

Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  couchant  lions, 
Their  cannon,  through  the  night, 

Holding  their  breath,  had  watched,  in  grim 

defiance, 
The  sea-coast  opposite. 

And  now  they  roared  at  drum-beat  from 

their  stations 
On  every  citadel ; 

Each  answering  each,  with  morning  saluta 
tions, 
That  all  was  well. 

And  down   the   coast,  all   taking  up   the 

burden, 
Replied  the  distant  forts, 


As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the  Warden 
And  Lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Him  shall  no  sunshine  from  the  fields  of 

azure, 

No  drum-beat  from  the  wall, 
No   morning   gun   from   the    black    fort's 

embrasure, 
Awaken  with  its  call  ! 

No  more,  surveying  with  an  eye  impartial 

The  long  line  of  the  coast, 
Shall   the  gaunt  figure  of   the   old   Field 
Marshal 

Be  seen  upon  his  post  ! 

For  in  the  night,  unseen,  a  single  warrior, 

In  sombre  harness  mailed, 
Dreaded  of  man,  and   surnamed  the  De 
stroyer, 

The  rampart  wall  had  scaled. 

He  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  sleeper, 

The  dark  and  silent  room, 
And    as    he    entered,    darker    grew,   and 
deeper, 

The  silence  and  the  gloom. 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  or  dissemble, 
But  smote  the  Warden  hoar  ; 

Ah  !  what  a  blow  !  that  made  all  England 

tremble 
And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,    without,    the     surly     cannon 
waited, 

The  sun  rose  bright  o'erhead  ; 
Nothing  in  Nature's  aspect  intimated 

That  a  great  man  was  dead. 


HAUNTED   HOUSES 

ALL  houses  wherein   men  have  lived  and 

died 
Are  haunted  houses.     Through  the  open 

doors 
The  harmless  phantoms  on  their  errands 

glide, 

With  feet  that  make  no  sound  upon  the 
floors. 

We   meet   them  at  the   doorway,  on  the 

stair, 
Along  the  passages  they  come  and  go, 


THE   EMPEROR'S    BIRD'S-NEST 


189 


Impalpable  impressions  on  the  air, 

A  sense  of  something  moving  to  and  fro. 

There  are  more  guests  at  table  than  the 
hosts 

Invited  ;  the  illuminated  hall 
Is  thronged  with  quiet,  inoffensive  ghosts, 

As  silent  as  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

The  stranger  at  my  fireside  cannot  see 
The  forms  I  see,  nor  hear  the  sounds  I 
hear  ; 

He  but  perceives  what  is  ;  while  unto  me 
All  that  has  been  is  visible  and  clear. 

We  have  no  title-deeds  to  house  or  lands  ; 

Owners  and  occupants  of  earlier  dates 
From  graves  forgotten  stretch  their  dusty 

hands, 

And   hold  in  mortmain   still   their   old 
estates. 

The  spirit-world  around  this  world  of  sense 
Floats  like  an   atmosphere,   and   every 
where 
Wafts   through    these    earthly   mists   and 

vapors  dense 
A  vital  breath  of  more  ethereal  air. 

Our  little  lives  are  kept  in  equipoise 
By  opposite  attractions  and  desires  ; 

The  struggle  of  the  instinct  that  enjoys, 
And  the  more  noble  instinct  that  aspires. 

These  perturbations,  this  perpetual  jar 
Of  earthly  wants  and  aspirations  high, 

Come   from    the   influence   of    an    unseen 

star, 
An  undiscovered  planet  in  our  sky. 

And  as  the  moon  from  some  dark  gate  of 

cloud 
Throws  o'er  the  sea  a  floating  bridge  of 

light, 
Across  whose  trembling  planks  our  fancies 

crowd 
Into  the  realm  of  mystery  and  night,  — 

So  from  the  world  of  spirits  there  descends 

A  bridge  of  light,  connecting  it  with  this, 

O'er  whose  unsteady  floor,  that  sways  and 

bends, 

Wander  our   thoughts  above   the    dark 
abyss. 


IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  CAM 
BRIDGE 

IN  the  village  churchyard  she  lies, 
Dust  is  in  her  beautiful  eyes, 

No  more   she  breathes,  nor  feels,  nor 

stirs  ; 

At  her  feet  and  at  her  head 
Lies  a  slave  to  attend  the  dead, 

But  their  dust  is  white  as  hers. 

Was  she,  a  lady  of  high  degree, 
So  much  in  love  with  the  vanity 

And  foolish  pomp  of  this  world  of  ours  ? 
Or  was  it  Christian  charity, 
And  lowliness  and  humility, 

The  richest  and  rarest  of  all  dowers  ? 

Who  shall  tell  us  ?     No  one  speaks  ; 
No  color  shoots  into  those  cheeks, 

Either  of  anger  or  of  pride, 
At  the  rude  question  we  have  asked  ; 
Nor  will  the  mystery  be  unmasked 

By  those  who  are  sleeping  at  her  side. 

Hereafter  ?  —  And  do  you  think  to  look 
On  the  terrible  pages  of  that  Book 

To  find  her  failings,  faults,  and  errors  ? 
Ah,  you  will  then  have  other  cares, 
In  your  own  shortcomings  and  despairs. 

In  your  own  secret  sins  and  terrors  ! 


THE    EMPEROR'S  BIRD'S-NEST 

ONCE  the  Emperor  Charles  of  Spain, 

With  his  swarthy,  grave  commanders, 
I  forget  in  what  campaign, 
Long  besieged,  in  mud  and  rain, 
Some  old  frontier  town  of  Flanders. 

Up  and  down  the  dreary  camp, 
In  great  boots  of  Spanish  leather, 

Striding  with  a  measured  tramp, 

These  Hidalgos,  dull  and  damp, 

Cursed     the     Frenchmen,     cursed    the 
weather. 

Thus  as  to  and  fro  they  went 

Over  upland  and  through  hollow, 
Giving  their  impatience  vent, 
Perched  upon  the  Emperor's  tent, 
In  her  nest,  they  spied  a  swallow. 


190 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


Yes,  it  was  a  swallow's  nest, 

Built  of  clay  and  hair  of  horses, 
Mane,  or  tail,  or  dragoon's  crest, 
Found  on  hedge-rows  east  and  west, 
After  skirmish  of  the  forces. 

Then  an  old  Hidalgo  said, 

As  he  twirled  his  gray  mustachio, 
"  Sure  this  swallow  overhead 
Thinks  the  Emperor's  tent  a  shed, 
And  the  Emperor  but  a  Macho  !  " 

Hearing  his  imperial  name 

Coupled  with  those  words  of  malice, 
Half  in  anger,  half  in  shame, 
Forth  the  great  campaigner  came 

Slowly  from  his  canvas  palace. 

"  Let  no  hand  the  bird  molest," 
Said  he  solemnly,  "  nor  hurt  her  !  " 

Adding  then,  by  way  of  jest, 

"  Golondrina  is  my  guest, 

'T  is  the  wife  of  some  deserter  !  " 

Swift  as  bowstring  speeds  a  shaft, 

Through  the  camp  was  spread  the  rumor, 

And  the  soldiers,  as  they  quaffed 

Flemish  beer  at  dinner,  laughed 
At  the  Emperor's  pleasant  humor. 

So  unharmed  and  unafraid 

Sat  the  swallow  still  and  brooded, 

Till  the  constant  cannonade 

Through  the  walls  a  breach  had  made, 
And  the  siege  was  thus  concluded. 

Then  the  army,  elsewhere  bent, 
Struck  its  tents  as  if  disbanding, 

Only  not  the  Emperor's  tent, 

For  he  ordered,  ere  he  went, 

Very  curtly,  "  Leave  it  standing  !  " 

So  it  stood  there  all  alone, 

Loosely  flapping,  torn  and  tattered, 
Till  the  brood  was  fledged  and  flown, 
Singing  o'er  those  walls  of  stone 

Which  the  cannon-shot  had  shattered. 


THE   TWO    ANGELS 

In  a  letter  to  a  correspondent  written  April  25,  1855, 
Mr.  Longfellow  says :  "  I  have  only  time  this  morning 
to  enclose  you  a  poem  .  .  .  written  on  the  birth  of  my 
younger  daughter,  and  the  death  of  the  young  and  beau 
tiful  wife  of  my  neighbor  and  friend,  the  poet  Lowell. 


It  will  serve  as  an  answer  to  one  of  your  questions 
about  life  and  its  many  mysteries.  To  these  dark  prob 
lems  there  is  no  other  solution  possible,  except  the  one 
word  Providence.1' 

Two  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of  Death, 
Passed  o'er  our  village  as  the  morning 

broke  ; 

The  dawn  was  on  their  faces,  and  beneath, 
The  sombre  houses  hearsed  with  plumes 
of  smoke. 

Their  attitude  and  aspect  were  the  same, 
Alike  their  features  and  their  robes  of 

white  ; 
But  one  was   crowned  with  amaranth,  as 

with  flame, 

And  one  with  asphodels,  like  flakes   of 
light. 

I  saw  them  pause  on  their  celestial  way ; 
Then  said  I,  with  deep  fear  and  doubt 

oppressed, 

"  Beat  not  so  loud,  my  heart,  lest  thou  be 
tray 

The    place    where   thy  beloved   are    at 
rest !  " 

And  he  who  wore  the  crown  of  asphodels, 
Descending,  at  my  door  began  to  knock, 

And  my  soul  sank  within  me,  as  in  wells 
The  waters  sink  before  an  earthquake's 
shock. 

I  recognized  the  nameless  agony, 

The  terror  and  the  tremor  and  the  pain, 

That  oft  before  had  filled  or  haunted  me, 
And     now     returned     with     threefold 
strength  again. 

The  door  I  opened  to  my  heavenly  guest, 
And  listened,  for  I  thought  I  heard  God's 
voice  ; 

And,  knowing  whatsoe'er  he  sent  was  best, 
Dared  neither  to  lament  nor  to  rejoice. 

Then  with  a   smile,  that  filled  the  house 

with  light, 
"  My  errand  is  not  Death,  but  Life,"  he 

said  ; 

And  ere  I  answered,  passing  out  of  sight, 
On  his  celestial  embassy  he  sped. 

'T  was  at  thy  door,  O  friend  !  and  not  at 

mine, 
The  angel  with  the  amaranthine  wreath, 


THE   JEWISH    CEMETERY   AT   NEWPORT 


191 


Pausing,  descended,  and  with  voice  divine 
Whispered  a  word  that  had  a  sound  like 
Death. 

Then  fell  upon  the  house  a  sudden  gloom, 
A  shadow   on   those   features   fair   and 

thin; 
And  softly,  from  that  hushed  and  darkened 

room, 

Two  angels  issued,  where  but  one  went 
in. 

All  is  of  God  !     If  he  but  wave  his  hand, 
The  mists  collect,  the   rain  falls   thick 

and  loud, 
Till,   with  a  smile  of  light  on  sea  and 

land, 

Lo  I  he  looks  back  from  the  departing 
cloud. 

Angels  of  Life  and  Death  alike  are  his  ; 
Without  his  leave  they  pass  no  threshold 

o'er  ; 
Who,  then,  would  wish  or  dare,  believing 

this, 
Against  his  messengers  to  shut  the  doox*  ? 


DAYLIGHT  AND  MOONLIGHT 

IN  broad  daylight,  and  at  noon, 
Yesterday  I  saw  the  moon 
Sailing  high,  but  faint  and  white, 
As  a  school-boy's  paper  kite. 

In  broad  daylight,  yesterday, 
I  read  a  Poet's  mystic  lay  ; 
And  it  seemed  to  me  at  most 
As  a  phantom,  or  a  ghost. 

But  at  length  the  feverish  day 
Like  a  passion  died  away, 
And  the  night,  serene  and  still, 
Fell  on  village,  vale,  and  hill. 

Then  the  moon,  in  all  her  pride, 
Like  a  spirit  glorified, 
Filled  and  overflowed  the  night 
With  revelations  of  her  light. 

And  the  Poet's  song  again 

Passed  like  music  through  my  brain  ; 

Night  interpreted  to  me 

All  its  grace  and  mystery. 


THE     JEWISH      CEMETERY      AT 
NEWPORT 

How   strange  it  seems  !     These  Hebrews 

in  their  graves, 
Close  by  the  street  of  this  fair  seaport 

town, 
Silent  beside  the  never-silent  waves, 

At    rest    in    all    this    moving    up    and 
down  ! 

The   trees  are  white  with  dust,  that  o'er 

their  sleep 

Wave  their  broad  curtains  in  the  south- 
wind's  breath, 
While   underneath  these   leafy  tents  they 

keep 
The  long,  mysterious  Exodus  of  Death. 

And  these   sepulchral   stones,   so  old  and 

brown, 

That  pave  with  level  flags  their  burial- 
place, 
Seem  like  the  tablets  of  the  Law,  thrown 

down 
And  broken  by  Moses  at  the  mountain's 


The  very  names  recorded  here  are  strange, 
Of    foreign     accent,    and    of  different 
climes ; 

Alvares  and  Rivera  interchange 

With  Abraham  and  Jacob  of  old  times. 

"  Blessed  be  God,  for  he  created  Death  !  " 
The  mourners  said,  "and  Death  is  rest 

and  peace  ;" 

Then  added,  in  the  certainty  of  faith, 
"  And  giveth  Life  that  nevermore  shall 
cease." 

Closed  are  the  portals  of  their  Synagogue, 
No   Psalms   of   David   now   the   silence 
break, 

No  Rabbi  reads  the  ancient  Decalogue 
In  the  grand  dialect  the  Prophets  spake. 

Gone  are  the  living,  but  the  dead  remain, 
And   not   neglected  ;    for    a    hand    un 
seen, 

Scattering  its  bounty,  like  a  summer  rain, 
Still  keeps  their  graves  and  their  remem 
brance  green. 


192 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


How  came    they  here  ?      What   burst   of 

Christian  hate, 

What  persecution,  merciless  and  blind, 
Drove   o'er   the    sea  —  that   desert    deso 
late — 
These  Ishmaels  and  Hagars  of  mankind  ? 

They  lived  in  narrow  streets  and  lanes  ob 
scure, 
Ghetto   and   Judenstrass,    in   mirk    and 

mire  ; 

Taught  in  the  school  of  patience  to  endure 
The  life  of  anguish   and   the  death  of 
fire. 

All   their   lives  long,  with  the  unleavened 

bread 

And  bitter  herbs  of  exile  and  its  fears, 
The  wasting  famine  of  the  heart  they  fed, 
And  slaked  its  thirst  with  rnarah  of  their 
tears. 

Anathema  maranatha  !  was  the  cry 

That  rang   from   town    to   town,    from 

street  to  street  : 

At  every  gate  the  accursed  Mordecai 
Was  mocked  and  jeered,  and  spurned  by 
Christian  feet. 

$  Pride  and  humiliation  hand  in  hand 

Walked  with   them   through  the    world 

where'er  they  went  ; 
Trampled   and  beaten  were   they   as   the 

sand, 
And  yet  unshaken  as  the  continent. 

For  in  the  background  figures  vague  and 

vast 

Of  patriarchs  and  of  prophets  rose  sub 
lime, 

And  all  the  great  traditions  of  the  Past 
They  saw  reflected  in  the  coming  time.) 

I  And  thus  forever  with  reverted  look 

The  mystic  volume   of   the  world   they 

read, 

Spelling  it  backward,  like  a  Hebrew  book, 
Till  life  became  a  Legend  of  the  Dead. ' 

(  But  ah  !  what  once  has  been  shall  be  no 

more  ! 

The  groaning  earth  in  travail  and  in  pain 
Brings  forth  its   races,  but   does   not   re 
store, 
And  the  dead  nations  never  rise  again.. 


OLIVER  BASSELIN 

IN  the  Valley  of  the  Vire 

Still  is  seen  an  ancient  mill, 
With  its  gables  quaint  and  queer, 
And  beneath  the  window-sill, 
On  the  stone, 
These  words  alone  : 
"  Oliver  Basselin  lived  here." 

Far  above  it,  on  the  steep, 

Ruined  stands  the  old  Chateau ; 
Nothing  but  the  donjon-keep 
Left  for  shelter  or  for  show. 
Its  vacant  eyes 
Stare  at  the  skies, 
Stare  at  the  valley  green  and  deep. 

Once  a  convent,  old  and  brown, 

Looked,  but  ah  !  it  looks  no  mores 
From  the  neighboring  hillside  down 
On  the  rushing  and  the  roar 
Of  the  stream 
Whose  sunny  gleam 
Cheers  the  little  Norman  town. 

In  that  darksome  mill  of  stone, 
To  the  water's  dash  and  din, 
Careless,  humble,  and  unknown, 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin 
Songs  that  fill 
That  ancient  mill 
With  a  splendor  of  its  own. 

Never  feeling  of  unrest 

Broke  the  pleasant  dream  he  dreamed ; 
Only  made  to  be  his  nest, 
All  the  lovely  valley  seemed  ; 
No  desire 
Of  soaring  higher 
Stirred  or  fluttered  in  his  breast. 

True,  his  songs  were  not  divine  ; 

Were  not  songs  of  that  high  art, 
Which,  as  winds  do  in  the  pine, 
Find  an  answer  in  each  heart ; 
But  the  mirth 
Of  this  green  earth 
Laughed  and  revelled  in  his  line. 

From  the  alehouse  and  the  inn, 
Opening  on  the  narrow  street, 

Came  the  loud,  convivial  din, 
Singing  and  applause  of  feet, 


VICTOR   GALBRAITH 


193 


The  laughing  lays 
That  in  those  days 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin. 

In  the  castle,  cased  in  steel, 

Knights,  who  fought  at  Agincourt, 
Watched  and  waited,  spur  on  heel  ; 
But  the  poet  sang  for  sport 
Songs  that  rang 
Another  clang, 
Songs  that  lowlier  hearts  could  feel. 

In  the  convent,  clad  in  gray, 

Sat  the  monks  in  lonely  cells, 
Paced  the  cloisters,  knelt  to  pray, 
And  the  poet  heard  their  bells  ; 
But  his  rhymes 
Found  other  chimes, 
Nearer  to  the  earth  than  they. 

Gone  are  all  the  barons  bold, 

Gone  are  all  the  knights  and  squires, 
Gone  the  abbot  stern  and  cold, 
And  the  brotherhood  of  friars  ; 
Not  a  name 
Remains  to  fame, 
From  those  mouldering  days  of  old  ! 

But  the  poet's  memory  here 

Of  the  landscape  makes  a  part  ; 
Like  the  river,  swift  and  clear, 

Flows  his  song  through  many  a  heart  ; 
Haunting  still 
That  ancient  mill 
In  the  Valley  of  the  Vire. 


VICTOR  GALBRAITH 

UNDER  the  walls  of  Monterey 

At  daybreak  the  bugles  began  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 
In   the   mist   of    the    morning   damp   and 

gray, 
These  were  the  words  they  seemed  to  say  : 

"  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! " 

Forth  he  came,  with  a  martial  tread  ; 
Firm  was  his  step,  erect  his  head  ; 

Victor  Galbraith, 
He  who  so  well  the  bugle  played, 
Could  not  mistake  the  words  it  said  : 

"  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! " 


He  looked  at  the  earth,  he  looked  at  the 

sky, 
He  looked  at  the  files  of  musketry, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 

And  he  said,  with  a  steady  voice  and  eye, 
"  Take  good  aim  ;  I  am  ready  to  die  ! " 

Thus  challenges  death 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Twelve  fiery  tongues  flashed  straight  and 

red, 
Six  leaden  balls  on  their  errand  sped  ; 

Victor  Galbraith 

Falls  to  the  ground,  but  he  is  not  dead  : 
His  name  was  not  stamped  on  those  balls  of 
lead, 

And  they  only  scath 
Victor  Galbraith. 

Three  balls  are  in  his  breast  and  brain, 
But  he  rises  out  of  the  dust  again, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 

The  water  he  drinks  has  a  bloody  stain  ; 
"  Oh   kill   me,   and    put    me    out   of    my 
pain  !  " 

In  his  agony  prayeth 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Forth   dart   once   more    those   tongues   of 

flame, 
And  the  bugler  has  died  a  death  of  shame, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 

His  soul  has  gone  back  to  whence  it  came, 
And  no  one  answers  to  the  name, 

When  the  Sergeant  saith, 

"  Victor  Galbraith  !  " 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 

By  night  a  bugle  is  heard  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 
Through  the  mist  of  the  valley  damp  and 

gray 
The  sentinels  hear  the  sound,  and  say, 

"  That  is  the  wraith 

Of  Victor  Galbraith  ! " 


MY  LOST   YOUTH 

During  one  of  his  visits  to  Portland  in  1846,  Mr. 
Longfellow  relates  how  he  took  a  long  walk  round 
Munjoy's  hill  and  down  to  the  old  Fort  Lawrence. 
"  I  lay  down,"  he  says,  "  in  one  of  the  embrasures  and 
listened  to  the  lashing,  lulling  sound  of  the  sea  just  at 
my  feet.  It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon,  and  the  harbor 
was  full  of  white  sails,  coming  and  departing.  Med 
itated  a  poem  on  the  Old  Fort."  It  does  not  appear 


194 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


that  any  poem  was  then  written,  but  the  theme  re 
mained,  and  in  1855,  when  in  Cambridge,  he  notes  in 
his  diary,  March  29  :  "  A  day  of  pain  ;  cowering  over 
the  fire.  At  night,  as  I  lie  in  bed,  a  poem  comes  into 
my  mind,  —  a  memory  of  Portland,  —  my  native  town, 
the  city  by  the  sea. 

Siede  la  terra  dove  nato  fui 
Sulla  marina. 

"  March  30.  Wrote  the  poem  ;  and  am  rather  pleased 
with  it,  and  with  the  bringing  in  of  the  two  lines  of  the 
old  Lapland  song, 

A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 

And  .the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

OFTEN  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea  ; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still  : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the   black  wharves   and   the 

slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free  ; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill  ; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 


I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide  ! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods  ; 
And    the    friendships    old    and    the   early 

loves 
Come  back  with  a  Sabbath  sound,  as  of 

doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods. 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms   that 

dart 

Across  the  school-boy's  brain  ; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

There    are    things   of    which   I  may  not 

speak  ; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die  ; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong 

heart  weak, 

And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town  ; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well- 
known  street, 
As  they  balance  up  and  down, 


THE   GOLDEN   MILE-STONE 


195 


Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that 

were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 


THE   ROPEWALK 

IN  that  building,  long  and  low, 
With  its  windows  all  a-row, 

Like  the  port-holes  of  a  hulk, 
Human  spiders  spin  and  spin, 
Backward  down  their  threads  so  thin 

Dropping,  each  a  hempen  bulk. 

At  the  end,  an  open  door  ; 
Squares  of  sunshine  on  the  floor 

Light  the  long  and  dusky  lane  ; 
And  the  whirring  of  a  wheel, 
Dull  and  drowsy,  makes  me  feel 

All  its  spokes  are  in  my  brain. 

As  the  spinners  to  the  end 
Downward  go  and  reascend, 

Gleam  the  long  threads  in  the  sun  ; 
While  within  this  brain  of  mine 
Cobwebs  brighter  and  more  fine 

By  the  busy  wheel  are  spun. 

Two  fair  maidens  in  a  swing, 
Like  white  doves  upon  the  wing, 

First  before  my  vision  pass  ; 
Laughing,  as  their  gentle  hands 
Closely  clasp  the  twisted  strands, 

At  their  shadow  on  the  grass. 

Then  a  booth  of  mountebanks, 
With  its  smell  of  tan  and  planks, 

And  a  girl  poised  high  in  air 
On  a  cord,  in  spangled  dress, 
With  a  faded  loveliness, 

And  a  weary  look  of  care. 


Then  a  homestead  among  farms, 
And  a  woman  with  bare  arms 

Drawing  water  from  a  well ; 
As  the  bucket  mounts  apace, 
With  it  mounts  her  own  fair  face, 

As  at  some  magician's  spell. 

Then  an  old  man  in  a  tower, 
Ringing  loud  the  noontide  hour, 

While  the  rope  coils  round  and  round 
Like  a  serpent  at  his  feet, 
And  again,  in  swift  retreat, 

Nearly  lifts  him  from  the  ground. 

Then  within  a  prison-yard, 
Faces  fixed,  and  stern,  and  hard, 

Laughter  and  indecent  mirth  ; 
Ah  !  it  is  the  gallows-tree  ! 
Breath  of  Christian  charity, 

Blow,  and  sweep  it  from  the  earth  ! 

Then  a  school-boy,  with  his  kite 
Gleaming  in  a  sky  of  light, 

And  an  eager,  upward  look  ; 
Steeds  pursued  through  lane  and  field  ; 
Fowlers  with  their  snares  concealed  ; 

And  an  angler  by  a  brook. 

Ships  rejoicing  in  the  breeze, 
Wrecks  that  float  o'er  unknown  seas, 

Anchors    dragged    through     faithless 

sand  ; 

Sea-fog  drifting  overhead, 
And,  with  lessening  line  and  lead, 

Sailors  feeling  for  the  land. 

All  these  scenes  do  I  behold, 
These,  and  many  left  untold, 

In  that  building  long  and  low  ; 
While  the  wheel  goes  round  and  round, 
With  a  drowsy,  dreamy  sound, 

And  the  spinners  backward  go. 


THE    GOLDEN    MILE-STONE 

"  December  20,  1854.  The  weather  is  ever  so  cold. 
The  landscape  looks  dreary  ;  but  the  sunset  and  twilight 
are  resplendent.  Sketch  out  a  poem,  The  Golden  Mile- 
Stoned 

LEAFLESS    are    the    trees  ;    their  purple 

branches 
Spread  themselves   abroad,  like   reefs   of 

coral, 

Rising  silent 
In  the  Red  Sea  of  the  winter  sunset. 


196 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


From  the  hundred  chimneys  of  the  village, 
Like  the  Afreet  in  the  Arabian  story, 

Smoky  columns 
Tower  aloft  into  the  air  of  amber. 

At  the  window  winks  the  flickering  fire 
light  ; 

Here  and  there  the  lamps  of  evening  glim 
mer, 

Social  watch-fires 

Answering  one  another  through  the  dark 
ness. 

On  the  hearth  the  lighted  logs  are  glowing, 
And  like  Ariel  in  the  cloven  pine-tree 

For  its  freedom 

Groans   and   sighs   the   air  imprisoned   in 
them. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  old  men  seated, 
Seeing  ruined  cities  in  the  ashes, 

Asking  sadly 
Of  the  Past  what  it  can  ne'er  restore  them. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  youthful  dreamers, 
Building  castles  fair,  with  stately  stairways, 

Asking  blindly 
Of  the  Future  what  it  cannot  give  them. 

By  the  fireside  tragedies  are  acted 

In  whose  scenes  appear  two  actors  only, 

Wife  and  husband, 
And  above  them  God  the  sole  spectator. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  peace  and  comfort, 
Wives  and  children,  with  fair,  thoughtful 
faces, 

Waiting,  watching 
For  a  well-known  footstep  in  the  passage. 

Each  man's  chimney  is  his  Golden  Mile- 
Stone  ; 

Is  the  central  point,  from  which  he  mea 
sures 

Every  distance 

Through  the  gateways  of  the  world  around 


ign  tn< 
him. 


In  his  farthest  wanderings  still  he  sees  it  ; 
Hears   the   talking   flame,   the    answering 

night- wind, 

As  he  heard  them 
When  he  sat  with  those  who  were,  but  are 

not. 


Happy  he  whom  neither  wealth  nor  fash 
ion, 

Nor  the  march  of  the  encroaching  city, 
Drives  an  exile 

From  the  hearth   of   his   ancestral   home 
stead. 

\We  may  build  more  splendid  habitations, 
Fill   our  rooms  with   paintings   and    with 
sculptures, 

But  we  cannot 
Buy  with  gold  the  old  associations  h 


CATAWBA   WINE 

Written  on  the  receipt  of  a  gift  of  Catawba  wine  from 
the  vineyards  of  Nicholas  Longworth  on  the  Ohio  River. 

THIS  song  of  mine 

Is  a  Song  of  the  Vine, 
To  be  sung  by  the  glowing  embers 

Of  wayside  inns, 

When  the  rain  begins 
To  darken  the  drear  Novembers. 

It  is  not  a  song 

Of  the  Scuppernong, 
From  warm  Carolinian  valleys, 

Nor  the  Isabel 

And  the  Muscadel 
That  bask  in  our  garden  alleys. 

Nor  the  red  Mustang, 

Whose  clusters  hang 
O'er  the  waves  of  the  Colorado, 

And  the  fiery  flood 

Of  whose  purple  blood 
Has  a  dash  of  Spanish  bravado. 

For  richest  and  best 

Is  the  wine  of  the  West, 
That  grows  by  the  Beautiful  River  ; 

Whose  sweet  perfume 

Fills  all  the  room 
With  a  benison  on  the  giver. 

And  as  hollow  trees 

Are  the  haunts  of  bees, 
Forever  going  and  coming  ; 

So  this  crystal  hive 

Is  all  alive 

With  a  swarming   and  buzzing  and  hum 
ming. 


SANTA  FILOMENA 


197 


Very  good  in  its  way 

Is  the  Verzenay, 
Or  the  Sillery  soft  and  creamy; 

But  Catawba  wine 

Has  a  taste  more  divine, 
More  dulcet,  delicious,  and  dreamy. 

There  grows  no  vine 

By  the  haunted  Rhine, 
By  Danube  or  Guadalquivir, 

Nor  on  island  or  cape, 

That  bears  such  a  grape 
As  grows  by  the  Beautiful  River. 

Drugged  is  their  juice 

For  foreign  use, 
When  shipped  o'er  the  reeling  Atlantic, 

To  rack  our  brains 

With  the  fever  pains, 
That  have  driven  the  Old  World  frantic. 

To  the  sewers  and  sinks 

With  all  such  drinks, 
And  after  them  tumble  the  mixer  ; 

For  a  poison  malign 

Is  such  Borgia  wine, 
Or  at  best  but  a  Devil's  Elixir. 

While  pure  as  a  spring 

Is  the  wine  I  sing, 
And  to  praise  it,  one  needs  but  name  it ; 

For  Catawba  wine 

Has  need  of  no  sign, 
No  tavern-bush  to  proclaim  it. 

And  this  Song  of  the  Vine, 

This  greeting  of  mine, 
The  winds  and  the  birds  shall  deliver 

To  the  Queen  of  the  West, 

In  her  garlands  dressed, 
On  the  banks  of  the  Beautiful  River. 


SANTA  FILOMENA 

Published  in  the  first  number  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
November,  1857.  "For  the  legend,"  Mr.  Longfellow 
writes  to  Mr.  Sumner,  "  see  Mrs.  Jameson's  Legendary 
Art.  The  modern  application  you  will  not  miss.  In 
Italian,  one  may  say  Filomela  or  Filomena."  The  ref 
erence  is  to  Miss  Florence  Nightingale,  who  rendered 
great  service  in  the  hospitals  during  the  Crimean  War. 

WHENE'ER  a  noble  deed  is  wrought, 
Whene'er  is  spoken  a  noble  thought, 


Our  hearts,  in  glad  surprise, 
To  higher  levels  rise. 

The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 
Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 

And  lifts  us  unawares 

Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 

Honor  to  those  whose  words  or  deeds 
Thus  help  us  in  our  daily  needs, 
And  by  their  overflow 
Raise  us  from  what  is  low  ! 

Thus  thought  I,  as  by  night  I  read 

Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead, 
The  trenches  cold  and  damp, 
The  starved  and  frozen  camp,  — 

The  wounded  from  the  battle-plain, 
In  dreary  hospitals  of  pain, 

The  cheerless  corridors, 

The  cold  and  stony  floors. 

Lo  !  in  that  house  of  misery 

A  lady  with  a  lamp  I  see 

Pass  through  the  glimmering  gloom, 
And  flit  from  room  to  room. 

And  slow,  as  in  a  dream  of  bliss, 
The  speechless  sufferer  turns  to  kiss 

Her  shadow,  as  it  falls 

Upon  the  darkening  walls. 

As  if  a  door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened  and  then  closed  suddenly, 
The  vision  came  and  went, 
The  light  shone  and  was  spent. 

On  England's  annals,  through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song, 

That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 

From  portals  of  the  past. 

A  Lady  with  a  Lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  history  of  the  land, 

A  noble  type  of  good, 

Heroic  womanhood. 

Nor  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spear, 

The  symbols  that  of  yore 

Saint  Filomena  bore. 


198 


BIRDS    OF   PASSAGE 


THE    DISCOVERER    OF   THE 
NORTH  CAPE 

A    LEAF     FROM    KING    ALFRED'S 
OROSIUS 

OTHERE,  the  old  sea-captain, 

Who  dwelt  in  Helgoland, 
To  King  Alfred,  the  Lover  of  Truth, 
Brought  a  snow-white  walrus-tooth, 

Which  he  held  in  his  brown  right  hand. 

His  figure  was  tall  and  stately, 
Like  a  boy's  his  eye  appeared  ; 

His  hair  was  yellow  as  hay, 

But  threads  of  a  silvery  gray 
Gleamed  in  his  tawny  beard. 

Hearty  and  hale  was  Othere, 
His  cheek  had  the  color  of  oak  ; 

With  a  kind  of  a  laugh  in  his  speech, 

Like  the  sea-tide  on  a  beach, 
As  unto  the  King  he  spoke. 

And  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 

Had  a  book  upon  his  knees, 
And  wrote  down  the  wondrous  tale 
Of  him  who  was  first  to  sail 

Into  the  Arctic  seas. 

"  So  far  I  live  to  the  northward, 

No  man  lives  north  of  me  ; 
To  the  east  are  wild  mountain-chains, 
And  beyond  them  meres  and  plains  ; 

To  the  westward  all  is  sea. 

"  So  far  I  live  to  the  northward, 
From  the  harbor  of  Skeringes-hale, 

If  you  only  sailed  by  day, 

With  a  fair  wind  all  the  way, 

More  than  a  month  would  you  sail. 

"  I  own  six  hundred  reindeer, 
With  sheep  and  swine  beside  ; 

I  have  tribute  from  the  Finns, 

Whalebone  and  reindeer-skins, 
And  ropes  of  walrus-hide. 

"  I  ploughed  the  land  with  horses, 
But  my  heart  was  ill  at  ease, 

For  the  old  seafaring  men 

Came  to  me  now  and  then, 

With  their  sagas  of  the  seas  ;  — 


"  Of  Iceland  and  of  Greenland, 

And  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
And  the  undiscovered  deep  ;  — 
Oh  I  could  not  eat  nor  sleep 

For  thinking  of  those  seas. 

"To  the  northward  stretched  the  des 
ert, 

How  far  I  fain  would  know  ; 
So  at  last  I  sallied  forth, 
And  three  days  sailed  due  north, 

As  far  as  the  whale-ships  go. 

"  To  the  west  of  me  was  the  ocean, 
To  the  right  the  desolate  shore, 

But  I  did  not  slacken  sail 

For  the  walrus  or  the  whale, 
Till  after  three  days  more. 

"  The  days  grew  longer  and  longer, 

Till  they  became  as  one, 
And  northward  through  the  haze 
I  saw  the  sullen  blaze 

Of  the  red  midnight  sun. 

"  And  then  uprose  before  me, 

Upon  the  water's  edge, 
The  huge  and  haggard  shape 
Of  that  unknown  North  Cape, 

Whose  form  is  like  a  wedge. 

"  The  sea  was  rough  and  stormy, 
The  tempest  howled  and  wailed, 

And  the  sea-fog,  like  a  ghost, 

Haunted  that  dreary  coast, 
But  onward  still  I  sailed. 

"  Four  days  I  steered  to  eastward, 

Four  days  without  a  night : 
Round  in  a  fiery  ring 
Went  the  great  sun,  O  King, 

With  red  and  lurid  light." 

Here  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 

Ceased  writing  for  a  while  ; 
And  raised  his  eyes  from  his  book, 
With  a  strange  and  puzzled  look, 

And  an  incredulous  smile. 

But  Othere,  the  old  sea-captain, 
He  neither  paused  nor  stirred, 

Till  the  King  listened,  and  then 

Once  more  took  up  his  pen, 
And  wrote  down  every  word. 


THE   FIFTIETH   BIRTHDAY   OF    AGASSIZ 


199 


"  And  now  the  land,"  said  Othere, 
"  Bent  southward  suddenly, 

And  I  followed  the  curving  shore 

And  ever  southward  bore 
Into  a  nameless  sea. 

"  And  there  we  hunted  the  walrus, 
The  narwhale,  and  the  seal  ; 

Ha  !  't  was  a  noble  game  ! 

And  like  the  lightning's  flame 
Flew  our  harpoons  of  steel. 

"  There  were  six  of  us  all  together, 

Norsemen  of  Helgoland  ; 
In  two  days  and  no  more 
We  killed  of  them  threescore, 

And  dragged  them  to  the  strand  ! " 

Here  Alfred  the  Truth-teller 

Suddenly  closed  his  book, 
And  lifted  his  blue  eyes, 
With  doubt  and  strange  surmise 

Depicted  in  their  look. 

And  Othere  the  old  sea-captain 

Stared  at  him  wild  and  weird, 
Then  smiled,  till  his  shining  teeth 
Gleamed  white  from  underneath 
His  tawny,  quivering  beard. 

And  to  the  King  of  the  Saxons, 

In  witness  of  the  truth, 
Raising  his  noble  head, 
He  stretched  his  brown  hand,  and  said, 

"Behold  this  walrus-tooth  !  " 


DAYBREAK 

A  WIND  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  "  O  mists,  make  room  for  me." 

It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  "  Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone." 

And  hurried  landward  far  away, 
Crying,  "  Awake  !  it  is  the  day." 

It  said  unto  the  forest,  "  Shout ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out  !  " 

It  touched  the  wood-bird's  folded  wing, 
And  said,  "  O  bird,  awake  and  sing." 


And  o'er  the  farms,  "  0  chanticleer, 
Your  clarion  blow  ;  the  day  is  near." 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 

"  Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  morn." 

It  shouted  through  the  belfry-tower, 
"  Awake,  O  bell !  proclaim  the  hour." 

It  crossed  the  churchyard  with  a  sigh, 
And  said,  "  Not  yet !  in  quiet  lie." 


THE     FIFTIETH    BIRTHDAY    OF 
AGASSIZ 

MAY  28,  1857 

Read  by  Mr.  Longfellow  at  a  dinner,  at  which  he  pre 
sided,  given  to  Agassiz  on  the  occasion. 

IT  was  fifty  years  ago 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud, 

A  child  in  its  cradle  lay. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee, 
Saying  :  "  Here  is  a  story-book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee." 

"  Come,  wander  with  me,"  she  said, 

"  Into  regions  yet  untrod  ; 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 

In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 

And  whenever  the  way  seemed  long, 

Or  his  heart  began  to  fail, 
She  would  sing  a  more  wonderful  song, 

Or  tell  a  more  marvellous  tale. 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a  child, 

And  will  not  let  him  go, 
Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 

For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud  ; 

Though  at  times  he  hears  in  his  dreams 
The  Ranz  des  Vaches  of  old, 

And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 
From  glaciers  clear  and  cold  ; 


200 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


And  the  mother  at  home  says,  "  Hark  ! 

For  his  voice  I  listen  and  yearn  ; 
It  is  growing  late  and  dark, 

And  my  boy  does  not  return  1  " 


CHILDREN 

COME  to  me,  O  ye  children  ! 

For  I  hear  you  at  your  play, 
And  the  questions  that  perplexed  me 

Have  vanished  quite  away. 

Ye  open  the  eastern  windows, 

That  look  towards  the  sun, 
Where  thoughts  are  singing  swallows 

And  the  brooks  of  morning  run. 

In  your  hearts  are  the  birds  and  the  sun 
shine, 

In  your  thoughts  the  brooklet's  flow, 
But  in  mine  is  the  wind  of  Autumn 

And  the  first  fall  of  the  snow. 

Ah  !  what  would  the  world  be  to  us 
If  the  children  were  no  more  ? 

We  should  dread  the  desert  behind  us 
Worse  than  the  dark  before. 

What  the  leaves  are  to  the  forest, 

With  light  and  air  for  food, 
Ere  their  sweet  and  tender  juices 

Have  been  hardened  into  wood,  — 

That  to  the  world  are  children  ; 

Through  them  it  feels  the  glow 
Of  a  brighter  and  sunnier  climate 

Than  reaches  the  trunks  below. 

Come  to  me,  O  ye  children  ! 

And  whisper  in  my  ear 
What  the  birds  and  the  winds  are  sing 
ing 

In  your  sunny  atmosphere. 

For  what  are  all  our  contrivings, 

And  the  wisdom  of  our  books, 
When  compared  with  your  caresses, 

And  the  gladness  of  your  looks  ? 

Ye  are  better  than  all  the  ballads 

That  ever  were  sung  or  said  ; 
For  ye  are  living  poems, 

And  all  the  rest  are  dead. 


SANDALPHON 

HAVE  you  read  in  the  Talmud  of  old, 
In  the  Legends  the  Rabbins  have  told 

Of  the  limitless  realms  of  the  air, 
Have  you  read  it,  —  the  marvellous  story 
Of  Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Glory, 

Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer  ? 

How,  erect,  at  the  outermost  gates 
Of  the  City  Celestial  he  waits, 

With  his  feet  on  the  ladder  of  light, 
That,  crowded  with  angels  unnumbered, 
By  Jacob  was  seen,  as  he  slumbered 

Alone  in  the  desert  at  night  ? 

The  Angels  of  Wind  and  of  Fire 
Chant  only  one  hymn,  and  expire 

With  the  song's  irresistible  stress  ; 
Expire  in  their  rapture  and  wonder, 
As  harp-strings  are  broken  asunder 

By  music  they  throb  to  express. 

But  serene  in  the  rapturous  throng, 
Unmoved  by  the  rush  of  the  song, 

With  eyes  unimpassioned  and  slow, 
Among  the  dead  angels,  the  deathless 
Sandalphon  stands  listening  breathless 

To  sounds  that  ascend  from  below  ;  — 

From  the  spirits  on  earth  that  adore, 
From  the  souls  that  entreat  and  implore 

In  the  fervor  and  passion  of  prayer  ; 
From  the  hearts  that  are  broken  with  losses, 
And  weary  with  dragging  the  crosses 

Too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear. 

And  he  gathers  the  prayers  as  he  stands, 
And  they  change  into  flowers  in  his  hands, 

Into  garlands  of  purple  and  red  ; 
And  beneath  the  great  arch  of  the  portal, 
Through  the  streets  of  the  City  Immortal 

Is  wafted  the  fragrance  they  shed. 

It  is  but  a  legend,  I  know,  — 
A  fable,  a  phantom,  a  show, 

Of  the  ancient  Rabbinical  lore  ; 
Yet  the  old  mediseval  tradition, 
The  beautiful,  strange  superstition, 

But  haunts  me  and  holds  me  the  more. 

When  I  look  from  my  window  at  night, 
And  the  welkin  above  is  all  white, 
All  throbbing  and  panting  with  stars, 


ENCELADUS 


201 


Among  them  majestic  is  standing 

Sandalphon  the  angel,  expanding 

His  pinions  in  nebulous  bars. 

And  the  legend,  I  feel,  is  a  part 

Of  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  heart, 

The  frenzy  and  fire  of  the  brain, 
That  grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden, 
The  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 

To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain. 


FLIGHT  THE  SECOND 


Included  in  the  volume  which  contained  the  first 
series  of  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  1863. 


THE   CHILDREN'S    HOUR 

BETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence  : 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall  ! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair  ; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me  ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine  ! 


Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  mustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all ! 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 
And  will  not  let  you  depart, 

But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 
In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away  ! 


ENCELADUS 

Written  February  3,  1859.  "I  have  written,"  says 
Mr.  Longfellow  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Suinner,  "  a  lyric  on 
Italy,  entitled  Enceladus,  from  which  title  your  imagi 
nation  can  construct  the  poem.  It  is  not  a  war-song, 
but  a  kind  of  lament  for  the  woes  of  the  country." 
Mr.  Longfellow  used  the  money  paid  him  for  the  poem, 
which  appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  August,  1859, 
in  aid  of  the  Italian  widows  and  the  soldiers  wounded 
in  the  war  then  going  on  for  the  deliverance  of  Italy 
from  Austrian  rule. 

UNDER  Mount  Etna  he  lies, 

It  is  slumber,  it  is  not  death  ; 
For  he  struggles  at  times  to  arise, 
And  above  him  the  lurid  skies 

Are  hot  with  his  fiery  breath. 

The  crags  are  piled  on  his  breast, 

The  earth  is  heaped  on  his  head  ; 
But  the  groans  of  his  wild  unrest, 
Though  smothered  and  half  suppressed, 
Are  heard,  and  he  is  not  dead. 

And  the  nations  far  away 

Are  watching  with  eager  eyes  ; 

They  talk  together  and  say, 

"  To-morrow,  perhaps  to-day, 
Enceladus  will  arise  !  " 

And  the  old  gods,  the  austere 

Oppressors  in  their  strength, 
Stand  aghast  and  white  with  fear 
At  the  ominous  sounds  they  hear, 

And  tremble,  and  mutter,  "  At  length  ! " 

Ah  me  !  for  the  land  that  is  sown 

With  the  harvest  of  despair  ! 
Where  the  burning  cinders,  blown 
From  the  lips  of  the  overthrown 

Enceladus,  fill  the  air ; 


202 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


Where  ashes  are  heaped  iu  drifts 

Over  vineyard  and  field  and  town, 
Whenever  he  starts  and  lifts 
His  head  through  the  blackened  rifts 
Of  the  crags  that  keep  him  down. 

See,  see  !  the  red  light  shines  ! 

'T  is  the  glare  of  his  awful  eyes  ! 
And  the  storm  -  wind  shouts  through  the 

pines 
Of  Alps  and  of  Apennines, 

"  Enceladus,  arise  1  " 


THE    CUMBERLAND 
AT  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 


ay, 
,  slo 


On  board  of   the  Cumberland,  sloop-of- 

war  ; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the 

bay 

The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our 

foes 

Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort  ; 
Then   comes   a   puff   of   smoke   from   her 

guns, 

And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside  ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"  Strike  your  flag  !  "  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"  Never  !  "  our  gallant  Morris  replies  ; 
"  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield  !  " 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 


Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day  ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho  !   brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the 

seas  ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream  ; 
Ho  !  brave  land  !  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam  ! 


SNOW-FLAKES 

OUT  of  the  bosom  of  the  Air; 

Out  of  the  cloud-folds  of  her  garments 

shaken, 

Over  the  woodlands  brown  and  bare, 
Over  the  harvest-fields  forsaken, 
Silent,  and  soft,  and  slow 
Descends  the  snow. 

Even  as  our  cloudy  fancies  take 

Suddenly  shape  in  some  divine  expres 
sion, 

Even  as  the  troubled  heart  doth  make 
In  the  white  countenance  confession, 
The  troubled  sky  reveals 
The  grief  it  feels. 

This  is  the  poem  of  the  air, 

Slowly  in  silent  syllables  recorded  ; 
This  is  the  secret  of  despair, 

Long  in  its  cloudy  bosom  hoarded, 
Now  whispered  and  revealed 
To  wood  and  field. 


A  DAY  OF   SUNSHINE 

O  GIFT  of  God  !     O  perfect  day  : 
Whereon  shall  no  man  work,  but  play  ; 
Whereon  it  is  enough  for  me, 
Not  to  be  doing,  but  to  be  1 


WEARINESS 


203 


Through  every  fibre  of  my  brain, 
Through     every     nerve,     through     every 

vein, 

I  feel  the  electric  thrill,  the  touch 
Of  life,  that  seems  almost  too  much. 

I  hear  the  wind  among  the  trees 
Playing  celestial  symphonies  ; 
I  see  the  branches  downward  bent, 
Like  keys  of  some  great  instrument. 

And  over  me  unrolls  on  high 
The  splendid  scenery  of  the  sky, 
Where  through  a  sapphire  sea  the  sun 
Sails  like  a  golden  galleon, 

Towards  yonder  cloud-land  in  the  West, 
Towards  yonder  Islands  of  the  Blest, 
Whose  steep  sierra  far  uplifts 
Its  craggy  summits  white  with  drifts. 

Blow,  winds  !    and  waft  through   all   the 

rooms 

The  snow-flakes  of  the  cherry-blooms  ! 
Blow,  winds  !  and  bend  within  my  reach 
The  fiery  blossoms  of  the  peach  ! 

O  Life  and  Love  !     O  happy  throng 
Of  thoughts,  whose  only  speech  is  song  ! 
O  heart  of  man  !  canst  thou  not  be 
Blithe  as  the  air  is,  and  as  free  ? 


SOMETHING   LEFT  UNDONE 

LABOR  with  what  zeal  we  will, 
Something  still  remains  undone, 

Something  uncompleted  still 
Waits  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

By  the  bedside,  on  the  stair, 

At  the  threshold,  near  the  gates, 

With  its  menace  or  its  prayer, 
Like  a  mendicant  it  waits  ; 


Waits,  and  will  not  go  away  ; 

Waits,  and  will  not  be  gainsaid  ; 
By  the  cares  of  yesterday 

Each  to-day  is  heavier  made  ; 

Till  at  length  the  burden  seems 
Greater  than  our  strength  can  bear, 

Heavy  as  the  weight  of  dreams, 
Pressing  on  us  everywhere. 

And  we  stand  from  day  to  day, 
Like  the  dwarfs  of  times  gone  by, 

Who,  as  Northern  legends  say, 
On  their  shoulders  held  the  sky. 


WEARINESS 

O  LITTLE  feet !  that  such  long  years 
Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and  fears, 

Must  ache  and  bleed  beneath  your  load  ; 
I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn 
Where  toil  shall  cease  and  rest  begin, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  road  ! 

O  little  hands  !  that,  weak  or  strong, 
Have  still  to  serve  or  rule  so  long, 

Have  still  so  long  to  give  or  ask  ; 
I,  who  so  much  with  book  and  pen 
Have  toiled  among  my  fellow-men, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  task. 

O  little  hearts  !  that  throb  and  beat 
With  such  impatient,  feverish  heat, 

Such  limitless  and  strong  desires  ; 
Mine,  that  so  long  has  glowed  and  burned, 
With  passions  into  ashes  turned, 

Now  covers  and  conceals  its  fires. 

O  little  souls  !  as  pure  and  white 
And  crystalline  as  rays  of  light 

Direct  from  heaven,  their  source  divine  ; 
Refracted  through  the  mist  of  years, 
How  red  my  setting  sun  appears, 

How  lurid  looks  this  soul  of  mine  ! 


204 


TALES   OF  A  WAYSIDE   INN 


TALES   OF  A  WAYSIDE   INN 


The  plan  for  a  group  of  stories  under  the  fiction  of  a 
company  of  story-tellers  at  an  inn  appears  to  have  vis 
ited  Mr.  Longfellow  after  he  had  made  some  progress 
with  the  separate  tales.  The  considerable  collection 
under  the  title  of  The  Saga  of  King  Olaf  was  indeed 
written  at  first  with  the  design  of  independent  publica 
tion.  Nearly  two  years  passed  before  he  took  up  the 
task  in  earnest;  then,  in  November,  1860,  "with  all 
kinds  of  interruptions,"  he  says,  he  wrote  fifteen  of  the 
lyrics  in  as  many  days,  and  a  few  days  afterward  com 
pleted  the  whole  of  the  Saga.  Meanwhile  he  had  writ 
ten  and  published  Paul  Revere^s  Ride,  and  before  the 
publication  of  his  volume  he  had  printed  one  of  the  lyr 
ics  of  the  Saga  and  The  Legend  of  Rabbi  Ben  Levi. 
Just  when  he  determined  upon  the  framework  of  The 
Wayside  Inn  does  not  appear  ;  it  is  quite  possible  that 
he  had  connected  The  Saga  of  King  Olaf,  which  had 
been  lying  by  for  two  or  three  years,  with  his  friend 
Ole  Bull,  and  that  the  desire  to  use  so  picturesque  a  fig 
ure  had  suggested  a  group  of  which  the  musician  should 
be  one.  Literature  had  notable  precedents  for  the  gen 
eral  plan  of  n,  company  at  an  inn,  but  whether  the  act 
ual  inn  at  Sudbury  came  to  localize  his  conception,  or 
was  itself  the  cause  of  the  plan,  is  not  quite  clear. 

He  sent  the  book  to  the  printer  in  April,  18G3,  under 
the  title  of  The  Sudbury  Tales,  but  in  August  wrote  to 
Mr.  Fields :  "  I  am  afraid  we  have  made  a  mistake  in 
calling  the  new  volume  The  Sudbury  Tales.  Now  that 
I  see  it  announced  I  do  not  like  the  title.  Sumner  cries 
out  against  it  and  has  persuaded  me,  as  I  think  he  will 
you,  to  come  back  to  The  Wayside  Inn.  Pray  think  as 
we  do." 

The  book  as  originally  planned  consisted  of  the  first 
part  only,  and  was  published  November  25,  18G3,  in  an 
edition  of  fifteen  thousand  copies,  —  an  indication  of 
the  confidence  which  the  publishers  had  in  the  poet's 
popularity. 

The  disguises  of  characters  were  so  slight  that  read 
ers  easily  recognized  most  of  them  at  once,  and  Mr. 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN 

PART  FIRST 
PRELUDE 

THE   WAYSIDE    INN 

ONE  Autumn  night,  in  Sudbury  town, 
Across  the  meadows  bare  and  brown, 
The  windows  of  the  wayside  inn 
Gleamed  red  with   fire-light   through   the 

leaves 

Of  woodbine,  hanging  from  the  eaves 
Their  crimson  curtains  rent  and  thin. 

As  ancient  is  this  hostelry 

As  any  in  the  land  may  be, 

Built  in  the  old  Colonial  day, 

When  men  lived  in  a  grander  way, 

With  ampler  hospitality  ; 

A  kind  of  old  Hobgoblin  Hall, 


Longfellow  himself  never  made  any  mystery  of  their 
identity.  Just  after  the  publication  of  the  volume  he 
wrote  to  a  correspondent  in  England  :  — 

"The  Wayside  Inn  has  more  foundation  in  fact  than 
you  may  suppose.  The  town  of  Sudbury  is  about  twenty 
miles  from  Cambridge.  Some  two  hundred  years  ago, 
an  English  family  by  the  name  of  Howe  built  there  a 
country  house,  which  has  remained  in  the  family  down 
to  the  present  time,  the  last  of  the  race  dying  but  two 
years  ago.  Losing  their  fortune,  they  became  inn-keep 
ers  ;  and  for  a  century  the  Red-Horse  Inn  has  flourished, 
going  down  from  father  to  son.  The  place  is  just  as  I 
have  described  it,  though  no  longer  an  inn.  All  this  will 
account  for  the  landlord's  coat-of-arms,  and  his  being 
a  justice  of  the  peace,  and  his  being  known  as  'the 
Squire,' —  things  that  must  sound  strange  in  English 
ears.  All  the  characters  are  real.  The  musician  is  Ole 
Bull ;  the  Spanish  Jew,  Israel  Edrehi,  whom  I  have  seen 
as  I  have  painted  him,  etc.,  etc." 

It  is  easy  to  fill  up  the  etc.  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  cata 
logue.  The  poet  is  T.  W.  Parsons,  the  translator  of 
Dante ;  the  Sicilian,  Luigi  Monti,  whose  name  occurs 
often  in  Mr.  Longfellow's  Life  as  a  familiar  friend  ;  the 
theologian,  Professor  Daniel  Tread  well,  a  physicist  of 
genius  who  had  also  a  turn  for  theology ;  the  student, 
Henry  Ware  Wales,  a  scholar  of  promise  who  had  trav 
elled  much,  who  died  early,  and  whose  tastes  appeared 
in  the  collection  of  books  which  he  left  to  the  library 
of  Harvard  College.  This  group  was  collected  by  the 
poet's  fancy ;  in  point  of  fact  three  of  them,  Parsons, 
Monti,  and  Treadwell,  were  wont  to  spend  their  sum 
mer  months  at  the  inn. 

The  form  was  so  agreeable  that  it  was  easy  to  extend 
it  afterward  so  as  to  include  the  tales  which  the  poet 
found  it  in  his  mind  to  write.  The  Second  Day  was 
published  in  1872 ;  The  Third  Part  formed  the  princi 
pal  portion  of  Aftermath  in  1873,  and  subsequently  the 
three  parts  were  brought  together,  into  a  complete  vol- 


Now  somewhat  fallen  to  decay, 
With  weather-stains  upon  the  wall, 
And  stairways  worn,  and  crazy  doors, 
And  creaking  and  uneven  floors, 
And  chimneys  huge,  and  tiled  and  tall. 

A  region  of  repose  it  seems, 
A  place  of  slumber  and  of  dreams, 
Remote  among  the  wooded  hills  ! 
For  there  no  noisy  railway  speeds, 
Its  torch-race  scattering  smoke  and  gleeds  ; 
But  noon  and  night,  the  panting  teams 
Stop  under  the  great  oaks,  that  throw 
Tangles  of  light  and  shade  below, 
On  roofs  and  doors  and  window-sills. 
Across  the  road  the  barns  display 
Their  lines  of  stalls,  their  mows  of  hay, 
Through  the  wide  doors  the  breezes  blow, 
The  wattled  cocks  strut  to  and  fro, 
And,  half  effaced  by  rain  and  shine, 
The  Red  Horse  prances  on  the  sign. 
Round  this  old-fashioned,  quaint  abode 
Deep  silence  reigned,  save  when  a  gust 


PRELUDE 


205 


Went  rushing  down  the  county  road, 
And  skeletons  of  leaves,  and  dust, 
A  moment  quickened  by  its  breath, 
Shuddered    and    danced    their    dance    of 

death, 

And  through  the  ancient  oaks  o'erhead 
Mysterious  voices  moaned  and  fled. 

But  from  the  parlor  of  the  inn 

A  pleasant  murmur  smote  the  ear, 

Like  water  rushing  through  a  weir: 

Oft  interrupted  by  the  din 

Of  laughter  and  of  loud  applause, 

And,  in  each  intervening  pause, 

The  music  of  a  violin. 

The  fire-light,  shedding  over  all 

The  splendor  of  its  ruddy  glow, 

Filled  the  whole  parlor  large  and  low  ; 

It  gleamed  on  wainscot  and  on  wall, 

It  touched  with  more  than  wonted  grace 

Fair  Princess  Mary's  pictured  face  ; 

It  bronzed  the  rafters  overhead, 

On  the  old  spinet's  ivory  keys 

It  played  inaudible  melodies, 

It  crowned  the  sombre  clock  with  flame, 

The  hands,  the  hours,  the  maker's  name, 

And  painted  with  a  livelier  red 

The  Landlord's  coat-of-arms  again  ; 

And,  flashing  on  the  window-pane, 

Emblazoned  with  its  light  and  shade 

The  jovial  rhymes,  that  still  remain, 

Writ  near  a  century  ago, 

By  the  great  Major  Molineaux, 

Whom  Hawthorne  has  immortal  made. 

Before  the  blazing  fire  of  wood 

Erect  the  rapt  musician  stood  ; 

And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 

His  head  upon  his  instrument, 

And  seemed  to  listen,  till  he  caught 

Confessions  of  its  secret  thought,  — 

The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  lament, 

The  exultation  and  the  pain  ; 

Then,  by  the  magic  of  his  art, 

He  soothed  the  throbbings  of  its  heart, 

And  lulled  it  into  peace  again. 

Around  the  fireside  at  their  ease 
There  sat  a  group  of  friends,  entranced 
With  the  delicious  melodies  ; 
Who  from  the  far-off  noisy  town 
Had  to  the  wayside  inn  come  down, 
To  rest  beneath  its  old  oak  trees. 
The  fire-light  on  their  faces  glanced, 
Their  shadows  on  the  wainscot  danced, 


And,  though  of  different  lands  and  speech, 
Each  had  his  tale  to  tell,  and  each 
Was  anxious  to  be  pleased  and  please. 
And  while  the  sweet  musician  plays, 
Let  me  in  outline  sketch  them  all, 
Perchance  uncouthly  as  the  blaze 
With  its  uncertain  touch  portrays 
Their  shadowy  semblance  on  the  wall. 

But  first  the  Landlord  will  I  trace  ; 

Grave  in  his  aspect  and  attire  ; 

A  man  of  ancient  pedigree, 

A  Justice  of  the  Peace  was  he, 

Known  in  all  Sudbury  as  "The  Squire." 

Proud  was  he  of  his  name  and  race, 

Of  old  Sir  William  and  Sir  Hugh, 

And  in  the  parlor,  full  in  view, 

His  coat-of-arms,  well  framed  and  glazed, 

Upon  the  wall  in  colors  blazed  ; 

He  beareth  gules  upon  his  shield, 

A  chevron  argent  in  the  field, 

With  three  wolf's-heads,  and  for  the  crest 

A  Wyvern  part-per-pale  addressed 

Upon  a  helmet  barred  ;  below 

The  scroll  reads,  "By  the  name  of  Howe." 

And  over  this,  no  longer  bright, 

Though  glimmering  with  a  latent  light, 

Was  hung  the  sword  his  grandsire  bore 

In  the  rebellious  days  of  yore, 

Down  there  at  Concord  in  the  fight. 

A  youth  was  there,  of  quiet  ways, 
A  Student  of  old  books  and  days, 
To  whom  all  tongues  and  lands  were 

known, 

And  yet  a  lover  of  his  own  ; 
With  many  a  social  virtue  graced, 
And  yet  a  friend  of  solitude  ; 
A  man  of  such  a  genial  mood 
The  heart  of  all  things  he  embraced, 
And  yet  of  such  fastidious  taste, 
He  never  found  the  best  too  good. 
Books  were  his  passion  and  delight, 
And  in  his  upper  room  at  home 
Stood  many  a  rare  and  sumptuous  tome, 
In  vellum  bound,  with  gold  bedight, 
Great  volumes  garmented  in  white, 
Recalling  Florence,  Pisa,  Rome. 
He  loved  the  twilight  that  surrounds 
The  border-land  of  old  romance  ; 
Where  glitter  hauberk,  helm,  and  lance, 
And  banner  waves,  and  trumpet  sounds, 
And  ladies  ride  with  hawk  on  wrist, 
And  mighty  warriors  sweep  along, 
Magnified  by  the  purple  mist, 


206 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


The  dusk  of  centuries  and  of  song. 
The  chronicles  of  Charlemagne, 
Of  Merlin  and  the  Mort  d'Arthure, 
Mingled  together  in  his  brain 
With  tales  of  Flores  and  Blauchefleur, 
Sir  Ferumbras,  Sir  Eglamour, 
Sir  Launcelot,  Sir  Morgadour, 
Sir  Guy,  Sir  Bevis,  Sir  Gawain. 

A  young  Sicilian,  too,  was  there  ; 

In  sight  of  Etna  born  and  bred, 

Some  breath  of  its  volcanic  air 

Was  glowing  in  his  heart  and  brain, 

And,  being  rebellious  to  his  liege, 

After  Palermo's  fatal  siege, 

Across  the  western  seas  he  fled, 

In  good  King  Bomba's  happ}'  reign. 

His  face  was  like  a  summer  night, 

All  flooded  with  a  dusky  light  ; 

His   hands    were   small  ;   his   teeth   shone 

white 

As  sea-shells,  when  he  smiled  or  spoke  ; 
His  sinews  supple  and  strong  as  oak  ; 
Clean  shaven  was  he  as  a  priest, 
Who  at  the  mass  on  Sunday  sings, 
Save  that  upon  his  upper  lip 
His  beard,  a  good  palm's  length  at  least, 
Level  and  pointed  at  the  tip, 
Shot  sideways,  like  a  swallow's  wings. 
The  poets  read  he  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  most  of  all  the  Immortal  Four 
Of  Italy  ;  and  next  to  those, 
The  story-telling  bard  of  prose, 
Who  wrote  the  joyous  Tuscan  tales 
Of  the  Decameron,  that  make 
Fiesole's  green  hills  and  vales 
Remembered  for  Boccaccio's  sake. 
Much  too  of  music  was  his  thought  ; 
The  melodies  and  measures  fraught 
With  sunshine  and  the  open  air, 
Of  vineyards  and  the  singing  sea 
Of  his  beloved  Sicily  ; 
And  much  it  pleased  him  to  peruse 
The  songs  of  the  Sicilian  muse,  — 
Bucolic  songs  by  Meli  sung 
In  the  familiar 'peasant  tongue, 
That  made  men  say,  "  Behold  !  once  more 
The  pitying  gods  to  earth  restore 
Theocritus  of  Syracuse  !  " 

A  Spanish  Jew  from  Alicant 

With  aspect  grand  and  grave  was  there  ; 

Vender  of  silks  and  fabrics  rare, 

And  attar  of  rose  from  the  Levant. 

Like  an  old  Patriarch  he  appeared, 


Abraham  or  Isaac,  or  at  least 

Some  later  Prophet  or  High-Priest  ; 

With  lustrous  eyes,  and  olive  skin, 

And,  wildly  tossed  from  cheeks  and  chin, 

The  tumbling  cataract  of  his  beard. 

His  garments  breathed  a  spicy  scent 

Of  cinnamon  and  sandal  blent, 

Like  the  soft  aromatic  gales 

That  meet  the  mariner,  who  sails 

Through  the  Moluccas,  and  the  seas 

That  wash  the  shores  of  Celebes. 

All  stories  that  recorded  are 

By  Pierre  Alphonse  he  knew  by  heart, 

And  it  was  rumored  he  could  say 

The  Parables  of  Sandabar, 

And  all  the  Fables  of  Pilpay, 

Or  if  not  all,  the  greater  part ! 

Well  versed  was  he  in  Hebrew  books, 

Talmud  and  Targum,  and  the  lore 

Of  Kabala  ;  and  evermore 

There  was  a  mystery  in  his  looks  ; 

His  eyes  seemed  gazing  far  away, 

As  if  in  vision  or  in  trance 

He  heard  the  solemn  sackbut  play, 

And  saw  the  Jewish  maidens  dance. 

A  Theologian,  from  the  school 

Of  Cambridge  on  the  Charles,  was  there  ; 

Skilful  alike  with  tongue  and  pen, 

He  preached  to  all  men  everywhere 

The  Gospel  of  the  Golden  Rule, 

The  New  Commandment  given  to  men, 

Thinking  the  deed,  and  not  the  creed, 

Would  help  us  in  our  utmost  need. 

With  reverent  feet  the  earth  he  trod, 

Nor  banished  nature  from  his  plan, 

But  studied  still  with  deep  research 

To  build  the  Universal  Church, 

Lofty  as  in  the  love  of  God, 

And  ample  as  the  wants  of  man. 

A  Poet,  too,  was  there,  whose  verse 

Was  tender,  musical,  and  terse  ; 

The  inspiration,  the  delight, 

The  gleam,  the  glory,  the  swift  flight 

Of  thoughts  so  sudden,  that  they  seem 

The  revelations  of  a  dream, 

All  these  were  his  ;  but  with  them  came 

No  envy  of  another's  fame  ; 

He  did  not  find  his  sleep  less  sweet, 

For  music  in  some  neighboring  street 

Nor  rustling  hear  in  every  breeze 

The  laurels  of  Miltiades. 

Honor  and  blessings  on  his  head 

While  living,  good  report  when  dead, 


THE   LANDLORD'S   TALE 


207 


Who,  not  too  eager  for  renown, 
Accepts,  but  does  not  clutch,  the  crown  ! 

Last  the  Musician,  as  he  stood 

Illumined  by  that  fire  of  wood  ; 

Fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  his  aspect  blithe, 

His  figure  tall  and  straight  and  lithe, 

And  every  feature  of  his  face 

Revealing  his  Norwegian  race  ; 

A  radiance,  streaming  from  within, 

Around  his  eyes  and  forehead  beamed, 

The  Angel  with  the  violin, 

Painted  by  Raphael,  he  seemed. 

He  lived  in  that  ideal  world 

Whose  language  is  not  speech,  but  song  ; 

Around  him  evermore  the  throng 

Of  elves  and  sprites  their  dances  whirled  ; 

The  Stromkarl  sang,  the  cataract  hurled 

Its  headlong  waters  from  the  height  ; 

And  mingled  in  the  wild  delight 

The  scream  of  sea-birds  in  their  flight, 

The  rumor  of  the  forest  trees, 

The  plunge  of  the  implacable  seas, 

The  tumult  of  the  wind  at  night, 

Voices  of  eld,  like  trumpets  blowing, 

Old  ballads,  and  wild  melodies 

Through  mist  and  darkness  pouring  forth, 

Like  Elivagar's  river  flowing 

Out  of  the  glaciers  of  the  North. 

The  instrument  on  which  he  played 

Was  in  Cremona's  workshops  made, 

By  a  great  master  of  the  past, 

Ere  yet  was  lost  the  art  divine  ; 

Fashioned  of  maple  and  of  pine, 

That  in  Tyrolean  forests  vast 

Had  rocked  and  wrestled  with  the  blast : 

Exquisite  was  it  in  design, 

Perfect  in  each  minutest  part, 

A  marvel  of  the  lutist's  art  ; 

And  in  its  hollow  chamber,  thus, 

The  maker  from  whose  hands  it  came 

Had  written  his  unrivalled  name,  — 

"  Antonius  Stradivarius." 

And  when  he  played,  the  atmosphere 
Was  filled  with  magic,  and  the  ear 
Caught  echoes  of  that  Harp  of  Gold, 
Whose  music  had  so  weird  a  sound, 
The  hunted  stag  forgot  to  bound, 
The  leaping  rivulet  backward  rolled, 
The  birds  came  down  from  bush  and  tree, 
The  dead  came  from  beneath  the  sea, 
The  maiden  to  the  harper's  knee  ! 


The  music  ceased  ;  the  applause  was  loud, 
The  pleased  musician  smiled  and  bowed  ; 
The  wood-fire  clapped  its  hands  of  flame, 
The  shadows  on  the  wainscot  stirred, 
And  from  the  harpsichord  there  came 
A  ghostly  murmur  of  acclaim, 
A  sound  like  that  sent  down  at  night 
By  birds  of  passage  in  their  flight, 
From  the  remotest  distance  heard. 

Then  silence  followed  ;  then  began 
A  clamor  for  the  Landlord's  tale,  — 
The  story  promised  them  of  old, 
They  said,  but  always  left  untold  ; 
And  he,  although  a  bashful  man, 
And  all  his  courage  seemed  to  fail, 
Finding  excuse  of  no  avail, 
Yielded  ;  and  thus  the  story  ran. 


THE    LANDLORD'S  TALE 
PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 

LISTEN,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 
On  the  eighteenth  of   April,  in  Seventy- 
five  ; 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He   said    to  his    friend,    "  If  the   British 

march 

By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal 

light,  — 

One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea  ; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and 

farm, 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then   he  said,    "  Good  night !  "   and   with 

muffled  oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 
Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war  ; 
A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 
Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 
And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 


208 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and 

street, 

Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old  North 

Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 
To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On   the   sombre   rafters,   that   round   him 

made 

Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade,  — 
By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 

In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 

Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 

That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 

The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 

Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  "  All  is  well  !  " 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret 

dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead  ; 
For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 
On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 
Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay,  — 
A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 
On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And    turned    and    tightened    his    saddle- 
girth  ; 

But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo  !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light  ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 


But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns  1 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the 

dark, 
And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing, 

a  spark 
Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and 

fleet: 
That  was  all !    And  yet,  through  the  gloom 

and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night  ; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in 

his  flight, 
Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the 

steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and 

deep, 

Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides  ; 
And  under  the  alders  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford 

town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 
And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 
And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 
That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and 

bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 
As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 
At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge   in   Concord 

town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 
And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 
And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 
Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 
And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 
Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall. 
Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 
Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 


THE   STUDENT'S    TALE 


209 


You  know  the  rest.     In  the  books  you  have 

read, 
How    the     British    Regulars     fired     and 

fled,— 

How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From   behind   each   fence   and   farm-yard 

wall, 

Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere  ; 
And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of 

alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  — 
A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 
A   voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock   at   the 

door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore  ! 
For,  borne  on  the  night- wind  of  the  Past, 
Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 
In   the   hour   of   darkness   and   peril   and 

need, 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 
And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 


INTERLUDE 

THE  Landlord  ended  thus  his  tale. 

Then  rising  took  down  from  its  nail 

The  sword  that  hung  there,  dim  with  dust, 

And  cleaving  to  its  sheath  with  rust, 

And  said,  "  This  sword  was  in  the  fight." 

The  Poet  seized  it,  and  exclaimed, 

"  It  is  the  sword  of  a  good  knight, 

Though  homespun  was  his  coat-of-mail  ; 

What  matter  if  it  be  not  named 

Joyeuse,  Colada,  Durindale, 

Excalibar,  or  Aroundight, 

Or  other  name  the  books  record  ? 

Your  ancestor,  who  bore  this  sword 

As  Colonel  of  the  Volunteers, 

Mounted  upon  his  old  gray  mare, 

Seen  here  and  there  and  everywhere, 

To  me  a  grander  shape  appears 

Than  old  Sir  William,  or  what  not, 

Clinking  about  in  foreign  lands 

With  iron  gauntlets  on  his  hands, 

And  on  his  head  an  iron  pot  !  " 

All  laughed  ;  the  Landlord's  face  grew  red 
As  his  escutcheon  on  the  wall  ; 


He  could  not  comprehend  at  all 

The  drift  of  what  the  Poet  said  ; 

For  those  who  had  been  longest  dead 

Were  always  greatest  in  his  eyes  ; 

And  he  was  speechless  with  surprise 

To  see  Sir  William's  plumed  head 

Brought  to  a  level  with  the  rest, 

And  made  the  subject  of  a  jest. 

And  this  perceiving,  to  appease 

The  Landlord's  wrath,  the  others'  fears, 

The  Student  said,  with  careless  ease, 

"  The  ladies  and  the  cavaliers, 

The  arms,  the  loves,  the  courtesies, 

The  deeds  of  high  emprise,  I  sing  ! 

Thus  Ariosto  says,  in  words 

That  have  the  stately  stride  and  ring 

Of  armed  knights  and  clashing  swords. 

Now  listen  to  the  tale  I  bring  ; 

Listen  !   though  not  to  me  belong 

The  flowing  draperies  of  his  song, 

The    words    that    rouse,    the    voice    that 

charms. 

The  Landlord's  tale  was  one  of  arms, 
Only  a  tale  of  love  is  mine, 
Blending  the  human  and  divine, 
A  tale  of  the  Decameron,  told 
In  Palmieri's  garden  old, 
By  Fiametta,  laurel-crowned, 
While  her  companions  lay  around, 
And  heard  the  intermingled  sound 
Of  airs  that  on  their  errands  sped, 
And  wild  birds  gossiping  overhead, 
And  lisp  of  leaves,  and  fountain's  fall, 
And  her  own  voice  more  sweet  than  all, 
Telling  the  tale,  which,  wanting  these, 
Perchance  may  lose  its  power  to  please." 


THE   STUDENT'S   TALE 
THE    FALCON     OF     SER    FEDERIGO 

ONE  summer  morning,  when  the  sun  was 

hot, 

Weary  with  labor  in  his  garden-plot, 
On  a   rude    bench    beneath    his    cottage 

eaves, 

Ser  Federigo  sat  among  the  leaves 
Of  a  huge  vine,  that,    with  its  arms  out 
spread, 

Hung  its  delicious  clusters  overhead. 
Below    him,  through    the    lovely   valley, 

flowed 

The  river  Arno,  like  a  winding  road, 
And  from  its  banks  were  lifted  high  in  air 


210 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


The  spires  and  roofs  of  Florence  called  the 

Fair  ; 

To  him  a  marble  tomb,  that  rose  above 
His  wasted  fortunes  and  his  buried  love. 
For  there,  in  banquet  and  in  tournament, 
His  wealth  had  lavished  been,  his  substance 

spent, 

To  woo  and  lose,  since  ill  his  wooing  sped, 
Monua  Giovanna,  who  his  rival  wed, 
Yet  ever  in  his  fancy  reigned  supreme, 
The  ideal  woman  of  a  young  man's  dream. 

Then  he  withdrew,  in  poverty  and  pain, 
To  this  small  farm,  the  last  of  his  domain, 
His  only  comfort  and  his  only  care 
To  prune  his  vines,  and  plant  the  fig  and 

pear  ; 

His  only  forester  and  only  guest 
His  falcon,  faithful  to  him,  when  the  rest, 
Whose  willing  hands  had  found  so  light  of 

yore 

The  brazen  knocker  of  his  palace  door, 
Had  now  no  strength  to  lift   the   wooden 

latch, 
That    entrance   gave    beneath   a  roof    of 

thatch. 

Companion  of  his  solitary  ways, 
Purveyor  of  his  feasts  on  holidays, 
On  him  this  melancholy  man  bestowed 
The  love  with  which  his  nature  overflowed. 

And    so    the    empty-handed    years    went 

round, 
Vacant,    though    voiceful    with   prophetic 

sound, 
And   so,   that   summer  morn,   he  sat  and 

mused 

With  folded,  patient  hands,  as  he  was  used, 
And  dreamily  before  his  half-closed  sight 
Floated  the  vision  of  his  lost  delight. 
Beside  him,  motionless,  the  drowsy  bird 
Dreamed  of  the  chase,  and  in  his  slumber 

heard 
The  sudden,    scythe-like  sweep   of  wings, 

that  dare 
The   headlong    plunge    through    eddying 

gulfs  of  air, 

Then,  starting  broad  awake  upon  his  perch, 
Tinkled   his    bells,   like    mass-bells    in   a 

church, 

And  looking  at  his  master,  seemed  to  say, 
"  Ser  Federigo,  shall  we  hunt  to-day  ?  "" 

Ser  Federigo  thought  not  of  the  chase  ; 
The  tender  vision  of  her  lovely  face, 


I  will  not  say  he  seems  to  see,  he  sees 
In  the  leaf-shadows  of  the  trellises, 
Herself,  yet  not  herself  ;  a  lovely  child 
With   flowing  tresses,  and  eyes  wide  and 

wild, 

Coming  undaunted  up  the  garden  walk, 
And  looking  not  at  him,  but  at  the  hawk. 
"  Beautiful  falcon  !  "  said  he,  "  would  that  I 
Might  hold  thee  on  my  wrist,  or  see  thee 

fly  ! » 
The   voice  was  hers,   and    made    strange 

echoes  start 
Through  all  the  haunted  chambers  of  his 

heart, 

As  an  a^olian  harp  through  gusty  doors 
Of  some  old  ruin  its  wild  music  pours. 

"  Who  is  thy  mother,  my  fair  boy  ?  "  he 

said, 

His  hand  laid  softly  on  that  shining  head. 
"Monna  Giovanna.  Will  you  let  me  stay 
A  little  while,  and  with  your  falcon  play  ? 
We  live  there,  just  beyond  your  garden 

wall, 
In  the  great  house  behind  the  poplars  tall." 

So  he  spake  on  ;  and  Federigo  heard 
As  from  afar  each  softly  uttered  word, 
And  drifted   onward   through  the   golden 

gleams 

And  shadows  of  the  misty  sea  of  dreams, 
As    mariners    becalmed    through    vapors 

drift, 
And  feel  the  sea  beneath  them  sink  and 

lift, 
And  hear   far   off  the  mournful   breakers 

roar, 

And  voices  calling  faintly  from  the  shore  ! 
Then  waking  from  his  pleasant  reveries, 
He  took  the  little  boy  upon  his  knees, 
And  told  him  stories  of  his  gallant  bird, 
Till    in    their    friendship    he    became    a 

third. 

Monna  Giovanna,  widowed  in  her  prime, 
Had  come  with  friends  to  pass  the  summer 

time 

In  her  grand  villa,  half-way  up  the  hill, 
O'erlooking  Florence,  but  retired  and  still  ; 
With  iron  gates,  that  opened  through  long 

lines 

Of  sacred  ilex  and  centennial  pines, 
And  terraced  gardens,  and  broad  steps  of 

stone, 
And  sylvan  deities,  with  moss  o'ergrown, 


THE   STUDENTS   TALE 


211 


And  fountains  palpitating  in  the  heat, 
And  all  Val  d'Aruo  stretched  beneath  its 

feet. 

Here  in  seclusion,  as  a  widow  may, 
The  lovely  lady  whiled  the  hours  away, 
Pacing  in  sable  robes  the  statued  hall, 
Herself  the  stateliest  statue  among  all, 
And  seeing  more   and   more,  with   secret 

j°y> 

Her  husband  risen  and  living  in  her  boy, 
Till  the  lost  sense  of  life  returned  again, 
Not  as  delight,  but  as  relief  from  pain. 
Meanwhile     the     boy,     rejoicing     in     his 

strength, 
Stormed  down  the  terraces  from  length  to 

length  ; 

The  screaming  peacock  chased  in  hot  pur 
suit, 

And  climbed  the  garden  trellises  for  fruit. 
But  his   chief  pastime   was   to   watch  the 

flight, 

Of  a  gerfalcon,  soaring  into  sight, 
Beyond  the  trees  that  fringed  the  garden 

wall, 
Then   downward  stooping  at  some  distant 

call  ; 

And  as  he  gazed  full  often  wondered  he 
Who  might  the  master  of  the  falcon  be, 
Until  that  happy  morning,  when  he  found 
Master  and  falcon  in  the  cottage  ground. 

And  now  a  shadow  and  a  terror  fell 
On  the  great  house,  as  if  a  passing-bell 
Tolled   from   the   tower,    and    filled   each 

spacious  room 

With  secret  awe  and  preternatural  gloom  ; 
The  petted  boy  grew  ill,  and  day  by  day 
Pined  with  mysterious  malady  away. 
The  mother's   heart    would    not   be   com 
forted  ; 

Her  darling  seemed  to  her  already  dead, 
And  often,  sitting  by  the  sufferer's  side, 
"  What  can  I  do  to  comfort  thee  ?  "  she 

cried. 

At  first  the  silent  lips  made  no  reply, 
But,  moved  at  length  by  her  importunate 

cry, 
"Give  me,"   he  answered,  with  imploring 

tone, 
"  Ser  Federigo's  falcon  for  my  own  !  " 

No  answer   could   the   astonished   mother 

make  ; 
How  could  she  ask,  e'en  for  her  darling's 

sake, 


Such  favor  at  a  luckless  lover's  hand, 
Well  knowing  that  to  ask  was  to  command  ? 
Well    knowing,   what    all   falconers    con 
fessed, 

In  all  the  land  that  falcon  was  the  best, 
The   master's   pride   and  passion   and  de 
light, 
And    the    sole    pursuivant    of   this    poor 

knight. 
But  yet,  for  her  child's  sake,  she  could  no 

less 

Than  give  assent,  to  soothe  his  restlessness, 
So  promised,  and  then  promising  to  keep 
Her  promise  sacred,  saw  him  fall  asleep. 

The  morrow  was  a  bright  September  morn  ; 
The  earth  was  beautiful  as  if  new-born  ; 
There  was  that  nameless   splendor  every 
where, 

That  wild  exhilaration  in  the  air, 
Which  makes  the  passers  in  the  city  street 
Congratulate  each  other  as  they  meet. 
Two   lovely  ladies,   clothed   in   cloak   and 

hood, 
Passed  through  the   garden  gate  into  the 

wood, 
Under  the  lustrous  leaves,  and  through  the 

sheen 

Of   dewy    sunshine    showering    down   be 
tween. 
The  one,  close-hooded,  had  the  attractive 

grace 
Which  sorrow  sometimes  lends  a  woman's 

face  ; 
Her  dark  eyes  moistened  with  the   mists 

that  roll 
From   the   gulf -stream   of  passion   in  the 

soul  ; 
The  other  with  her  hood  thrown  back,  her 

hair 

Making  a  golden  glory  in  the  air, 
Her     cheeks    suffused     with    an    auroral 

blush, 
Her  young  heart  singing  louder  than  the 

thrush, 
So   walked,  that   morn,    through   mingled 

light  and  shade, 

Each  by  the  other's  presence  lovelier  made, 
Monna  Giovanna  and  her  bosom  friend, 
Intent  upon  their  errand  and  its  end. 

They  found  Ser  Federigo  at  his  toil, 
Like  banished  Adam,  delving  in  the  soil  ; 
And  when  he  looked  and  these  fair  women 
spied, 


212 


TALES   OF  A   WAYSIDE   INN 


The  garden  suddenly  was  glorified  ; 
His  long-lost  Eden  was  restored  again, 
And  the  strange  river  winding  through  the 

plain 

No  longer  was  the  Arno  to  his  eyes, 
But  the  Euphrates  watering  Paradise  ! 

Monna  Giovanna  raised  her  stately  head, 
And  with  fair  words  of  salutation  said  : 
"  Ser  Federigo,  we  come  here  as  friends, 
Hoping  in  this  to  make  some  poor  amends 
For  past  unkindness.     I  who  ne'er  before 
Would   even  cross  the  threshold  of  your 

door, 

I  who  in  happier  days  such  pride  main 
tained, 

Refused  your  banquets,  and  your  gifts  dis 
dained, 

This  morning  come,  a  self-invited  guest, 
To  put  your  generous  nature  to  the  test, 
And  breakfast  with  you  under  your  own 

vine." 
To  which  he  answered  :   "  Poor  desert  of 

mine, 

Not  your  unkindness  call  it,  for  if  aught 
Is  good  in  me  of  feeling  or  of  thought, 
From  you  it  comes,  and  this  last  grace  out 
weighs 
All  sorrows,  all  regrets  of  other  days." 

And  after  further  compliment  and  talk, 

Among  the  asters  in  the  garden  walk 

He   left   his   guests  ;    and   to  his   cottage 

turned, 

And  as  he  entered  for  a  moment  yearned 
For  the  lost  splendors  of  the  days  of  old, 
The  ruby  glass,  the  silver  and  the  gold, 
And  felt  how  piercing  is  the  sting  of  pride, 
By  want  embittered  and  intensified. 
He  looked  about  him  for  some  means  or 

way 

To  keep  this  unexpected  holiday  ; 
Searched  every  cupboard,  and  then  searched 

again, 
Summoned  the  maid,  who  came,  but  came 

in  vain  ; 
"  The   Signer   did   not  hunt  to-day,"    she 

said, 
"  There  's  nothing  in  the  house  but  wine 

and  bread." 

Then  suddenly  the  drowsy  falcon  shook 
His  little  bells,  with  that  sagacious  look, 
Which  said,  as  plain  as  language  to  the 

ear, 
"  If  anything  is  wanting,  I  am  here  !  " 


Yes,  everything  is  wanting,  gallant  bird  ! 
The   master   seized  thee   without  further 

word. 
Like  thine  own  lure,  he  whirled  thee  round  ; 

ah  me  ! 

The  pomp  and  flutter  of  brave  falconry, 
The   bells,   the   jesses,  the   bright   scarlet 

hood, 
The  flight  and  the  pursuit  o'er  field  and 

wood, 

All  these  forevermore  are  ended  now  ; 
No  longer  victor,  but  the  victim  thou  ! 

Then  on  the  board  a  snow-white  cloth  he 

spread, 

Laid  on  its  wooden  dish  the  loaf  of  bread, 
Brought  purple   grapes  with  autumn  sun 
shine  hot, 

The  fragrant  peach,  the  juicy  bergamot  ; 
Then  in  the  midst  a  flask  of  wine  he  placed 
And  with   autumnal   flowers   the   banquet 

graced. 

Ser  Federigo,  would  not  these  suffice 
Without  thy  falcon  stuffed  with  cloves  and 
spice  ? 

When  all  was  ready,  and  the  courtly  dame 
With  her  companion  to  the  cottage  came, 
Upon  Ser  Federigo's  brain  there  fell 
The  wild  enchantment  of  a  magic  spell  ! 
The  room  they  entered,  mean  and  low  and 

small, 

Was  changed  into  a  sumptuous  banquet- 
hall, 

With  fanfares  by  aerial  trumpets  blown  ; 
The  rustic  chair  she  sat  on  was  a  throne  ; 
He  ate  celestial  food,  and  a  divine 
Flavor  was  given  to  his  country  wine, 
And  the  poor  falcon,  fragrant  with  his  spice, 
A  peacock  was,  or  bird  of  paradise  ! 

When  the  repast  was  ended,  they  arose 
And  passed  again  into  the  garden-close. 
Then  said  the  lady,  "  Far  too  well  I  know, 
Remembering  still  the  days  of  long  ago, 
Though  you  betray  it  not,  with  what  sur 
prise 

You  see  me  here  in  this  familiar  wise. 
You    have   no   children,  and    you   cannot 

guess 

What  anguish,  what  unspeakable  distress 
A  mother  feels,  whose  child  is  lying  ill, 
Nor  how  her  heart  anticipates  his  will. 
And  yet  for  this,  you  see  me  lay  aside 
All  womanly  reserve  and  check  of  pride, 


INTERLUDE 


213 


And  ask  the  thing  most  precious  in  your 

sight, 

Your  falcon,  your  sole  comfort  and  delight, 
Which  if  you  find  it  in  your  heart  to  give, 
My    poor,    unhappy    boy    perchance    may 

live." 

Ser  Federigo  listens,  and  replies, 
With  tears  of  love  and  pity  in  his  eyes  : 
"  Alas,  dear  lady  !  there  can  be  no  task 
So  sweet  to  me,  as  giving  when  you  ask. 
One  little  hour  ago,  if  I  had  known 
This  wish  of  yours,  it  would  have  been  my 

own. 

But  thinking  in  what  manner  I  could  best 
Do  honor  to  the  presence  of  my  guest, 
I  deemed  that  nothing  worthier  could  be 
Than  what  most  dear  and  precious  was  to 

me  ; 

And  so  my  gallant  falcon  breathed  his  last 
To  furnish  forth  this  morning  our  repast." 

In  mute  contrition,  mingled  with  dismay, 
The  gentle  lady  turned  her  eyes  away, 
Grieving    that   he    such    sacrifice    should 

make 

And  kill  his  falcon  for  a  woman's  sake, 
Yet  feeling  in  her  heart  a  woman's  pride, 
That  nothing  she  could  ask  for  was  denied  ; 
Then  took  her  leave,  and  passed  out  at  the 

gate 
With  footstep  slow  and  soul  disconsolate. 

Three  days  went  by,  and  lo  !   a  passing- 
bell 

Tolled  from  the  little  chapel  in  the  dell  ; 
Ten  strokes  Ser  Federigo  heard,  and  said, 
Breathing  a  prayer,  "  Alas  !   her  child  is 

dead  !  " 
Three  months  went  by  ;  and  lo  !  a  merrier 

chime 

Rang  from  the  chapel  bells  at  Christmas 
time  ; 

The  cottage  was  deserted,  and  no  more 
Ser  Federigo  sat  beside  its  door, 
But  now,  with  servitors  to  do  his  will, 
In  the  grand  villa,  half-way  up  the  hill, 
Sat  at  the  Christmas  feast,  and  at  his  side 
Monna  Giovanna,  his  beloved  bride, 
Never  so  beautiful,  so  kind,  so  fair, 
Enthroned   once   more    in    the   old   rustic 

chair, 
High-perched  upon  the  back  of  which  there 

stood 
The  image  of  a  falcon  carved  in  wood, 


And  underneath  the    inscription,   with  a 

date, 
"  All  things  come  round  to  him  who  will 

but  wait." 


INTERLUDE 

SOON  as  the  story  reached  its  end, 
One,  over  eager  to  commend, 
Crowned  it  with  injudicious  praise  ; 
And  then  the  voice  of  blame  found  vent, 
And  fanned  the  embers  of  dissent 
Into  a  somewhat  lively  blaze. 

The  Theologian  shook  his  head  ; 

"  These  old  Italian  tales,"  he  said, 

"  From  the  much-praised  Decameron  down 

Through  all  the  rabble  of  the  rest, 

Are  either  trifling,  dull,  or  lewd  ; 

The  gossip  of  a  neighborhood 

In  some  remote  provincial  town, 

A  scandalous  chronicle  at  best ! 

They  seem  to  me  a  stagnant  fen, 

Grown  rank  with  rushes  and  with  reeds, 

Where  a  white  lily,  now  and  then, 

Blooms  in  the  midst  of  noxious  weeds 

And  deadly  nightshade  on  its  banks  !  " 

To  this  the  Student  straight  replied, 

"  For  the  white  lily,  many  thanks  ! 

One  should  not  say,  with  too  much  pride, 

Fountain,  I  will  not  drink  of  thee  ! 

Nor  were  it  grateful  to  forget 

That  from  these  reservoirs  and  tanks 

Even  imperial  Shakespeare  drew 

His  Moor  of  Venice,  and  the  Jew, 

And  Romeo  and  Juliet, 

And  many  a  famous  comedy." 

Then  a  long  pause  ;  till  some  one  said, 

"  An  Angel  is  flying  overhead  !  " 

At  these  words  spake  the  Spanish  Jew, 

And  murmured  with  an  inward  breath  : 

"  God  grant,  if  what  you  say  be  true, 

It  may  not  be  the  Angel  of  Death  ! " 

And  then  another  pause  ;  and  then, 

Stroking  his  beard,  he  said  again  : 

"  This  brings  back  to  my  memory 

A  story  in  the  Talmud  told, 

That  book  of  gems,  that  book  of  gold, 

Of  wonders  many  and  manifold, 

A  tale  that  often  comes  to  me, 

And  fills  my  heart,  and  haunts  my  brain, 

And  never  wearies  nor  grows  old." 


2I4 


TALES   OF  A  WAYSIDE   INN 


THE   SPANISH   JEW'S   TALE 
THE  LEGEND  OF  RABBI  BEN   LEVI 

RABBI  BEN  LEVI,  on  the  Sabbath,  read 

A  volume  of  the  Law,  in  which  it  said, 

"  No  man  shall   look   upon   my  face   and 

live." 
And  as  he  read,  he  prayed  that  God  would 

give 

His  faithful  servant  grace  with  mortal  eye 
To  look  upon  His  face  and  yet  not  die. 

Then  fell  a  sudden  shadow  on  the  page, 
And,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  grown  dim  with 

age, 
He  saw  the  Angel  of  Death   before   him 

stand, 

Holding  a  naked  sword  in  his  right  hand. 
Rabbi  Ben  Levi  was  a  righteous  man, 
Yet  through  his  veins  a  chill  of  terror  ran. 
With  trembling  voice  he  said,  "  What  wilt 

thou  here  ?  " 
The  Angel  answered,  "  Lo  !  the  time  draws 

near 
When  thou  must  die  ;  yet  first,  by  God's 

decree, 
Whate'er  thou   askest    shall    be    granted 

thee." 

Replied  the  Rabbi,  "  Let  these  living  eyes 
First  look  upon  my  place  in  Paradise." 

Then  said  the  Angel,  "  Come  with  me  and 

look." 

Rabbi  Ben  Levi  closed  the  sacred  book, 
And  rising,  and  uplifting  his  gray  head, 
"Give  me  thy  sword,"  he  to  the  Angel 

said, 
"  Lest  thou  shouldst  fall  upon  me  by  the 

way." 

The  Angel  smiled  and  hastened  to  obey, 
Then  led  him  forth  to  the  Celestial  Town, 
And  set  him  on  the  wall,  whence,  gazing 

down, 

Rabbi  Ben  Levi,  with  his  living  eyes, 
Might  look  upon  his  place  in  Paradise. 

Then  straight  into  the  city  of  the  Lord 
The  Rabbi  leaped  with  the  Death- Angel's 

sword, 
And    through   the   streets   there   swept   a 

sudden  breath 
Of  something  there  unknown,  which  men 

call  death. 


Meanwhile  the  Angel  stayed  without,  and 

cried, 
"  Come   back  !  "     To   which   the   Rabbi's 

voice  replied, 

"  No  !  in  the  name  of  God,  whom  I  adore, 
I  swear  that  hence  I  will  depart  no 

more  !  " 

Then  all  the  Angels  cried,  "  O  Holy  One, 
See  what  the  son  of  Levi  here  hath  done  ! 
The  kingdom  of  Heaven  he  takes  by 

violence, 

And  in  Thy  name  refuses  to  go  hence  !  " 
The  Lord  replied,  "  My  Angels,  be  not 

wroth  ; 

Did  e'er  the  son  of  Levi  break  his  oath  ? 
Let  him  remain  ;  for  he  with  mortal  eye 
Shall  look  upon  my  face  and  yet  not  die." 

Beyond  the  outer  wall  the  Angel  of  Death 
Heard  the  great  voice,  and  said,  with  pant 
ing  breath, 
"  Give  back  the  sword,  and  let  me  go  my 

way." 
Whereat  the  Rabbi  paused,  and  answered, 

"  Nay  ! 

Anguish  enough  already  hath  it  caused 
Among  the  sons  of  men."     And  while  he 

paused 

He  heard  the  awful  mandate  of  the  Lord 
Resounding  through  the  air,  "  Give  back 
the  sword  ! " 

The  Rabbi  bowed  his  head  in  silent  prayer, 
Then    said     he    to    the    dreadful    Angel, 

"  Swear 

No  human  eye  shall  look  on  it  again  ; 
But  when  thou  takest  away  the  souls  of 

men, 

Thyself  unseen,  and  with  an  unseen  sword, 
Thou    wilt    perform   the    bidding   of    the 

Lord." 
The    Angel    took    the   sword    again,   and 

swore, 
And  walks  on  earth  unseen  forevermore. 


INTERLUDE 

HE  ended  :  and  a  kind  of  spell 

Upon  the  silent  listeners  fell. 

His  solemn  manner  and  his  words 

Had  touched  the  deep,  mysterious  chords 

That  vibrate  in  each  human  breast 

Alike,  but  not  alike  confessed. 


THE   SICILIAN'S   TALE 


215 


The  spiritual  world  seemed  near  ; 
And  close  above  them,  full  of  fear, 
Its  awful  adumbration  passed, 
A  luminous  shadow,  vague  and  vast. 
They  almost  feared  to  look,  lest  there, 
Embodied  from  the  impalpable  air, 
They  might  behold  the  Angel  stand, 
Holding  the  sword  in  his  right  hand. 

At  last,  but  in  a  voice  subdued, 

Not  to  disturb  their  dreamy  mood, 

Said  the  Sicilian  :  "  While  you  spoke, 

Telling  your  legend  marvellous, 

Suddenly  in  my  memory  woke 

The  thought  of  one,  now  gone  from  us, 

An  old  Abate,  meek  and  mild, 

My  friend  and  teacher,  when  a  child, 

Who  sometimes  in  those  days  of  old 

The  legend  of  an  Angel  told, 

Which  ran,  as  I  remember  thus." 


THE   SICILIAN'S  TALE 
KING    ROBERT   OF    SICILY 

ROBERT  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Urbane 
And  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Apparelled  in  magnificent  attire, 
With  retinue  of  many  a  knight  and  squire, 
On    St.   John's    eve,   at   vespers,    proudly 

sat 

And  heard  the  priests  chant  the  Magnifi 
cat. 

And  as  he  listened,  o'er  and  o'er  again 
Repeated,  like  a  burden  or  refrain, 
He  caught  the  words,  "  Deposuit  potentes 
De  sede,  et  exaltavit  humiles  •  " 
And  slowly  lifting  up  his  kingly  head 
He  to  a  learned  clerk  beside  him  said, 
"  What  mean  these  words  ?  "     The  clerk 

made  answer  meet, 
"  He  has  put  down  the  mighty  from  their 

seat, 

And  has  exalted  them  of  low  degree." 
Thereat  King  Robert  muttered  scornfully, 
"  'T  is  well  that  such  seditious  words  are 

sung 

Only  by  priests  and  in  the  Latin  tongue  ; 
For  unto  priests  and  people  be  it  known, 
There  is  no  power  can  push  me  from  my 

throne  !  " 
And    leaning   back,    he   yawned  and   fell 

asleep, 
Lulled  by  the  chant  monotonous  and  deep. 


When  he  awoke,  it  was  already  night ; 
The  church  was  empty,  and  there  was  no 

light, 
Save  where  the  lamps,  that  glimmered  few 

and  faint, 

Lighted  a  little  space  before  some  saint. 
He  started  from  his  seat  and  gazed  around, 
But  saw   no   living    thing   and   heard   no 

sound. 
He  groped  towards  the   door,  but   it  was 

locked  ; 
He   cried   aloud,   and   listened,   and  then 

knocked, 

And  uttered  awful  threatenings  and  com 
plaints, 

And  imprecations  upon  men  and  saints. 
The   sounds  reechoed   from  the  roof    and 

walls 
As  if  dead  priests  were  laughing  in  their 

stalls. 

At  length  the  sexton,  hearing  from   with 
out 

The  tumult  of  the  knocking  and  the  shout, 
And  thinking  thieves  were  in  the  house  of 

prayer, 
Came   with   his  lantern,  asking,  "Who  is 

there?" 
Half  choked  with  rage,  King  Robert  fiercely 

said, 
"  Open :   't   is    I,    the   King  !    Art    thou 

afraid  ?  " 
The  frightened  sexton,  muttering,  with  a 

curse, 
"  This     is    some    drunken    vagabond,   or 

worse  !  " 
Turned  the  great  key  and  flung  the  portal 

wide  ; 

A  man  rushed  by  him  at  a  single  stride, 
Haggard,  half  naked,  without  hat  or  cloak, 
Who  neither  turned,  nor  looked  at  him,  nor 

spoke, 

But  leaped  into  the  blackness  of  the  night, 
And    vanished    like    a    spectre    from    his 

sight. 

Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Urbane 
And  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Despoiled  of  his  magnificent  attire, 
Bareheaded,  breathless,  and  besprent  with 

mire, 

With  sense  of  wrong  and  outrage  desper 
ate, 
Strode   on   and  thundered  at   the   palace 


2l6 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


Rushed  through  the  courtyard,  thrusting 
in  his  rage 

To  right  and  left  each  seneschal  and  page, 

And  hurried  up  the  broad  and  sounding 
stair, 

His  white  face  ghastly  in  the  torches' 
glare. 

From  hall  to  hall  he  passed  with  breathless 
speed  ; 

Voices  and  cries  he  heard,  but  did  not 
heed, 

Until  at  last  he  reached  the  banquet-room, 

Blazing  with  light,  and  breathing  with  per 
fume. 

There  on  the  dais  sat  another  king, 
Wearing  his   robes,  his  crown,  his  signet- 
ring, 
King  Robert's  self  in  features,  form,  and 

height, 

But  all  transfigured  with  angelic  light  ! 
It  was  an  Angel  ;  and  his  presence  there 
With  a  divine  effulgence  filled  the  air, 
An  exaltation,  piercing  the  disguise, 
Though  none  the  hidden  Angel  recognize. 

A  moment  speechless,  motionless,  amazed, 
The    throneless    monarch   on    the     Angel 

gazed, 

Who  met  his  look  of  anger  and  surprise 
With  the  divine  compassion  of  his  eyes  ; 
Then  said,  "  Who  art  thou  ?  and  why 

com'st  thou  here  ?  " 
To   which   King   Robert  answered  with  a 

sneer, 

"  I  am  the  King,  and  come  to  claim  my  own 
From     an     impostor,     who     usurps      my 

throne  !  " 

And  suddenly,  at  these  audacious  words, 
Up  sprang  the  angry  guests,  and  drew  their 

swords  ; 

The  Angel  answered,  with  unruffled  brow, 
"  Nay,  not  the  King,  but  the  King's  Jester, 

thou 

Henceforth  shalt  wear  the  bells  and  scal 
loped  cape, 

And  for  thy  counsellor  shalt  lead  an  ape  ; 
Thou   shalt  obey  my   servants  when   they 

call, 
And  wait  upon  my  henchmen  in  the  hall  !  " 

Deaf  to  King  Robert's  threats  and  cries  and 

prayers, 
They  thrust  him  from  the  hall  and  down 

the  stairs  ; 


A  group  of  tittering  pages  ran  before, 
And  as  they  opened  wide  the  folding-door, 
His  heart  failed,  for  he  heard,  with  strange 

alarms, 

The  boisterous  laughter  of  the  men-at-arms, 
And  all  the  vaulted  chamber  roar  and  ring 
With  the  mock  plaudits  of  "  Long-  live  the 

King!" 

Next  morning,  waking  with  the  day's  first 

beam, 

He  said  within  himself,  "  It  was  a  dream  ! " 
But  the  straw  rustled  as  he  turned  his 

head, 

There  were  the  cap  and  bells  beside  his  bed, 
Around  him  rose  the  bare,  discolored  walls, 
Close  by,  the  steeds  were  champing  in  their 

stalls, 

And  in  the  corner,  a  revolting  shape, 
Shivering  and  chattering  sat  the  wretched 

ape. 
It  was  no  dream  ;  the  world  he  loved  so 

much 
Had  turned  to  dust  and  ashes  at  his  touch  ! 

Days  came  and  went  ;  and  now  returned 

again 

To  Sicily  the  old  Saturnian  reign  ; 
Under  the  Angel's  governance  benign 
The   happy  island  danced   with  corn   and 

wine, 
And  deep  within   the  mountain's  burning 

breast 
Enceladus,  the  giant,  was  at  rest. 

Meanwhile  King  Robert  yielded  to  his  fate, 
Sullen  and  silent  and  disconsolate. 
Dressed    in   the  motley  garb  that  Jesters 

wear, 

With  look  bewildered  and  a  vacant  stare, 
Close  shaven  above  the  ears,  as  monks  are 

shorn, 
By  courtiers  mocked,  by  pages  laughed  to 

scorn, 

His  only  friend  the  ape,  his  only  food 
What  others   left,  —  he   still   was   unsub 
dued. 

And  when  the  Angel  met  him  on  his  way, 
And  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest,  would  say, 
Sternly,   though   tenderly,   that  he   might 

feel 

The  velvet  scabbard  held  a  sword  of  steel, 
'  Art  thou  the  King  ?  "  the  passion  of  his 

woe 
Burst  from  him  in  resistless  overflow, 


THE   SICILIAN'S   TALE 


217 


And,  lifting  high  his  forehead,  he  would 

fling 
The  haughty  answer  back,  "  I  am,  I  am  the 

King  !  " 

Almost  three    years    were    ended ;  when 

there  came 

Ambassadors  of  great  repute  and  name 
From  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Unto  King  Robert,  saying  that  Pope  Ur 
bane 

By  letter  summoned  them  forthwith  to  come 
On  Holy  Thursday  to  his  city  of  Rome. 
The   Angel   with*  great  joy    received   his 

guests, 
And  gave  them  presents  of   embroidered 

vests, 

And  velvet  mantles  with  rich  ermine  lined, 
And  rings  and  jewels  of  the  rarest  kind. 
Then  he  departed  with  them  o'er  the  sea 
Into  the  lovely  land  of  Italy, 
Whose    loveliness    was   more   resplendent 

made 

By  the  mere  passing  of  that  cavalcade, 
With  plumes,  and  cloaks,  and  housings,  and 

the  stir 

Of  jewelled  bridle  and  of  golden  spur. 
And  lo  !  among  the  menials,  in  mock  state, 
Upon  a  piebald  steed,  with  shambling  gait, 
His  cloak  of  fox-tails  flapping  in  the  wind, 
The  solemn  ape  demurely  perched  behind, 
King  Robert  rode,  making  huge  merriment 
In  all   the  country    towns   through   which 

they  went. 

The  Pope  received  them  with  great  pomp 

and  blare 
Of  bannered  trumpets,   on   Saint   Peter's 

square, 

Giving  his  benediction  and  embrace, 
Fervent,  and  full  of  apostolic  grace. 
While  with  congratulations  and  with 

prayers 

He  entertained  the  Angel  unawares, 
Robert,  the  Jester,  bursting  through  the 

crowd, 

Into  their  presence  rushed,  and  cried  aloud, 
"  I  am  the  King  !     Look,  and  behold  in 

me 

Robert,  your  brother,  King  of  Sicily  ! 
This  man,  who  wears  my  semblance  to  your 

eyes, 

Is  an  impostor  in  a  king's  disguise. 
Do  you  not  know  me  ?  does  no  voice  within 
Answer  my  cry,  and  say  we  are  akin  ?  " 


The    Pope   in   silence,  but    with   troubled 

mien, 

Gazed  at  the  Angel's  countenance  serene  ; 
The  Emperor,  laughing,  said,  "  It  is  strange 

sport 

To  keep  a  madman  for  thy  Fool  at  court ! " 
And  the  poor,  baffled  Jester  in  disgrace 
Was  hustled  back  among  the  populace. 

In  solemn  state  the  Holy  Week  went  by, 
And  Easter  Sunday  gleamed  upon  the  sky  ; 
The  presence  of  the  Angel,  with  its  light, 
Before  the  sun  rose,  made  the  city  bright, 
And  with  new  fervor  tilled  the  hearts  of 

men, 
Who   felt   that   Christ    indeed    had   risen 

again. 

Even  the  Jester,  on  his  bed  of  straw, 
With  haggard  eyes  the  unwonted  splendor 

saw, 

He  felt  within  a  power  unfelt  before, 
And,  kneeling  humbly  on  his  chamber  floor, 
He  heard  the  rushing  garments  of  the  Lord 
Sweep   through   the   silent  air,   ascending 

heavenward. 

And  now  the  visit  ending,  and  once  more 
Valmond  returning  to  the  Danube's  shore, 
Homeward  the  Angel  journeyed,  and  again 
The  land   was  made  resplendent  with  his 

train, 

Flashing  along  the  towns  of  Italy 
Unto  Salerno,  and  from  thence  by  sea. 
And    when    once   more   within   Palermo's 

wall, 

And,  seated  on  the  throne  in  his  great  hall, 
He     heard     the    Angelus    from    convent 

towers, 

As  if  the  better  world  conversed  with  ours, 
He    beckoned   to   King    Robert    to   draw 

nigher, 

And  with  a  gesture  bade  the  rest  retire  ; 
And  when  they  were  alone,  the  Angel  said, 
"Art    thou   the    King?"      Then,  bowing 

down  his  head, 
King  Robert  crossed  both  hands  upon  his 

breast, 
And  meekly  answered  him  :  "  Thou  know- 

est  best  ! 

My  sins  as  scarlet  are  ;  let  me  go  hence, 
And  in  some  cloister's  school  of  penitence, 
Across  those  stones,  that  pave  the  way  to 

heaven, 
Walk    barefoot,    till   my    guilty    soul   be 

shriven  !  " 


218 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


The  Angel  smiled,   and   from  his  radiant 

face 

A  holy  light  illumined  all  the  place, 
And  through  the  open  window,  loud  and 

clear, 
They  heard  the  monks  chant  in  the  chapel 

near, 

Above  the  stir  and  tumult  of  the  street  : 
"  He  has  put  down  the  mighty  from  their 

seat, 

And  has  exalted  them  of  low  degree  !  " 
And  through  the  chant  a  second  melody 
Rose  like  the  throbbing  of  a  single  string  : 
"  I  am  an  Angel,  and  thou  art  the  King !  " 

King  Robert,  who  was  standing  near  the 

throne, 

Lifted  his  eyes,  and  lo  !  he  was  alone  ! 
But  all  apparelled  as  in  days  of  old, 
With  ermined   mantle   and   with  cloth  of 

gold  ; 
And  when  his  courtiers  came,  they  found 

him  there 
Kneeling  upon  the  floor,  absorbed  in  silent 

prayer. 

INTERLUDE 

AND  then  the  blue-eyed  Norseman  told 
A  Saga  of  the  days  of  old. 
"  There  is,"  said  he,  "  a  wondrous  book 
Of  Legends  in  the  old  Norse  tongue, 
Of  the  dead  kings  of  Norroway,  — 
Legends  that  once  were  told  or  sung 
In  many  a  smoky  fireside  nook 
Of  Iceland,  in  the  ancient  day, 
By  wandering  Saga-man  or  Scald  ; 
*  Heimskringla '  is  the  volume  called  ; 
And  he  who  looks  may  find  therein 
The  story  that  I  now  begin." 

And  in  each  pause  the  story  made 

Upon  his  violin  he  played, 

As  an  appropriate  interlude, 

Fragments  of  old  Norwegian  tunes 

That  bound  in  one  the  separate  runes, 

And  held  the  mind  in  perfect  mood, 

Entwining  and  encircling  all 

The  strange  and  antiquated  rhymes 

With  melodies  of  olden  times  ; 

As  over  some  half-ruined  wall, 

Disjointed  and  about  to  fall, 

Fresh  woodbines  climb  and  interlace, 

And  keep  the  loosened  stones  in  place. 


THE    MUSICIAN'S  TALE 
THE  SAGA   OF  KING   OLAF 

I 
THE   CHALLENGE  OF  THOR 

I  AM  the  God  Thor, 
I  am  the  War  God, 
I  am  the  Thunderer  ! 
Here  in  my  Northland, 
My  fastness  and  fortress, 
Reign  I  forever  ! 

Here  amid  icebergs 
Rule  I  the  nations  ; 
This  is  my  hammer, 
Miolner  the  mighty  ; 
Giants  and  sorcerers 
Cannot  withstand  it ! 

These  are  the  gauntlets 
Wherewith  I  wield  it, 
And  hurl  it  afar  off  ; 
This  is  my  girdle  ; 
Whenever  I  brace  it, 
Strength  is  redoubled ! 

The  light  thou  beholdest 
Stream  through  the  heavens, 
In  flashes  of  crimson, 
Is  but  my  red  beard 
Blown  by  the  night-wind, 
Affrighting  the  nations  ! 

Jove  is  my  brother  ; 
Mine  eyes  are  the  lightning  ; 
The  wheels  of  my  chariot 
Roll  in  the  thunder, 
The  blows  of  my  hammer 
Ring  in  the  earthquake  ! 

Force  rules  the  world  still, 
Has  ruled  it,  shall  rule  it ; 
Meekness  is  weakness, 
Strength  is  triumphant, 
Over  the  whole  earth 
Still  is  it  Thor's-Day  ! 

Thou  art  a  God  too, 

O  Galilean  ! 

And  thus  single-handed 


THE   MUSICIAN'S   TALE 


219 


Unto  the  combat, 
Gauntlet  or  Gospel, 
Here  I  defy  thee  I 

II 
KING  OLAF'S  RETURN 

And  King  Olaf  heard  the  cry, 
Saw  the  red  light  in  the  sky, 

Laid  his  hand  upon  his  sword, 
As  he  leaned  upon  the  railing, 
And  his  ships  went  sailing,  sailing 

Northward  into  Droutheim  fiord. 

There  he  stood  as  one  who  dreamed  ; 
And  the  red  light  glanced  and  gleamed 

On  the  armor  that  he  wore  ; 
And  he  shouted,  as  the  rifted 
Streamers  o'er  him  shook  and  shifted, 

"  I  accept  thy  challenge,  Thor  !  " 

To  avenge  his  father  slain, 
And  reconquer  realm  and  reign, 

Came  the  youthful  Olaf  home, 
Through  the  midnight  sailing,  sailing, 
Listening  to  the  wild  wind's  wailing, 

And  the  dashing  of  the  foam. 

To  his  thoughts  the  sacred  name 
Of  his  mother  Astrid  came, 

And  the  tale  she  oft  had  told 
Of  her  flight  by  secret  passes 
Through  the  mountains  and  morasses, 

To  the  home  of  Hakon  old. 

Then  strange  memories  crowded  back 
Of  Queen  Gunhild's  wrath  and  wrack, 

And  a  hurried  flight  by  sea  ; 
Of  grim  Vikings,  and  the  rapture 
Of  the  sea-fight,  and  the  capture, 

And  the  life  of  slavery. 

How  a  stranger  watched  his  face 
In  the  Esthonian  market-place, 

Scanned  his  features  one  by  one, 
Saying,  "  We  should  know  each  other  ; 
I  am  Sigurd,  Astrid's  brother, 

Thou  art  Olaf,  Astrid's  son  !  " 

Then  as  Queen  Allogia's  page, 
Old  in  honors,  young  in  age, 
Chief  of  all  her  men-at-arms  ; 


Till  vague  whispers,  and  mysterious, 
Reached  King  Valdemar,  the  imperious, 
Filling  him  with  strange  alarms. 

Then  his  cruisings  o'er  the  seas, 
Westward  to  the  Hebrides 

And  to  Scilly's  rocky  shore  ; 
And  the  hermit's  cavern  dismal, 
Christ's  great  name  and  rites  baptismal 

In  the  ocean's  rush  and  roar. 

All  these  thoughts  of  love  and  strife 
Glimmered  through  his  lurid  life, 

As  the  stars'  intenser  light 
Through    the   red   flames   o'er   him   trail 
ing, 
As  his  ships  went  sailing,  sailing 

Northward  in  the  summer  night. 

Trained  for  either  camp  or  court, 
Skilful  in  each  manly  sport, 

Young  and  beautiful  and  tall  ; 
Art  of  warfare,  craft  of  chases, 
Swimming,  skating,  snow-shoe  races, 

Excellent  alike  in  all. 

When  at  sea,  with  all  his  rowers, 
He  along  the  bending  oars 

Outside  of  his  ship  could  run. 
He  the  Smalsor  Horn  ascended, 
And  his  shining  shield  suspended 

On  its  summit,  like  a  sun. 

On  the  ship-rails  he  could  stand, 
Wield  his  sword  with  either  hand, 

And  at  once  two  javelins  throw  ; 
At  all  feasts  where  ale  was  strongest 
Sat  the  merry  monarch  longest-, 

First  to  come  and  last  to  go. 

Norway  never  yet  had  seen 
One  so  beautiful  of  mien, 

One  so  royal  in  attire, 
When  in  arms  completely  furnished^ 
Harness  gold-inlaid  and  burnished, 

Mantle  like  a  flame  of  fire. 

Thus  came  Olaf  to  his  own, 
When  upon  the  night-wind  blown 

Passed  that  cry  along  the  shore  ; 
And  he  answered,  while  the  rifted 
Streamers  o'er  him  shook  and  shifted, 

"  I  accept  thy  challenge,  Thor  !  " 


220 


TALES   OF   A  WAYSIDE   INN 


III 


THORA  OF  RIMOL 

"  Thora  of  Rimol  !  hide  me  !  hide  me  ! 

Danger  and  shame  and  death  betide  me  ! 

For  Olaf  the  King  is  hunting  me  down 

Through   field   and  forest,   through  thorp 

and  town  !  " 
Thus  cried  Jarl  Hakon 
To  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

"  Hakon  Jarl  !  for  the  love  I  bear  thee 
Neither  shall  shame  nor  death  come  near 

thee  ! 
But   the   hiding-place  wherein   thou   must 

lie 
Is  the  cave  underneath  the   swine  in  the 

sty." 

Thus  to  Jarl  Hakon 
Said  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

So  Hakon  Jarl  and  his  base  thrall  Karker 
Crouched    in   the   cave,   than    a   dungeon 

darker, 

As  Olaf  came  riding,  with  men  in  mail, 
Through  the  forest  roads  into  Orkadale, 
Demanding  Jarl  Hakon 
Of  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

"  Rich  and  honored  shall  be  whoever 
The  head  of  Hakon  Jarl  shall  dissever  !  " 
Hakon  heard  him,  and  Karker  the  slave, 
Through  the  breathing-holes  of  the  dark 
some  cave. 

Alone  in  her  chamber 

Wept  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

Said  Karker,  the  crafty,  "  I  will  not  slay 

thee  ! 
For  all  the  king's  gold  I  will  never  betray 

thee  ! " 
"  Then   why  dost    thou   turn  so  pale,   O 

churl, 
And  then  again  black  as  the  earth  ?  "  said 

the  Earl. 

More  pale  and  more  faithful 
Was  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

From   a    dream   in  the    night   the   thrall 

started,  saying, 
"  Round  my  neck  a  gold  ring  King  Olaf 

was  laying  !  " 


And    Hakon  answered,   "  Beware  of  the 

king  ! 
He   will   lay  round  thy  neck  a  blood-red 

ring." 

At  the  ring  on  her  finger 
Gazed  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

At  daybreak   slept   Hakon,  with  sorrows 

encumbered, 
But  screamed  and  drew  up  his  feet  as  he 

slumbered  ; 
The  thrall  in  the  darkness  plunged  with  his 

knife, 
And   the  Earl  awakened   no  more  in  this 

life. 

But  wakeful  and  weeping 
Sat  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

At  Nidarholm  the  priests  are  all  singing, 
Two  ghastly  heads  on  the  gibbet  are  swing 
ing  ; 

One  is  Jarl  Hakon 's  and  one  is  his  thrall's, 
And  the  people  are  shouting  from  windows 

and  walls  ; 

While  alone  in  her  chamber 
Swoons  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 


IV 


QUEEN   SIGRID   THE   HAUGHTY 

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty  sat  proud  and 

aloft 
In  her  chamber,  that  looked  over  meadow 

and  croft. 
Heart's  dearest, 
Why  dost  thou  sorrow  so  ? 

The  floor  with  tassels  of  fir  was  besprent, 
Filling  the  room  with  their  fragrant  scent. 

She  heard  the  birds  sing,  she  saw  the  sun 

shine, 
The  air  of  summer  was  sweeter  than  wine. 

Like  a  sword  without  scabbard  the  bright 

river  lay 
Between  her  own  kingdom  and  Norroway. 

But  Olaf  the  King  had  sued  for  her  hand, 
The   sword   would  be   sheathed,  the  river 
be  spanned. 


THE   MUSICIAN'S   TALE 


221 


Her  maidens  were  seated  around  her  knee, 
Working  bright  figures  in  tapestry. 

And  one  was  singing  the  ancient  rune 
Of   Brynhilda's    love   and  the    wrath    of 
Gudrun. 

And  through  it,  and  round  it,  and  over  it 

all 
Sounded  incessant  the  waterfall. 

The  Queen  in  her  hand   held  a   ring  of 

gold, 
From  the  door  of  Lade"s  Temple  old. 

King  Olaf  had  sent  her  this  wedding  gift, 
But  her  thoughts  as  arrows  were  keen  and 
swift. 

She  had  given  the  ring  to  her  goldsmiths 

twain, 
Who  smiled,  as  they  handed  it  back  again. 

And    Sigrid   the   Queen,   in   her   haughty 

way, 
Said,  "  Why  do  you  smile,  my  goldsmiths, 

say?" 

And   they   answered  :  "  0    Queen  !   if  the 

truth  must  be  told, 
The  ring  is  of  copper,  and  not  of  gold  !  " 

The  lightning  flashed  o'er  her  forehead  and 

cheek, 
She  only  murmured,  she  did  not  speak  : 

"  If  in  his  gifts  he  can  faithless  be, 
There  will  be  no  gold  in  his  love  to  me." 

A  footstep  was  heard  on  the  outer  stair, 
And  in  strode  King  Olaf  with  royal  air. 

He  kissed  the  Queen's  hand,  and  he  whis 
pered  of  love, 
And  swore  to  be  true  as  the  stars  are  above 

But  she  smiled  with  contempt  as  she  an 
swered  :  "  O  King, 

Will  you  swear  it,  as  Odin  once  swore,  or 
the  ring  ?  " 

And  the  King  :  "  Oh  speak  not  of  Odin  tc 

me, 
The  wife  of  King  Olaf  a  Christian  mus 

be." 


coking   straight   at   the   King,  with   her 

level  brows, 

She  said,  "  I  keep  true  to  my  faith  and  my 
vows." 

Then  the  face  of  King  Olaf  was  darkened 

with  gloom, 
le  rose    in  his  auger  and  strode  through 

the  room. 

Why,  then,  should  I  care  to  have  thee  ?  M 

he  said, — 
A  faded  old  woman,  a  heathenish  jade  !  " 

3is  zeal  was  stronger  than  fear  or  love, 
And  he  struck  the  Queen  in  the  face  with 
his  glove. 

Then  forth  from  the  chamber  in  anger  he 

fled, 
And  the  wooden  stairway   shook  with  his 

tread. 

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty  said  under  her 

breath, 
This    insult,   King   Olaf,    shall    be    thy 

death  !  " 
Heart's  dearest, 
Why  dost  thou  sorrow  so  ? 


THE   SKERRY   OF    SHRIEKS 

Now  from  all  King  Olaf 's  farms 

His  men-at-arms 
Gathered  on  the  Eve  of  Easter  ; 
To  his  house  at  Angvalds-ness 

Fast  they  press, 
Drinking  with  the  royal  feaster. 

Loudly  through  the  wide-flung  door 

Came  the  roar 

Of  the  sea  upon  the  Skerry  ; 
And  its  thunder  loud  and  near 

Reached  the  ear, 
Mingling  with  their  voices  merry. 

"  Hark  !  "  said  Olaf  to  his  Scald, 

Halfred  the  Bald, 
"  Listen  to  that  song,  and  learn  it ! 
Half  my  kingdom  would  I  give, 

As  I  live, 
If  by  such  songs  you  would  earn  it ! 


222 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


"For  of  all  the  runes  and  rhymes 

Of  all  times, 

Best  I  like  the  ocean's  dirges, 
When  the  old  harper  heaves  and  rocks, 

His  hoary  locks 
Flowing  and  flashing  in  the  surges  !  " 

Halfred  answered  :   "  I  am  called 

The  Unappalled  ! 
Nothing  hinders  me  or  daunts  me. 
Hearken  to  me,  then,  O  King, 

While  I  sing 
The  great  Ocean  Song  that  haunts  me." 

"  I  will  hear  your  song  sublime 

Some  other  time," 
Says  the  drowsy  monarch,  yawning, 
And  retires  ;  each  laughing  guest 

Applauds  the  jest  ; 
Then  they  sleep  till  day  is  dawning. 

Pacing  up  and  down  the  yard, 

King  Olaf's  guard 
Saw  the  sea-mist  slowly  creeping 
O'er  the  sands,  and  up  the  hill, 

Gathering  still 
Round  the  house  where  they  were  sleeping. 

It  was  not  the  fog  he  saw, 

Nor  misty  flaw, 

That  above  the  landscape  brooded  ; 
It  was  Eyvind  Kallda's  crew 

Of  warlocks  blue 
With  their  caps  of  darkness  hooded  ! 

Round  and  round  the  house  they  go, 

Weaving  slow 
Magic  circles  to  encumber 
And  imprison  in  their  ring 

Olaf  the  King, 
As  he  helpless  lies  in  slumber. 

Then  athwart  the  vapors  dun 

The  Easter  sun 

Streamed  with  one  broad  track  of  splendor  ! 
In  their  real  forms  appeared 

The  warlocks  weird, 
Awful  as  the  Witch  of  Endor. 

Blinded  by  the  light  that  glared, 

They  groped  and  stared, 
Round  about  with  steps  unsteady  ; 
From  his  window  Olaf  gazed, 

And,  amazed, 
"  Who  are  these  strange  people  ?  "  said  he, 


"  Eyvind  Kallda  and  his  men  !  " 

Answered  then 

From  the  yard  a  sturdy  farmer  ; 
While  the  men-at-arms  apace 

Filled  the  place, 
Busily  buckling  on  their  armor. 

From  the  gates  they  sallied  forth, 

South  and  north, 

Scoured  the  island  coast  around  them, 
Seizing  all  the  warlock  band, 

Foot  and  hand 
On  the  Skerry's  rocks  they  bound  them. 

And  at  eve  the  king  again 

Called  his  train, 

And,  with  all  the  candles  burning, 
Silent  sat  and  heard  once  more 

The  sullen  roar 
Of  the  ocean  tides  returning. 

Shrieks  and  cries  of  wild  despair 

Filled  the  air, 

Growing  fainter  as  they  listened  ; 
Then  the  bursting  surge  alone 

Sounded  on  ;  — 
Thus  the  sorcerers  were  christened  ! 

"Sing,  O  Scald,  your  song  sublime, 

Your  ocean-rhyme," 
Cried  King  Olaf  :  "  it  will  cheer  me  !  " 
Said  the  Scald,  with  pallid  cheeks, 

"  The  Skerry  of  Shrieks 
Sings  too  loud  for  you  to  hear  me  1 " 


VI 


THE   WRAITH   OF   ODIN 

The  guests  were  loud,  the  ale  was  strong, 
King  Olaf  feasted  late  and  long  ; 
The  hoary  Scalds  together  sang  ; 
O'erhead  the  smoky  rafters  rang. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  door  swung  wide,  with  creak  and  din  ; 
A  blast  of  cold  night-air  came  in, 
And  on  the  threshold  shivering  stood 
A  one-eyed  guest,  with  cloak  and  hood. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  King  exclaimed,  "  O  graybeard  pale  ! 
Come  warm  thee  with  this  cup  of  ale." 


THE   MUSICIAN'S   TALE 


223 


The  foaming  draught  the  old  man  quaffed, 
The  noisy  guests  looked  on  and  laughed. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morteii  of  Fogelsang. 

Then  spake  the  King :  "  Be  not  afraid  : 
Sit  here  by  me."     The  guest  obeyed, 
And,  seated  at  the  table,  told 
Tales  of  the  sea,  and  Sagas  old. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

And  ever,  when  the  tale  was  o'er, 
The  King  demanded  yet  one  more  ; 
Till  Sigurd  the  Bishop  smiling  said, 
"  'T  is  late,  O  King,  and  time  for  bed." 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  King  retired  ;  the  stranger  guest 
Followed  and  entered  with  the  rest  ; 
The  lights  were  out,  the  pages  gone, 
But  still  the  garrulous  guest  spake  on. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

As  one  who  from  a  volume  reads, 
He  spake  of  heroes  and  their  deeds, 
Of  lands  and  cities  he  had  seen, 
And  stormy  gulfs  that  tossed  between. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Then  from  his  lips  in  music  rolled 
The  Havamal  of  Odin  old, 
With  sounds  mysterious  as  the  roar 
Of  billows  on  a  distant  shore. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

"  Do  we  not  learn  from  runes  and  rhymes 
Made  by  the  gods  in  elder  times, 
And  do  not  still  the  great  Scalds  teach 
That  silence  better  is  than  speech  ?  " 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Smiling  at  this,  the  King  replied, 
"  Thy  lore  is  by  thy  tongue  belied  ; 
For  never  was  I  so  enthralled 
Either  by  Saga- man  or  Scald." 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  Bishop  said,  "  Late  hours  we  keep  ! 
Night    wanes,    O    King !    't  is    time    for 

sleep  !  " 

Then  slept  the  King,  and  when  he  woke 
The  guest  was  gone,  the  morning  broke. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

They  found  the  doors  securely  barred, 
They  found  the  watch-dog  iii  the  yard, 


There  was  no  footprint  in  the  grass, 
And  none  had  seen  the  stranger  pass. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morteii  of  Fogelsang. 

King  Olaf  crossed  himself  and  said  : 

I  know  that  Odin  the  Great  is  dead  ; 
Sure  is  the  triumph  of  our  Faith, 
The  one-eyed  stranger  was  his  wraith." 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsangt 


VII 

IRON-BEARD 

Olaf  the  King,  one  summer  morn, 
Blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle-horn, 
Sending   his   signal   through    the    land   of 
Drontheim. 

And  to  the  Hus-Ting  held  at  Mere 
Gathered  the  farmers  far  and  near, 
With  their  war  weapons  ready  to  confront 
him. 

Ploughing  under  the  morning  star, 
Old  Iron-Beard  in  Yriar 
Heard  the  summons,  chuckling  with  a  low 
laugh. 

He  wiped  the  sweat-drops  from  his  brow, 
Unharnessed  his  horses  from  the  plough, 
And  clattering  came  on  horseback  to  King 
Olaf. 

He  was  the  churliest  of  the  churls  ; 
Little  he  cared  for  king  or  earls  ; 
Bitter  as  home-brewed  ale  were  his  foam 
ing  passions. 

Hodden-gray  was  the  garb  he  wore, 
And  by  the  Hammer  of  Thor  he  swore  ; 
He    hated  the    narrow   town,    and   all   its 
fashions. 

But  he  loved  the  freedom  of  his  farm, 
His  ale  at  night,  by  the  fireside  warm, 
Gudrun    his    daughter,    with     her    flaxen 
tresses. 

He  loved  his  horses  and  his  herds, 

The  smell  of  the  earth,  and  the  song  of 

birds, 
His  well-filled  barns,   his   brook   with  its 

watercresses. 


224 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


Huge  and  cumbersome  was  his  frame  ; 
His  beard,  from  which  he  took  his  name, 
Frosty  and  fierce,  like  that  of  Hymer  the 
Giant. 

So  at  the  Hus-Ting  he  appeared, 
The  farmer  of  Yriar,  Iron-Beard, 
On  horseback,  in  an  attitude  defiant. 

And  to  King  Olaf  he  cried  aloud, 
Out  of  the  middle  of  the  crowd, 
That    tossed    about    him    like    a    stormy 


"  Such  sacrifices  shalt  thou  bring 
To  Odin  and  to  Thor,  O  King, 
As  other  kings  have  done  in  their  devotion  1 " 

King  Olaf  answered  :    "  I  command 
This  land  to  be  a  Christian  land  ; 
Here  is  my  Bishop  who  the  folk  baptizes  ! 

"  But  if  you  ask  me  to  restore 
Your  sacrifices,  stained  with  gore, 
Then  will  I  offer  human  sacrifices  ! 

"  Not  slaves  and  peasants  shall  they  be, 
But  men  of  note  and  high  degree, 
Such   men  as    Orm   of   Lyra  and  Kar   of 
Gryting  !  " 

Then  to  their  Temple  strode  he  in, 
And  loud  behind  him  heard  the  din 
Of  his  men-at-arms  and  the  peasants  fiercely 
fighting. 

There  in  the  Temple,  carved  in  wood, 
The  image  of  great  Odin  stood, 
And  other  gods,  with  Thor  supreme  among 
them. 

King  Olaf  smote  them  with  the  blade 
Of  his  huge  war-axe,  gold  inlaid, 
And  downward  shattered  to  the  pavement 
flung  them. 

At  the  same  moment  rose  without, 
From  the  contending  crowd,  a  shout, 
A  mingled  sound  of  triumph  and  of  wailing. 

And  there  upon  the  trampled  plain 
The  farmer  Iron-Beard  lay  slain, 
Midway    between    the    assailed    and   the 
assailing. 


King  Olaf  from  the  doorway  spoke  : 

"  Choose   ye    between    two    things,   my 

folk, 

To   be   baptized  or   given    up   to   slaugh 
ter  !  " 

And  seeing  their  leader  stark  and  dead, 
The  people  with  a  murmur  said, 
"  O  King,  baptize  us  with  thy  holy  water." 

So  all  the  Drontheim  land  became 
A  Christian  land  in  name  and  fame, 
In  the  old  gods    no   more    believing  and 
trusting. 

And  as  a  blood-atonement,  soon 
King  Olaf  wed  the  fair  Gudrun  ; 
And  thus  in  peace  ended  the  Drontheim 
Hus-Ting  ! 


VIII 

GUDRUN 

On  King  Olaf 's  bridal  night 
Shines  the  moon  with  tender  light, 
And  across  the  chamber  streams 
Its  tide  of  dreams. 

At  the  fatal  midnight  hour, 
When  all  evil  things  have  power, 
In  the  glimmer  of  the  moon 
Stands  Gudrun. 

Close  against  her  heaving  breast 
Something  in  her  hand  is  pressed  ; 
Like  an  icicle,  its  sheen 
Is  cold  and  keen. 

On  the  cairn  are  fixed  her  eyes 
Where  her  murdered  father  lies, 
And  a  voice  remote  and  drear 
She  seems  to  hear. 

What  a  bridal  night  is  this  ! 
Cold  will  be  the  dagger's  kiss  ; 
Laden  with  the  chill  of  death 
Is  its  breath. 

Like  the  drifting  snow  she  sweeps 
To  the  couch  where  Olaf  sleeps  ; 
Suddenly  he  wakes  and  stirs, 
His  eyes  meet  hers. 


THE   MUSICIAN'S   TALE 


225 


"  What  is  that,"  King  Olaf  said, 
"  Gleams  so  bright  above  my  head  ? 
Wherefore  standest  thou  so  white 
In  pale  moonlight  ?  " 

"  'T  is  the  bodkin  that  I  wear 
When  at  night  I  bind  my  hair  ; 
It  woke  me  falling  on  the  floor  ; 
'T  is  nothing  more." 

"  Forests  have  ears,  and  fields  have  eyes  ; 
Often  treachery  lurking  lies 
Underneath  the  fairest  hair  ! 
Gudrun  beware  !  " 

Ere  the  earliest  peep  of  morn 
Blew  King  Olaf 's  bugle-horn  ; 
And  forever  sundered  ride 
Bridegroom  and  bride  ! 


IX 


THANGBRAND   THE   PRIEST 

Short  of  stature,  large  of  limb, 
Burly  face  and  russet  beard, 
All  the  women  stared  at  him, 
When  in  Iceland  he  appeared. 
"Look  !  "  they  said, 
With  nodding  head, 
"  There  goes  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest." 

All  the  prayers  he  knew  by  rote, 

He  could  preach  like  Chrysostome, 
From  the  Fathers  he  could  quote, 
He  had  even  been  at  Rome. 
A  learned  clerk, 
A  man  of  mark, 
Was  this  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

He  was  quarrelsome  and  loud, 

And  impatient  of  control, 
Boisterous  in  the  market  crowd, 
Boisterous  at  the  wassail-bowl, 
Everywhere 

Would  drink  and  swear, 
Swaggering  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

In  his  house  this  malcontent 

Could  the  King  no  longer  bear, 
So  to  Iceland  he  was  sent 

To  convert  the  heathen  there, 
And  away 
One  summer  day 
Sailed  this  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 


There  in  Iceland,  o'er  their  books 
Pored  the  people  day  and  night, 
But  he  did  not  like  their  looks, 
Nor  the  songs  they  used  to  write. 
"  All  this  rhyme 
Is  waste  of  time  !  " 
Grumbled  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

To  the  alehouse,  where  he  sat, 

Came  the  Scalds  and  Saga-men  ; 
Is  it  to  be  wondered  at 

That  they  quarrelled  now  and  then, 
When  o'er  his  beer 
Began  to  leer 
Drunken  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest  ? 

All  the  folk  in  Altafiord 

Boasted  of  their  island  grand  ; 
Saying  in  a  single  word, 
"  Iceland  is  the  finest  land 
That  the  sun 
Doth  shine  upon  !  " 
Loud  laughed  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

And  he  answered  :  "  What 's  the  use 

Of  this  bragging  up  and  down, 
When  three  women  and  one  goose 
Make  a  market  in  your  town  ! " 
Every  Scald 
Satires  drawled 
On  poor  Thaugbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

Something  worse  they  did  than  that ; 

And  what  vexed  him  most  of  all 
Was  a  figure  in  shovel  hat, 

Drawn  in  charcoal  on  the  wall  ; 
With  words  that  go 
Sprawling  below, 
"  This  is  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. " 

Hardly  knowing  what  he  did, 

Then  he  smote  them  might  and  main, 
Thorvald  Veile  and  Veterlid 
Lay  there  in  the  alehouse  slain. 
"  To-day  we  are  gold, 
To-morrow  mould  !  " 
Muttered  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

Much  in  fear  of  axe  and  rope, 

Back  to  Norway  sailed  he  then. 
"  O  King  Olaf  !  little  hope 

Is  there  of  these  Iceland  men  !  " 
Meekly  said, 
With  bending  head, 
Pious  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 


226 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


x 


RAUD   THE   STRONG 

"  All  the  old  gods  are  dead, 

All  the  wild  warlocks  fled  ; 

But  the  White  Christ  lives  and  reigns, 

And  throughout  my  wide  domains 

His  Gospel  shall  be  spread  !  " 

On  the  Evangelists 

Thus  swore  King  Olaf. 

But  still  in  dreams  of  the  night 
Beheld  he  the  crimson  light, 
And  heard  the  voice  that  defied 
Him  who  was  crucified, 
And  challenged  him  to  the  fight. 

To  Sigurd  the  Bishop 

King  Olaf  confessed  it. 

And  Sigurd  the  Bishop  said, 
"  The  old  gods  are  not  dead, 
For  the  great  Thor  still  reigns, 
And  among  the  Jarls  and  Thanes 
The  old  witchcraft  still  is  spread." 

Thus  to  King  Olaf 

Said  Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

"  Far  north  in  the  Salten  Fiord, 

By  rapine,  fire,  and  sword, 

Lives  the  Viking,  Raud  the  Strong  ; 

All  the  Godoe  Isles  belong 

To  him  and  his  heathen  horde." 

Thus  went  on  speaking 

Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

"  A  warlock,  a  wizard  is  he, 

And  the  lord  of  the  wind  and  the  sea  ; 

And  whichever  way  he  sails, 

He  has  ever  favoring  gales, 

By  his  craft  in  sorcery." 

Here  the  sign  of  the  cross 
Made  devoutly  King  Olaf. 

"  With  rites  that  we  both  abhor, 
He  worships  Odin  and  Thor  ; 
So  it  cannot  yet  be  said, 
That  all  the  old  gods  are  dead, 
And  the  warlocks  are  no  more," 

Flushing  with  anger 

Said  Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

Then  King  Olaf  cried  aloud  : 

"  I  will  talk  with  this  mighty  Raud, 


And  along  the  Salten  Fiord 
Preach  the  Gospel  with  my  sword, 
Or  be  brought  back  in  my  shroud  ! " 

So  northward  from  l)routheim 

Sailed  King  Olaf ! 


XI 

BISHOP   SIGURD  OF  SALTEN  FIORD 

Loud  the  angry  wind  was  wailing 
As  King  Olaf's  ships  came  sailing 
Northward  out  of  Drontheim  haven 
To  the  mouth  of  Salten  Fiord. 

Though  the  flying  sea-spray  drenches 
Fore  and  aft  the  rowers'  benches, 
Not  a  single  heart  is  craven 

Of  the  champions  there  on  board. 

All  without  the  Fiord  was  quiet, 
But  within  it  storm  and  riot, 
Such  as  on  his  Viking  cruises 

Raud  the  Strong  was  wont  to  ride. 

And  the  sea  through  all  its  tide-ways 
Swept  the  reeling  vessels  sideways, 
As  the  leaves  are  swept  through  sluices, 
When  the  flood-gates  open  wide. 

"  'T  is  the  warlock  !  't  is  the  demon 
Raud  !  "  cried  Sigurd  to  the  seamen  ; 
"  But  the  Lord  is  not  affrighted 
By  the  witchcraft  of  his  foes." 

To  the  ship's  bow  he  ascended, 
By  his  choristers  attended, 
Round  him  were  the  tapers  lighted, 
And  the  sacred  incense  rose. 

On  the  bow  stood  Bishop  Sigurd, 
In  his  robes,  as  one  transfigured, 
And  the  Crucifix  he  planted 

High  amid  the  rain  and  mist. 

Then  with  holy  water  sprinkled 
All  the  ship  ;  the  mass-bells  tinkled  : 
Loud  the  monks  around  him  chanted, 
Loud  he  read  the  Evangelist. 

As  into  the  Fiord  they  darted, 
On  each  side  the  water  parted  ; 
Down  a  path  like  silver  molten 

Steadily  rowed  King  Olaf's  ships  ; 


THE   MUSICIAN'S   TALE 


227 


Steadily  burned  all  night  the  tapers, 
And  the  White  Christ  through  the  vapors 
Gleamed  across  the  Fiord  of  Salten, 
As  through  John's  Apocalypse,  — 

Till  at  last  they  reached  Raud's  dwelling 
On  the  little  isle  of  Gelling  ; 
Not  a  guard  was  at  the  doorway, 

Not  a  glimnrer  of  light  was  seen. 

But  at  anchor,  carved  and  gilded, 
Lay  the  dragon-ship  he  builded  ; 
'T  was  the  grandest  ship  in  Norway, 
With  its  crest  and  scales  of  green. 

Up  the  stairway,  softly  creeping, 
To  the  loft  where  Raud  was  sleeping, 
With  their  fists  they  burst  asunder 
Bolt  and  bar  that  held  the  door. 

Drunken  with   sleep  and   ale   they  found 

him, 

Dragged  him  from  his  bed  and  bound  him, 
While  he  stared  with  stupid  wonder 
At  the  look  and  garb  they  wore. 

Then  King  Olaf  said  :  "  O  Sea-King  ! 
Little  time  have  we  for  speaking, 
Choose  between  the  good  and  evil  ; 
Be  baptized  !  or  thou  shalt  die  !  " 

But  in  scorn  the  heathen  scoffer 
Answered  :   "I  disdain  thine  offer; 
Neither  fear  I  God  nor  Devil  ; 

Thee  and  thy  Gospel  I  defy  ! " 

Then  between  his  jaws  distended, 
When  his  frantic  struggles  ended, 
Through  King  Olaf's  horn  an  adder, 

Touched  by  fire,  they  forced  to  glide. 

Sharp  his  tooth  was  as  an  arrow, 

As  he  gnawed  through  bone  and  marrow  ; 

But  without  a  groan  or  shudder, 

Raud  the  Strong  blaspheming  died. 

Then  baptized  they  all  that  region, 
Swarthy  Lap  and  fair  Norwegian, 
Far  as  swims  the  salmon,  leaping, 
Up  the  streams  of  Salten  Fiord. 

In  their  temples  Thor  and  Odin 
Lay  in  dust  and  ashes  trodden, 


As  King  Olaf,  onward  sweeping, 

Preached  the  Gospel  with  his  sword. 

Then  he  took  the  carved  and  gilded 
Dragon-ship  that  Raud  had  builded, 
And  the  tiller  single-handed 

Grasping,  steered  into  the  main. 

Southward  sailed  the  sea-gulls  o'er  him, 
Southward  sailed  the  ship  that  bore  him, 
Till  at  Drontheim  haven  landed 
Olaf  and  his  crew  again. 


XII 
KING  OLAF'S  CHRISTMAS 

At  Drontheim,  Olaf  the  King 
Heard  the  bells  of  Yule-tide  ring, 

As  he  sat  in  his  banquet-hall, 
Drinking  the  nut-brown  ale, 
With  his  bearded  Berserks  hale 

And  tall. 

Three  days  his  Yule-tide  feasts 
He  held  with  Bishops  and  Priests, 

And  his  horn  filled  up  to  the  brim  ; 
But  the  ale  was  never  too  strong, 
Nor  the  Saga-man's  tale  too  long, 

For  him. 

O'er  his  drinking-horn,  the  sign 
He  made  of  the  cross  divine, 

As  he  drank,  and  muttered  his  prayers ; 
But  the  Berserks  evermore 
Made  the  sign  of  the  Hammer  of  Thoi 

Over  theirs. 

The  gleams  of  the  fire-light  dance 
Upon  helmet  and  hauberk  and  lance, 

And  laugh  in  the  eyes  of  the  King ; 
And  he  cries  to  Halfred  the  Scald, 
Gray-bearded,  wrinkled,  and  bald, 

"Sing!" 

"  Sing  me  a  song  divine, 
With  a  sword  in  every  line, 

And  this  shall  be  thy  reward." 
And  he  loosened  the  belt  at  his  waist, 
And  in  front  of  the  singer  placed 

His  sword. 


228 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


"  Quern-biter  of  Hakon  the  Good, 
Wherewith  at  a  stroke  he  hewed 

The  millstone  through  and  through, 
And  Foot-breadth  of  Thoralf  the  Strong, 
Were  neither  so  broad  nor  so  long, 

Nor  so  true." 

Then  the  Scald  took  his  harp  and  sang, 
And  loud  through  the  music  rang 

The  sound  of  that  shining  word  ; 
And  the  harp-strings  a  clangor  made, 
As  if  they  were  struck  with  the  blade 

Of  a  sword. 

And  the  Berserks  round  about 
Broke  forth  into  a  shout 

That  made  the  rafters  ring  : 
They  smote  with  their  fists  on  the  board, 
And  shouted,  "  Long  live  the  Sword, 

And  the  King  !" 

But  the  King  said,  "  O  my  son, 
I  miss  the  bright  word  in  one 

Of  thy  measures  and  thy  rhymes." 
And  Halfred  the  Scald  replied, 
"  In  another  't  was  multiplied 

Three  times." 

Then  King  Olaf  raised  the  hilt 
Of  iron,  cross-shaped  and  gilt, 

And  said,  "  Do  not  refuse  ; 
Count  well  the  gain  and  the  loss, 
Thor's  hammer  or  Christ's  cross  : 

Choose  !  " 

And  Halfred  the  Scald  said,  "This 
In  the  name  of  the  Lord  I  kiss, 

Who  on  it  was  crucified  !  " 
And  a  shout  went  round  the  board, 
"  In  the  name  of  Christ  the  Lord, 

Who  died  ! " 

Then  over  the  waste  of  snows 
The  noonday  sun  uprose, 

Through  the  driving  mists  revealed, 
Like  the  lifting  of  the  Host, 
By  incense-clouds  almost 

Concealed. 

On  the  shining  wall  a  vast 
And  shadowy  cross  was  cast 

From  the  hilt  of  the  lifted  sword, 
And  in  foaming  cups  of  ale 
The  Berserks  drank  "  Was-hael ! 

To  the  Lord  !  " 


XIII 


THE  BUILDING   OF  THE   LONG   SERPENT 

Thorberg  Skafting,  master-builder, 

In  his  ship-yard  by  the  sea, 
Whistling,  said,  "  It  would  bewilder 
Any  man  but  Thorberg  Skafting, 

Any  man  but  me  !  " 

Near  him  lay  the  Dragon  stranded, 

Built  of  old  by  Raud  the  Strong, 
And  King  Olaf  had  commanded 
He  should  build  another  Dragon, 
Twice  as  large  and  long. 

Therefore  whistled  Thorberg  Skafting, 
As  he  sat  with  half-closed  eyes, 

And  his  head  turned  sideways,  drafting 

That  new  vessel  for  King  Olaf 
Twice  the  Dragon's  size. 

Round  him  busily  hewed  and  hammered 
Mallet  huge  and  heavy  axe  ; 

Workmen   laughed   and    sang    and  clam 
ored  ; 

Whirred  the  wheels,  that  into  rigging 
Spun  the  shining  flax  ! 

All  this  tumult  heard  the  master, — 

It  was  music  to  his  ear  ; 
Fancy  whispered  all  the  faster, 
"  Men    shall    hear    of    Thorberg    Skaft 
ing 

For  a  hundred  year  !  " 

Workmen  sweating  at  the  forges 
Fashioned  iron  bolt  and  bar, 
Like  a  warlock's  midnight  orgies 
Smoked  and  bubbled  the  black  caldron 
With  the  boiling  tar. 

Did  the  warlocks  mingle  in  it, 

Thorberg  Skafting,  any  curse  ? 
Could  you  not  be  gone  a  minute 
But  some  mischief  must  be  doing, 
Turning  bad  to  worse  ? 

'T  was  an  ill  wind  that  came  wafting 
From  his  homestead  words  of  woe  ; 

To  his  farm  went  Thorberg  Skafting, 

Oft  repeating  to  his  workmen, 
Build  ye  thus  and  so. 


THE   MUSICIAN'S   TALE 


229 


After  long  delays  returning 

Came  the  master  back  by  night  ; 

To  his  ship-yard  longing,  yearning, 

Hurried  he,  and  did  not  leave  it 
Till  the  morning's  light. 

"  Come  and  see  my  ship,  my  darling  !  " 
On  the  morrow  said  the  King  ; 

"  Finished  now  from  keel  to  carling  ; 

Never  yet  was  seen  in  Norway- 
Such  a  wondrous  thing  !  " 

In  the  ship-yard,  idly  talking, 

At  the  ship  the  workmen  stared  : 
Some  one,  all  their  labor  balking, 
Down  her  sides  had  cut  deep  gashes, 
Not  a  plank  was  spared  ! 

"  Death  be  to  the  evil-doer  ! " 

With  an  oath  King  Olaf  spoke  ; 
"  But  rewards  to  his  pursuer  !  " 
And  with  wrath  his  face  grew  redder 
Than  his  scarlet  cloak. 

Straight  the  master-builder,  smiling, 
Answered  thus  the  angry  King  : 

"  Cease  blaspheming  and  reviling, 

Olaf,  it  was  Thorberg  Skafting 
Who  has  done  this  thing  !  " 

Then  he  chipped  and  smoothed  the  plank- 
Till  the  King,  delighted,  swore, 

With  much  lauding  and  much  thanking, 

"  Handsomer  is  now  my  Dragon 
Than  she  was  before  !  " 

Seventy  ells  and  four  extended 

On  the  grass  the  vessel's  keel  ; 

High  above  it,  gilt  and  splendid, 

Rose  the  figure-head  ferocious 
With  its  crest  of  steel. 

Then  they  launched  her  from  the  tressels, 
In  the  ship-yard  by  the  sea  ; 

She  was  the  grandest  of  all  vessels, 

Never  ship  was  built  in  Norway 
Half  so  fine  as  she  ! 

The  Long  Serpent  was  she  christened, 

'Mid  the  roar  of  cheer  on  cheer  ! 
They  who  to  the  Saga  listened 
Heard  the  name  of  Thorberg  Skafting 
For  a  hundred  year  ! 


XIV 
THE  CREW  OF  THE  LONG  SERPENT 

Safe  at  anchor  in  Drontheim  bay 
King  Olaf's  fleet  assembled  lay, 

And,  striped  with  white  and  blue, 
Downward  fluttered  sail  and  banner, 
As  alights  the  screaming  lanner  ; 
Lustily  cheered,  in  their  wild  manner, 

The  Long  Serpent's  crew. 

Her  forecastle  man  was  Ulf  the  Red  ; 
Like  a  wolf's  was  his  shaggy  head, 

His  teeth  as  large  and  white  ; 
His  beard,  of  gray  and  russet  blended, 
Round  as  a  swallow's  nest  descended  ; 
As  standard-bearer  he  defended 

Olaf's  flag  in  the  fight. 

Near  him  Kolbiorn  had  his  place, 
Like  the  King  in  garb  and  face, 

So  gallant  and  so  hale  ; 
Every  cabin-boy  and  varlet 
Wondered  at  his  cloak  of  scarlet  ; 
Like  a  river,  frozen  and  star-lit, 

Gleamed  his  coat  of  mail. 

By  the  bulkhead,  tall  and  dark, 
Stood  Thrand  Rame  of  Thelemark, 

A  figure  gaunt  and  grand  ; 
On  his  hairy  arm  imprinted 
Was  an  anchor,  azure-tinted  ; 
Like  Thor's  hammer,  huge  and  dinted 

Was  his  brawny  hand. 

Einar  Tamberskelver,  bare 
To  the  winds  his  golden  hair, 

By  the  mainmast  stood  ; 
Graceful  was  his  form,  and  slender, 
And  his  eyes  were  deep  and  tender 
As  a  woman's,  in  the  splendor 

Of  her  maidenhood. 

In  the  fore-hold  Biorn  and  Bork 
Watched  the  sailors  at  their  work  : 

Heavens  !  how  they  swore  ! 
Thirty  men  they  each  commanded, 
Iron-sinewed,  horny-handed, 
Shoulders  broad,  and  chests  expanded, 

Tugging  at  the  oar. 

These,  and  many  more  like  these, 
With  King  Olaf  sailed  the  seas, 


230 


TALES   OF   A  WAYSIDE   INN 


Till  the  waters  vast 
Filled  them  with  a  vague  devotion, 
With  the  freedom  and  the  motion, 
With  the  roll  and  roar  of  ocean 

And  the  sounding  blast. 

When  they  landed  from  the  fleet, 

How    they    roared    through    Drontheim's 

street, 

Boisterous  as  the  gale  ! 
How     they    laughed     and    stamped     and 

pounded, 

Till  the  tavern  roof  resounded 
And  the  host  looked  on  astounded 
As  they  drank  the  ale  ! 

Never  saw  the  wild  North  Sea 
Such  a  gallant  company 

Sail  its  billows  blue  ! 

Never,  while  they  cruised  and  quarrelled, 
Old  King  Gorm,  or  Blue-Tooth  Harald, 
Owned  a  ship  so  well  apparelled, 

Boasted  such  a  crew  ! 


XV 

A   LITTLE   BIRD   IN   THE   AIR 

A  little  bird  in  the  air 

Is  singing  of  Thyri  the  fair, 

The  sister  of  Svend  the  Dane  ; 

And  the  song  of  the  garrulous  bird 

In  the  streets  of  the  town  is  heard, 

And  repeated  again  and  again. 

Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 

And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

To  King  Burislaf,  it  is  said, 
Was  the  beautiful  Thyri  wed, 

And  a  sorrowful  bride  went  she  ; 
And  after  a  week  and  a  day 
She  has  fled  away  and  away 

From  his  town  by  the  stormy  sea. 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

They  say,  that  through  heat  and  through 

cold, 
Through    weald,    they   say,    and   through 

wold, 

By  day  and  by  night,  they  say, 
She  has  fled  ;  and  the  gossips  report 
She  has  come  to  King  Olaf's  court, 
And  the  town  is  all  in  dismay. 


Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

It  is  whispered  King  Olaf  has  seen, 
Has  talked  with  the  beautiful  Queen  ; 

And  they  wonder  how  it  will  end  ; 
For  surely,  if  here  she  remain, 
It  is  war  with  King  Svend  the  Dane, 
And  King  Burislaf  the  Vend  ! 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

Oh,  greatest  wonder  of  all ! 

It  is  published  in  hamlet  and  hall, 

It  roars  like  a  flame  that  is  fanned  ! 
The  King  — yes,  Olaf  the  King  — 
Has  wedded  her  with  his  ring, 
And  Thyri  is  Queen  in  the  land  ! 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 


XVI 

QUEEN  THYRI  AND  THE  ANGELICA  STALKS 

Northward  over  Drontheim, 
Flew  the  clamorous  sea-gulls, 
Sang  the  lark  and  linnet 
From  the  meadows  green  ; 

Weeping  in  her  chamber, 
Lonely  and  unhappy, 
Sat  the  Drottning  Thyri, 
Sat  King  Olaf's  Queen. 

In  at  all  the  windows 
Streamed  the  pleasant  sunshine, 
On  the  roof  above  her 
Softly  cooed  the  dove  ; 

But  the  sound  she  heard  not, 
Nor  the  sunshine  heeded, 
For  the  thoughts  of  Thyri 
Were  not  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  King  Olaf  entered, 
Beautiful  as  morning, 
Like  the  sun  at  Easter 
Shone  his  happy  face  ; 

In  his  hand  he  carried 
Angelicas  uprooted, 
With  delicious  fragrance 
Filling  all  the  place. 


THE   MUSICIAN'S   TALE 


231 


Like  a  rainy  midnight 
Sat  the  Drottning  Thyri, 
Even  the  smile  of  Olaf 

Could  not  cheer  her  gloom  ; 

Nor  the  stalks  he  gave  her 
With  a  gracious  gesture, 
And  with  words  as  pleasant 
As  their  own  perfume. 

In  her  hands  he  placed  them, 
And  her  jewelled  fingers 
Through  the  green  leaves  glistened 
Like  the  dews  of  morn  ; 

But  she  cast  them  from  her, 
Haughty  and  indignant, 
On  the  floor  she  threw  them 
With  a  look  of  scorn. 

"  Richer  presents,"  said  she, 
"  Gave  King  Harald  Gormson 
To  the  Queen,  my  mother, 
Than  such  worthless  weeds  ; 

"  When  he  ravaged  Norway, 
Laying  waste  the  kingdom, 
Seizing  scatt  and  treasure 
For  her  royal  needs. 

"  But  thou  darest  not  venture 
Through  the  Sound  to  Vendland, 
My  domains  to  rescue 
From  King  Burislaf  ; 

"  Lest  King  Svend  of  Denmark, 
Forked  Beard,  my  brother, 
Scatter  all  thy  vessels 
As  the  wind  the  chaff." 

Then  up  sprang  King  Olaf, 
Like  a  reindeer  bounding, 
With  an  oath  he  answered 
Thus  the  luckless  Queen  : 

"  Never  yet  did  Olaf 
Fear  King  Svend  of  Denmark  ; 
This  right  hand  shall  hale  him 
By  his  forked  chin  !  " 

Then  he  left  the  chamber, 
Thundering  through  the  doorway, 
Loud  his  steps  resounded 
Down  the  outer  stair. 


Smarting  with  the  insult, 
Through  the  streets  of  Drontheim 
Strode  he  red  and  wrathful, 
With  his  stately  air. 

All  his  ships  he  gathered, 
Summoned  all  his  forces, 
Making  his  war  levy 
In  the  region  round. 

Down  the  coast  of  Norway, 
Like  a  flock  of  sea-gulls, 
Sailed  the  fleet  of  Olaf 

Through  the  Danish  Sound. 

With  his  own  hand  fearless 
Steered  he  the  Long  Serpent, 
Strained  the  creaking  cordage, 
Bent  each  boom  and  gaff  ; 

Till  in  Vendland  landing, 
The  domains  of  Thyri 
He  redeemed  and  rescued 
From  King  Burislaf. 

Then  said  Olaf,  laughing, 
"  Not  ten  yoke  of  oxen 
Have  the  power  to  draw  us 
Like  a  woman's  hair  ! 

"  Now  will  I  confess  it, 
Better  things  are  jewels 
Than  angelica  stalks  are 
For  a  queen  to  wear." 


XVII 
KING  SVEND   OF  THE  FORKED  BEARD 

Loudly  the  sailors  cheered 
Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard, 
As  with  his  fleet  he  steered 

Southward  to  Vendland  ; 
Where  with  their  courses  hauled 
All  were  together  called, 
Under  the  Isle  of  Svald 

Near  to  the  mainland. 

After  Queen  Gunhild's  death, 
So  the  old  Saga  saith, 
Plighted  King  Svend  his  faith 
To  Sigrid  the  Haughty  ; 


232 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


And  to  avenge  his  bride, 
Soothing  her  wounded  pride, 
Over  the  waters  wide 
King  Olaf  sought  he. 

Still  on  her  scornful  face, 
Blushing  with  deep  disgrace, 
Bore  she  the  crimson  trace 

Of  Olaf  s  gauntlet  ; 
Like  a  malignant  star, 
Blazing  in  heaven  afar, 
Red  shone  the  angry  scar 

Under  her  frontlet. 

Oft  to  King  Svend  she  spake, 
"  For  thine  own  honor's  sake 
Shalt  thou  swift  vengeance  take 

On  the  vile  coward  !  " 
Until  the  King  at  last, 
Gusty  and  overcast, 
Like  a  tempestuous  blast 

Threatened  and  lowered. 

Soon  as  the  Spring  appeared, 
Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard 
High  his  red  standard  reared, 

Eager  for  battle  ; 
While  every  warlike  Dane, 
Seizing  his  arms  again, 
Left  all  unsown  the  grain, 

Unhoused  the  cattle. 

Likewise  the  Swedish  King 
Summoned  in  haste  a  Thing, 
Weapons  and  men  to  bring 

In  aid  of  Denmark  ; 
Eric  the  Norseman,  too, 
As  the  war-tidings  flew, 
Sailed  with  a  chosen  crew 

From  Lapland  and  Finrnark. 

So  upon  Easter  day 

Sailed  the  three  kings  away, 

Out  of  the  sheltered  bay, 

In  the  bright  season  ; 
With  them  Earl  Sigvald  came, 
Eager  for  spoil  and  fame  ; 
Pity  that  such  a  name 

Stooped  to  such  treason  ! 

Safe  under  Svald  at  last, 
Now  were  their  anchors  cast, 
Safe  from  the  sea  and  blast, 
Plotted  the  three  kings  ; 


While,  with  a  base  intent, 
Southward  Earl  Sigvald  went, 
On  a  foul  errand  bent, 
Unto  the  Sea-kings. 

Thence  to  hold  on  his  course 
Unto  King  Olaf's  force, 
Lying  within  the  hoarse 

Mouths  of  Stet-haven  ; 
Him  to  ensnare  and  bring 
Unto  the  Danish  king, 
Who  his  dead  corse  would  fling 

Forth  to  the  raven  ! 


XVIII 

KING   OLAF   AND   EARL   SIGVALD 

On  the  gray  sea-sands 
King  Olaf  stands, 
Northward  and  seaward 
He  points  with  his  hands. 

With  eddy  and  whirl 
The  sea-tides  curl, 
Washing  the  sandals 
Of  Sigvald  the  Earl. 

The  mariners  shout, 
The  ships  swing  about, 
The  yards  are  all  hoisted, 
The  sails  flutter  out. 

The  war-horns  are  played, 
The  anchors  are  weighed, 
Like  moths  in  the  distance 
The  sails  flit  and  fade. 

The  sea  is  like  lead, 
The  harbor  lies  dead, 
As  a  corse  on  the  sea-shore, 
Whose  spirit  has  fled  ! 

On  that  fatal  day, 
The  histories  say, 
Seventy  vessels 
Sailed  out  of  the  bay. 

But  soon  scattered  wide 
O'er  the  billows  they  ride, 
While  Sigvald  and  Olaf 
Sail  side  by  side. 


THE   MUSICIAN'S   TALE 


233 


Cried  the  Earl :  "  Follow  me  ! 
I  your  pilot  will  be, 
For  I  know  all  the  channels 
Where  flows  the  deep  sea  ! " 

So  into  the  strait 
Where  his  foes  lie  in  wait, 
Gallant  King  Olaf 
Sails  to  his  fate  ! 

Then  the  sea-fog  veils 
The  ships  and  their  sails  ; 
Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty, 
Thy  vengeance  prevails  ! 


XIX 
KING  OLAF'S  WAR-HORNS 

"  Strike  the  sails  !  "  King  Olaf  said  ; 
"  Never  shall  men  of  mine  take  flight  ; 
Never  away  from  battle  I  fled, 
Never  away  from  my  foes  ! 

Let  God  dispose 
Of  my  life  in  the  fight !  " 

"  Sound  the  horns  !  "  said  Olaf  the  King  ; 
And  suddenly  through  the  drifting  brume 
The  blare  of  the  horns  began  to  ring, 
Like  the  terrible  trumpet  shock 

Of  Reguarock, 
On  the  Day  of  Doom  ! 

Louder  and  louder  the  war-horns  sang 
Over  the  level  floor  of  the  flood  ; 
All  the  sails  came  down  with  a  clang, 
And  there  in  the  midst  overhead 

The  sun  hung  red 
As  a  drop  of  blood. 

Drifting  down  on  the  Danish  fleet 
Three  together  the  ships  were  lashed, 
So  that  neither  should  turn  and  retreat  ; 
In  the  midst,  but  in  front  of  the  rest, 

The  burnished  crest 
Of  the  Serpent  flashed. 

King  Olaf  stood  on  the  quarter-deck, 
With  bow  of  ash  and  arrows  of  oak, 
His  gilded  shield  was  without  a  fleck, 
His  helmet  inlaid  with  gold, 

And  in  many  a  fold 
Hung  his  crimson  cloak. 


On  the  forecastle  Ulf  the  Red 
Watched  the  lashing  of  the  ships  ; 

If  the  Serpent  lie  so  far  ahead, 
We  shall  have  hard  work  of  it  here," 

Said  he  with  a  sneer 
On  his  bearded  lips. 

King  Olaf  laid  an  arrow  on  string, 
Have  I  a  coward  on  board  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Shoot  it  another  way,  O  King  !  " 

Sullenly  answered  Ulf, 
The  old  sea- wolf  ; 
You  have  need  of  me  !  " 

In  front   came   Svend,   the    King  of  the 

Danes, 

Sweeping  down  with  his  fifty  rowers  ; 
To   the  right,   the  Swedish  king   with  his 

thanes ; 
And  on  board  of  the  Iron  Beard 

Earl  Eric  steered 
To  the  left  with  his  oars. 

"  These  soft  Danes  and  Swedes,"  said  the 

King, 

"  At  home  with  their  wives  had  better  stay, 
Thau  come  within  reach  of  my  Serpent's 

sting  : 
But  where  Eric  the  Norseman  leads 

Heroic  deeds 
Will  be  done  to-day  !  " 

Then  as  together  the  vessels  crashed, 
Eric  severed  the  cables  of  hide, 
With  which  King  Olaf's  ships  were  lashed, 
And  left  them  to  drive  and  drift 

With  the  currents  swift 
Of  the  outward  tide. 

Louder  the  war-horns  growl  and  snarl, 
Sharper  the  dragons  bite  and  sting  ! 
Eric  the  son  of  Hakon  Jarl 
A  death-drink  salt  as  the  sea 

Pledges  to  thee, 
Olaf  the  King  ! 


XX 

EINAR   TAMBERSKELVER 

It  was  Einar  Tamberskelver 

Stood  beside  the  mast  ; 
From  his  yew-bow,  tipped  with  silver, 

Flew  the  arrows  fast  ; 


234 


TALES   OF  A  WAYSIDE   INN 


Aimed  at  Eric  unavailing, 

As  he  sat  concealed, 
Half  behind  the  quarter-railing, 

Half  behind  his  shield. 

First  an  arrow  struck  the  tiller, 

Just  above  his  head  ; 
"  Sing,  O  Ey  vind  Skaldaspiller," 

Then  Earl  Eric  said. 
"  Sing  the  song  of  Hakon  dying, 

Sing  his  funeral  wail  !  " 
And  another  arrow  flying 

Grazed  his  coat  of  mail. 

Turning  to  a  Lapland  yeoman, 

As  the  arrow  passed, 
Said  Earl  Eric,  "  Shoot  that  bowman 

Standing  by  the  mast." 
Sooner  than  the  word  was  spoken 

Flew  the  yeoman's  shaft ; 
Einar's  bow  in  twain  was  broken, 

Einar  only  laughed. 

«  What  was  that  ?  "  said  Olaf,  standing 

On  the  quarter-deck. 
"  Something  heard  I  like  the  stranding 

Of  a  shattered  wreck." 
Einar  then,  the  arrow  taking 

From  the  loosened  string, 
Answered,  "  That  was  Norway  breaking 

From  thy  hand,  O  King  ! " 

"  Thou  art  but  a  poor  diviner," 

Straightway  Olaf  said  ; 
"  Take  my  bow,  and  swifter,  Einar, 

Let  thy  shafts  be  sped." 
Of  his  bows  the  fairest  choosing, 

Reached  he  from  above  ; 
Einar  saw  the  blood-drops  oozing 

Through  his  iron  glove. 

But  the-bow  was  thin  and  narrow  ; 

At  the  first  assay, 
O'er  its  head  he  drew  the  arrow, 

Flung  the  bow  away  ; 
Said,  with  hot  and  angry  temper 

Flushing  in  his  cheek, 
"  Olaf  !  for  so  great  a  Kamper 

Are  thy  bows  too  weak  ! " 

Then,  with  smile  of  joy  defiant 

On  his  beardless  lip, 
Scaled  he,  light  and  self-reliant, 

Eric's  dragon-ship. 


Loose  his  golden  locks  were  flowing, 
Bright  his  armor  gleamed  ; 

Like  Saint  Michael  overthrowing 
Lucifer  he  seemed. 


XXI 
KING  OLAF'S  DEATH-DRINK 

All  day  has  the  battle  raged, 
All  day  have  the  ships  engaged, 
But  not  yet  is  assuaged 

The  vengeance  of  Eric  the  Earl. 

The  decks  with  blood  are  red, 
The  arrows  of  death  are  sped, 
The  ships  are  filled  with  the  dead, 
And  the  spears  the  champions  hurl. 

They  drift  as  wrecks  on  the  tide, 
The  grappling-irons  are  plied, 
The  boarders  climb  up  the  side, 
The  shouts  are  feeble  and  few. 

Ah  !  never  shall  Norway  again 
See  her  sailors  come  back  o'er  the  main  ; 
They  all  lie  wounded  or  slain, 
Or  asleep  in  the  billows  blue  ! 

On  the  deck  stands  Olaf  the  King, 
Around  him  whistle  and  sing 
The  spears  that  the  foemen  fling, 

And  the  stones  they  hurl  with  their  hands. 

In  the  midst  of  the  stones  and  the  spears, 
Kolbiorn,  the  marshal,  appears, 
His  shield  in  the  air  he  uprears, 
By  the  side  of  King  Olaf  he  stands. 

Over  the  slippery  wreck 
Of  the  Long  Serpent's  deck 
Sweeps  Eric  with  hardly  a  check, 
His  lips  with  anger  are  pale  ; 

He  hews  with  his  axe  at  the  mast, 
Till  it  falls,  with  the  sails  overcast, 
Like  a  snow-covered  pine  in  the  vast 
Dim  forests  of  Orkadale. 

Seeking  King  Olaf  then, 
He  rushes  aft  with  his  men, 
As  a  hunter  into  the  den 

Of  the  bear,  when  he  stands  at  bay. 


THE   MUSICIAN'S   TALE 


235 


"  Remember  Jarl  Hakon  !  "  he  cries  ; 
When  lo  !  on  his  wondering  eyes, 
Two  kingly  figures  arise, 
Two  Olafs  in  warlike  array  ! 

Then  Kolbiorn  speaks  in  the  ear 
Of  King  Olaf  a  word  of  cheer, 
In  a  whisper  that  none  may  hear, 
With  a  smile  on  his  tremulous  lip  ; 

Two  shields  raised  high  in  the  air, 
Two  flashes  of  golden  hair, 
Two  scarlet  meteors'  glare, 

And  both  have  leaped  from  the  ship. 

Earl  Eric's  men  in  the  boats 
Seize  Kolbiorn's  shield  as  it  floats, 
And  cry,  from  their  hairy  throats, 
«  See  !  it  is  Olaf  the  King  !  " 

While  far  on  the  opposite  side 
Floats  another  shield  on  the  tide, 
Like  a  jewel  set  in  the  wide 
Sea-current's  eddying  ring. 

There  is  told  a  wonderful  tale, 
How  the  King  stripped  off  his  mail, 
Like  leaves  of  the  brown  sea-kale, 
As  he  swam  beneath  the  main  ; 

But  the  young  grew  old  and  gray, 
And  never,  by  night  or  by  day, 
In  his  kingdom  of  Norroway 
Was  King  Olaf  seen  again  ! 


XXII 
THE  NUN   OF   NIDAROS 

In  the  convent  of  Drontheim, 
Alone  in  her  chamber 
Knelt  Astrid  the  Abbess, 
At  midnight,  adoring, 
Beseeching,  entreating 
The  Virgin  and  Mother. 

She  heard  in  the  silence 
The  voice  of  one  speaking, 
Without  in  the  darkness, 
In  gusts  of  the  night-wind, 
Now  louder,  now  nearer, 
Now  lost  in  the  distance. 


The  voice  of  a  stranger 
It  seemed  as  she  listened, 
Of  some  one  who  answered 
Beseeching,  imploring, 
A  cry  from  afar  off 
She  could  not  distinguish. 

The  voice  of  Saint  John, 
The  beloved  disciple, 
Who  wandered  and  waited 
The  Master's  appearance, 
Alone  in  the  darkness, 
Unsheltered  and  friendless. 

"  It  is  accepted, 

The  angry  defiance, 

The  challenge  of  battle  ! 

It  is  accepted, 

But  not  with  the  weapons 

Of  war  that  thou  wieldest ! 

"  Cross  against  corselet, 

Love  against  hatred, 

Peace-cry  for  war-cry  ! 

Patience  is  powerful  ; 

He  that  o'ercometh 

Hath  power  o'er  the  nations  ! 

"  As  torrents  in  summer, 
Half  dried  in  their  channels, 
Suddenly  rise,  though  the 
Sky  is  still  cloudless, 
For  rain  has  been  falling 
Far  off  at  their  fountains  ; 

"  So  hearts  that  are  fainting 
Grow  full  to  o'erflowing, 
And  they  that  behold  it 
Marvel,  and  know  not 
That  God  at  their  fountains 
Far  off  has  been  raining  ! 

"  Stronger  than  steel 

Is  the  sword  of  the  Spirit ; 

Swifter  than  arrows 

The  light  of  the  truth  is, 

Greater  than  anger 

Is  love,  and  subdueth  ! 

"  Thou  art  a  phantom, 
A  shape  of  the  sea-mist, 
A  shape  of  the  brumal 
Rain,  and  the  darkness 
Fearful  and  formless  ; 
Day  dawns  and  thou  art  not ! 


236 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


"  The  dawn  is  not  distant, 
Nor  is  the  night  starless  ; 
Love  is  eternal ! 
God  is  still  God,  and 
His  faith  shall  not  fail  us  ; 
Christ  is  eternal ! " 


INTERLUDE 

A  STRAIN  of  music  closed  the  tale, 
A  low,  monotonous,  funeral  wail, 
That  with  its  cadence,  wild  and  sweet, 
Made  the  long  Saga  more  complete. 

"  Thank  God,"  the  Theologian  said, 
"  The  reign  of  violence  is  dead, 
Or  dying  surely  from  the  world  ; 
While  Love  triumphant  reigns  instead, 
And  in  a  brighter  sky  o'erhead 
His  blessed  banners  are  unfurled. 
And  most  of  all  thank  God  for  this  : 
The  war  and  waste  of  clashing  creeds 
Now  end  in  words,  and  not  in  deeds, 
And  no  one  suffers  loss,  or  bleeds, 
For  thoughts  that  men  call  heresies. 

"  I  stand  without  here  in  the  porch, 

I  hear  the  bell's  melodious  din, 

I  hear  the  organ  peal  within, 

I  hear  the  prayer,  with  words  that  scorch 

Like  sparks  from  an  inverted  torch, 

I  hear  the  sermon  upon  sin, 

With  threatenings  of  the  last  account. 

And  all,  translated  in  the  air, 

Reach  me  but  as  our  dear  Lord's  Prayer, 

And  as  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount. 

"Must  it  be  Calvin,  and  not  Christ? 
Must  it  be  Athanasian  creeds, 
Or  holy  water,  books,  and  beads  ? 
Must  struggling  souls  remain  content 
With  councils  and  decrees  of  Trent  ? 
And  can  it  be  enough  for  these 
The  Christian  Church  the  year  embalms 
With  evergreens  and  boughs  of  palms, 
And  fills  the  air  with  litanies  ? 

"I  know  that  yonder  Pharisee 
Thanks  God  that  he  is  not  like  me  ; 
In  my  humiliation  dressed, 
I  only  stand  and  beat  my  breast, 
And  pray  for  human  charity. 


"  Not  to  one  church  alone,  but  seven, 
The  voice  prophetic  spake  from  heaven  ; 
And  unto  each  the  promise  came, 
Diversified,  but  still  the  same  ; 
For  him  that  overcometh  are 
The  new  name  written  on  the  stone, 
The  raiment  white,  the  crown,  the  throne, 
And  I  will  give  him  the  Morning  Star  1 

"  Ah  !  to  how  many  Faith  has  been 
No  evidence  of  things  unseen, 
But  a  dim  shadow,  that  recasts 
The  creed  of  the  Phantasiasts, 
For  whom  no  Man  of  Sorrows  died, 
For  whom  the  Tragedy  Divine 
Was  but  a  symbol  and  a  sign, 
And  Christ  a  phantom  crucified  1 

"  For  others  a  diviner  creed 
Is  living  in  the  life  they  lead. 
The  passing  of  their  beautiful  feet 
Blesses  the  pavement  of  the  street, 
And  all  their  looks  and  words  repeat 
Old  Fuller's  saying,  wise  and  sweet, 
Not  as  a  vulture,  but  a  dove, 
The  Holy  Ghost  came  from  above. 

"  And  this  brings  back  to  me  a  tale 
So  sad  the  hearer  well  may  quail, 
And  question  if  such  things  can  be  ; 
Yet  in  the  chronicles  of  Spain 
Down  the  dark  pages  runs  this  stain, 
And  naught  can  wash  them  white  again, 
So  fearful  is  the  tragedy." 


THE  THEOLOGIAN'S  TALE 
TORQUEMADA 

"December5  [at  midnight].  Finished  Torquemada^ 
—  a  dismal  story  of  fanaticism  ;  but  in  its  main  points 
historic.  See  De  Castro,  Protestanles  Espanolas,  page 
310." 

IN  the  heroic  days  when  Ferdinand 
And  Isabella  ruled  the  Spanish  land, 
And  Torquemada,  with  his  subtle  brain, 
Ruled  them  as  Grand  Inquisitor  of  Spain, 
In  a  great  castle  near  Valladolid, 
Moated   and  high  and  by  fair  woodlands 

hid, 
There   dwelt,   as   from   the   chronicles  we 

learn, 
An  old  Hidalgo  proud  and  taciturn, 


THE  THEOLOGIAN'S   TALE 


237 


Whose  name  has  perished,  with  his  towers 

of  stone, 

And  all  his  actions  save  this  one  alone  ; 
This  one,  so  terrible,  perhaps  't  were  best 
If  it,  too,  were  forgotten  with  the  rest ; 
Unless,  perchance,  our  eyes  can  see  therein 
The  martyrdom  triumphant  o'er  the  sin  ; 
A  double  picture,  with  its  gloom  and  glow, 
The  splendor  overhead,  the  death  below. 

This  sombre  man  counted  each  day  as  lost 
On   which   his    feet    no   sacred    threshold 

crossed  ; 
And  when  he  chanced  the  passing  Host  to 

meet, 
He    knelt    and    prayed   devoutly   in    the 

street  ; 
Oft  he  confessed  ;  and  with  each  mutinous 

thought, 

As  with  wild  beasts  at  Ephesus,  he  fought. 
In   deep    contrition    scourged    himself    in 

Lent, 
Walked  in  processions,  with  his  head  down 

bent, 

At  plays  of  Corpus  Christi  oft  was  seen, 
And  on  Palm  Sunday  bore  his  bough    of. 

green. 

His  sole  diversion  was  to  hunt  the  boar 
Through   tangled    thickets   of    the   forest 

hoar, 

Or  with  his  jingling  mules  to  hurry  down 
To  some  grand  bull-light  in  the  neighbor 
ing  town, 

Or  in  the  crowd  with  lighted  taper  stand, 
When  Jews  were  burned,  or  banished  from 

the  laud. 

Then  stirred  within  him  a  tumultuous  joy  ; 
The  demon  whose  delight  is  to  destroy 
Shook   him,  and   shouted   with  a  trumpet 

tone, 
"Kill  !  kill !  and  let  the  Lord  find  out  his 

own  ! " 

And  now,  in  that  old  castle  in  the  wood, 
His  daughters,  in  the  dawn  of  womanhood, 
Returning  from  their  convent  school,  had 

made 
Resplendent  with   their  bloom   the    forest 

shade, 
Reminding    him   of   their   dead    mother's 

face, 
When    first    she    came   into   that   gloomy 

place, — 

A  memory  in  his  heart  as  dim  and  sweet 
As  moonlight  in  a  solitary  street, 


Where  the  same  rays,  that  lift  the  sea,  are 

thrown 

Lovely  but  powerless  upon  walls  of  stone. 
These  two  fair  daughters  of  a  mother  dead 
Were  all  the  dream  had  left  him  as  it  fled. 
A  joy  at  first,  and  then  a  growing  care, 
As  if  a  voice  within  him  cried,  "  Beware  ! '' 
A  vague  presentiment  of  impending  doom, 
Like  ghostly  footsteps  in  a  vacant  room, 
Haunted  him  day  and  night  ;    a  formless 

fear 
That  death  to  some  one  of  his  house  was 

near, 

With  dark  surmises  of  a  hidden  crime, 
Made  life  itself  a  death  before  its  time. 
Jealous,  suspicious,  with  no  sense  of  shame, 
A  spy  upon  his  daughters  he  became  ; 
With  velvet  slippers,  noiseless  on  the  floors, 
He  glided  softly  through  half-open  doors  ; 
Now  in  the  room,  and  now  upon  the  stair, 
He  stood  beside  them  ere  they  were  aware ; 
He    listened    in   the    passage   when    they 

talked, 
He  watched  them  from  the  casement  when 

they  walked, 

He  saw  the  gypsy  haunt  the  river's  side, 
He   saw   the    monk  among  the  cork-trees 

glide  ; 
And,   tortured    by   the    mystery   and   the 

doubt 

Of  some  dark  secret,  past  his  finding  out, 
Baffled  he  paused  ;  then  reassured  again 
Pursued  the  flying  phantom  of  his  brain. 
He  watched  them  even  when  they  knelt  in 

church  ; 

And  then,  descending  lower  in  his  search, 
Questioned  the  servants,  and  with   eager 

eyes 

Listened  incredulous  to  their  replies  ; 
The   gypsy?    none   had   seen  her   in  the 

wood  ! 
The  monk  ?  a  mendicant  in  search  of  food ! 

At  length  the  awful  revelation  came, 
Crushing  at  once   his   pride  of  birth   and 

name  ; 

The  hopes  his  yearning  bosom  forward  cast 
And  the  ancestral  glories  of  the  past, 
All  fell  together,  crumbling  in  disgrace, 
A  turret  rent  from  battlement  to  base. 
His  daughters  talking  in  the  dead  of  night 
In  their  own  chamber,  and  without  a  light, 
Listening,  as  he  was  wont,  he  overheard, 
And  learned  the  dreadful  secret,  word  by 

word  ; 


TALES   OF   A  WAYSIDE   INN 


And  hurrying  from  his  castle,  with  a  cry 
He  raised  his  hands  to  the  unpitying  sky, 
Repeating  one  dread  word,  till  bush  and 

tree 
Caught     it,     and     shuddering     answered, 

"Heresy!" 

Wrapped  in  his  cloak,  his  hat  drawn  o'er 

his  face, 
Now  hurrying  forward,  now  with  lingering 

pace, 

He  walked  all  night  the  alleys  of  his  park, 
With  one  unseen  companion  in  the  dark, 
The  demon  who  within  him  lay  in  wait 
And   by  his   presence   turned   his  love  to 

hate, 

Forever  muttering  in  an  undertone, 
"  Kill !  kill  !  and  let  the  Lord  find  out  his 

own  !  " 

Upon  the  morrow,  after  early  Mass, 
While  yet  the  dew  was  glistening  on  the 

grass, 

And  all  the  woods  were  musical  with  birds, 
The  old  Hidalgo,  uttering  fearful  words, 
Walked  homeward  with  the  Priest,  and  in 

his  room 
Summoned  his  trembling  daughters  to  their 

doom. 
When  questioned,  with  brief  answers  they 

replied, 

Nor  when  accused  evaded  or  denied  ; 
Expostulations,  passionate  appeals, 
All  that  the  human  heart  most  fears  or 

feels, 
In    vain    the    Priest    with    earnest    voice 

essayed  ; 
In  vain  the  father  threatened,  wept,  and 

prayed  ; 

Until  at  last  he  said,  with  haughty  mien, 
"  The  Holy  Office,  then,  must  intervene  !  " 

And  now  the  Grand  Inquisitor  of  Spain, 
With  all  the  fifty  horsemen  of  his  train, 
His  awful  name  resounding,  like  the  blast 
Of  funeral  trumpets,  as  he  onward  passed, 
Came  to  Valladolid,  and  there  began 
To  harry  the  rich  Jews  with  fire  and  ban. 
To  him  the  Hidalgo  went,  and  at  the  gate 
Demanded  audience  on  affairs  of  state, 
And  in  a  secret  chamber  stood  before 
A  venerable  graybeard  of  fourscore, 
Dressed  in  the  hood  and  habit  of  a  friar  ; 
Out  of  his  eyes  flashed  a  consuming  fire, 
And  in  his  hand  the  mystic  horn  he  held, 


Which  poison  and  all  noxious  charms  dis 
pelled. 

He  heard  in  silence  the  Hidalgo's  tale, 
Then  answered  in  a  voice  that  made  him 

quail  : 

"  Son  of  the  Church  !  when  Abraham  of  old 
To  sacrifice  his  only  son  was  told, 
He  did  not  pause  to  parley  nor  protest, 
But  hastened  to  obey  the  Lord's  behest. 
In  him  it  was  accounted  righteousness  ; 
The  Holy  Church  expects  of  thee  no  less  !  " 

A  sacred  frenzy  seized  the  father's  brain, 
And   Mercy  from   that    hour  implored  in 

vain. 

Ah  !  who  will  e'er  believe  the  words  I  say  ? 
His  daughters  he  accused,  and   the   same 

day 
They  both  were  cast   into   the   dungeon's 

gloom, 

That  dismal  antechamber  of  the  tomb, 
Arraigned,  condemned,  and   sentenced   to 

the  flame, 
The  secret  torture  and  the  public  shame. 

Then  to  the  Grand  Inquisitor  once  more 
The  Hidalgo  went  more  eager  than  before, 
And  said  :  "  When  Abraham  offered  up  his 

son, 
He  clave  the  wood  wherewith  it  might  be 

done. 

By  his  example  taught,  let  me  too  bring 
Wood  from  the  forest  for  my  offering  !  " 
And  the  deep  voice,  without  a  pause,  re 
plied  : 

"  Son  of  the  Church  !  by  faith  now  justified, 
Complete  thy  sacrifice,  even  as  thou  wilt  ; 
The  Church  absolves  thy  conscience  from 
all  guilt ! " 

Then  this  most  wretched  father  went  his 
way 

Into  the  woods,  that  round  his  castle  lay, 

Where  once  his  daughters  in  their  child 
hood  played 

With  their  young  mother  in  the  sun  and 
shade. 

Now  all  the  leaves  had  fallen  ;  the  branches 
bare 

Made  a  perpetual  moaning  in  the  air, 

And  screaming  from  their  eyries  overhead 

The  ravens  sailed  athwart  the  sky  of  lead. 

With  his  own  hands  he  lopped  the  boughs 
and  bound 

Fagots,  that  crackled  with  foreboding  sound. 


INTERLUDE 


239 


And  on  his  mules,  caparisoned  and  gay 
With  bells  and  tassels,  sent  them  011  their 
way. 

Then  with  his  mind  on  one  dark  purpose 
bent, 

Again  to  the  Inquisitor  he  went, 

And  said  :  "  Behold,  the  fagots  I  have 
brought, 

And  now,  lest  my  atonement  be  as  naught, 

Grant  me  one  more  request,  one  last  de 
sire,  — 

With  my  own  hand  to  light  the  funeral 
fire  ! " 

And  Torquemada  answered  from  his  seat, 

"  Son  of  the  Church  !  Thine  oil ering  is 
complete  ; 

Her  servants  through  all  ages  shall  not 
cease 

To  magnify  thy  deed.     Depart  in  peace  !  " 

Upon  the  market-place,  builded  of  stone 
The  scaffold  rose,  whereon  Death  claimed 

his  own. 

At  the  four  corners,  in  stern  attitude, 
Four  statues  of  the  Hebrew  Prophets  stood, 
Gazing    with    calm    indifference    in    their 

eyes 

Upon  this  place  of  human  sacrifice, 
Round  which  was  gathering  fast  the  eager 

crowd, 

With  clamor  of  voices  dissonant  and  loud, 
And  every  roof  and  window  was  alive 
With  restless  gazers,  swarming  like  a  hive. 

The  church-bells  tolled,  the  chant  of  monks 

drew  near, 
Loud  trumpets  stammered  forth  their  notes 

of  fear,  *• 

A  line  of  torches  smoked  along  the  street, 
There  was  a  stir,  a  rush,  a  tramp  of  feet, 
And,  with  its  banners  floating  in  the  air, 
Slowly   the    long    procession  crossed    the 

square, 

And,  to  the  statues  of  the  Prophets  bound, 
The  victims  stood,  with  fagots  piled  around. 
Then  all  the  air  a  blast  of  trumpets  shook, 
And  louder  sang  the  monks  with  bell  and 

book, 

And  the  Hidalgo,  lofty,  stern,  and  proud, 
Lifted  his  torch,  and,  bursting  through  the 

crowd, 

Lighted  in  haste  the  fagots,  and  then  fled, 
Lest  those  imploring  eyes  should  strike  him 

dead  ! 


O  pitiless  skies  !  why  did  your  clouds  re 
tain 

For  peasants'  fields  their  floods  of  hoarded 
rain  ? 

O  pitiless  earth  !  why  open  no  abyss 

To  bury  in  its  chasm  a  crime  like  this  ? 

That  night,  a  mingled  column  of  fire  and 

smoke 

From  the  dark  thickets  of  the  forest  broke, 
And,  glaring  o'er  the  landscape  leagues 

away, 
Made  all  the  fields  and  hamlets  bright  as 

day. 
Wrapped  in   a  sheet  of   flame   the   castle 

blazed, 

And  as  the  villagers  in  terror  gazed, 
They  saw  the  figure  of  that  cruel  knight 
Lean  from  a  window  in  the  turret's  height, 
His  ghastly  face  illumined  with  the  glare, 
His    hands    upraised   above    his    head  in 

prayer, 

Till  the  floor  sank  beneath  him,  and  he  fell 
Down  the  black  hollow  of  that  burning 

well. 

Three  centuries  and  more  above  his  bones 
Have  piled  the  oblivious  years  like  funeral 

stones  ; 
His   name  has  perished  with  him,  and  no 

trace 

Remains  on  earth  of  his  afflicted  race  ; 
But  Torquemada's  name,  with  clouds  o'er- 

cast, 

Looms  in  the  distant  landscape  of  the  Past, 
Like  a  burnt  tower  upon  a  blackened  heath, 
Lit  by  the  fires  of  burning  woods  beneath ! 


INTERLUDE 

THUS  closed  the  tale  of  guilt  and  gloom, 

That  cast  upon  each  listener's  face 

Its  shadow,  and  for  some  brief  space 

Unbroken  silence  filled  the  room. 

The  Jew  was  thoughtful  and  distressed  ; 

Upon  his  memory  thronged  and  pressed 

The  persecution  of  his  race, 

Their  wrongs  and  sufferings  and  disgrace  ; 

His  head  was  sunk  upon  his  breast, 

And  from  his  eyes  alternate  came 

Flashes  of  wrath  and  tears  of  shame. 

The  Student  first  the  silence  broke, 
As  one  who  long  has  lain  in  wait, 


240 


TALES   OF   A  WAYSIDE   INN 


With  purpose  to  retaliate, 

And  thus  he  dealt  the  avenging  stroke. 

"  In  such  a  company  as  this, 

A  tale  so  tragic  seems  amiss, 

That  by  its  terrible  control 

O'ermasters  and  drags  down  the  soul 

Into  a  fathomless  abyss. 

The  Italian  Tales  that  you  disdain, 

Some  merry  Night  of  Straparole, 

Or  Machiavelli's  Belphagor, 

Would  cheer  us  and  delight  us  more, 

Give  greater  pleasure  and  less  pain 

Than  your  grim  tragedies  of  Spain  !  " 

And  here  the  Poet  raised  his  hand, 
With  such  entreaty  and  command, 
It  stopped  discussion  at  its  birth, 
And  said  :  "  The  story  I  shall  tell 
Has  meaning  in  it,  if  not  mirth  ; 
Listen,  and  hear  what  once  befell 
The  merry  birds  of  Killingworth  ! " 


THE  POET'S  TALE 
THE    BIRDS    OF     KILLINGWORTH 

IT    was  the  season,  when  through  all  the 

land 

The    merle   and  mavis  build,  and  build 
ing  sing 

Those  lovely  lyrics,  written  by  His  hand, 
Whom  Saxon  Ca^dmon  calls  the    Blithe- 
heart  King  ; 

When  on  ihe  boughs  the  purple  buds  ex 
pand, 
The    banners   of   the    vanguard   of    the 

Spring, 

And  rivulets,  rejoicing,  rush  and  leap, 
And  wave  their  fluttering  signals  from  the 
steep. 

The  robin  and  the  bluebird,  piping  loud, 
Filled  all  the  blossoming  orchards  with 

their  glee  ; 
The  sparrows  chirped  as  if  they  still  were 

proud 

Their  race  in   Holy   Writ  should  men 
tioned  be  ; 

And  hungry  crows,  assembled  in  a  crowd, 
Clamored    their   piteous   prayer    inces 
santly, 

Knowing  who  hears  the  ravens  cry,  and  said  : 
"Give    us,    O    Lord,  this    day,  our  daily 
bread  ! " 


Across   the   Sound    the   birds   of    passage 

sailed, 
Speaking      some      unknown      language 

strange  and  sweet 

Of  tropic  isle  remote,  and  passing  hailed 
The  village  with  the  cheers  of  all  their 

fleet; 
Or    quarrelling    together,     laughed     and 

railed 

Like  foreign  sailors,  landed  in  the  street 
Of  seaport  town,  and  with  outlandish  noise 
Of   oaths  and    gibberish  frightening   girls 
and  boys. 

Thus  came   the  jocund  Spring  in  Killing- 
worth, 
In  fabulous   days,  some  hundred   years 

ago; 
And   thrifty   farmers,    as   they   tilled   the 

earth, 
Heard   with   alarm   the   cawing   of  the 

crow, 

That  mingled  with  the  universal  mirth, 
Cassandra-like,  prognosticating  woe  ; 
They  shook  their  heads,  and  doomed  with 

dreadful  words 

To   swift    destruction   the   whole   race   of 
birds. 

And  a  town-meeting  was  convened  straight 
way 

To  set  a  price  upon  the  guilty  heads 
Of  these  marauders,  who,  in  lieu  of  pay, 
Levied    black -mail    upon    the    garden 

beds 

And   cornfields,   and   beheld   without   dis 
may 
The  awful  scarecrow,  with  his  fluttering 

shreds  ; 

The  skeleton  that  waited  at  their  feast, 
Whereby    their    sinful    pleasure    was   in 
creased. 

Then   from   his   house,   a   temple   painted 

white, 

With  fluted  columns,  and  a  roof  of  red, 
The  Squire  came  forth,  august  and  splen 
did  sight ! 

Slowly  descending,  with  majestic  tread, 
Three  flights  of  steps,  nor  looking  left  nor 

right, 
Down  the  long  street  he  walked,  as  one 

who  said, 

"  A  town  that  boasts  inhabitants  like  me 
Can  have  no  lack  of  good  society  !  " 


THE   POET'S   TALE 


241 


The  Parson,  too,  appeared,  a  man  austere, 
The    instinct    of   whose    nature    was   to 

kill  ; 
The  wrath  of  God  he  preached  from  year 

to  year, 
And  read,  with  fervor,  Edwards  on  the 

Will ; 
His  favorite  pastime  was  to  slay  the  deer 

In  Summer  on  some  Adirondac  hill  ; 
E'en  now,    while    walking  down  the  rural 

lane, 
He  lopped  the  wayside  lilies  with  his  cane. 

From  the  Academy,  whose  belfry  crowned 
The    hill   of    Science    with   its   vane    of 
brass, 

Came  the  Preceptor,  gazing  idly  round, 
Now  at  the  clouds,  and  now  at  the  green 
grass, 

And  all  absorbed  in  reveries  profound 
Of  fair  Almira  in  the  upper  class, 

Who  was,  as  in  a  sonnet  he  had  said, 

As  pure  as  water,  and  as  good  as  bread. 

And  next  the  Deacon  issued  from  his  door, 
In  his  voluminous  neck-cloth,   white   as 

snow  ; 
A  suit  of  sable  bombazine  he  wore  ; 

His    form  was  ponderous,  and  his  step 

was  slow  ; 

There  never  was  so  wise  a  man  before  ; 
He  seemed   the  incarnate  "  Well,  I  told 

you  so  !  " 

And  to  perpetuate  his  great  renown 
There    was  a  street   named   after   him  in 
town, 

These  came  together  in  the  new  town-hall, 
With   sundry    farmers  from   the  region 

round. 

The  Squire  presided,  dignified  and  tall, 
His   air   impressive   and    his   reasoning 

sound  ; 
111  fared  it  with  the  birds,  both  great  and 

small  ; 
Hardly  a  friend  in  all  that  crowd  they 

found, 

But  enemies  enough,  who  every  one 
Charged  them  with  all  the  crimes  beneath 
the  sun. 

When   they   had    ended,    from    his   place 

apart 

Rose    the     Preceptor,    to    redress     the 
wrong, 


And,   trembling   like   a   steed   before   the 

start, 
Looked  round  bewildered  on  the  expect 

ant  throng  ; 
Then   thought   of   fair  Almira,   and   took 

heart 
To  speak  out  what  was  in  him,  clear  and 

strong, 

Alike  regardless  of  their  smile  or  frown, 
And   quite  determined  not  to  be  laughed 

down. 

"  Plato,  anticipating  the  Reviewers, 

From  his  Republic  banished  without  pity 
The  Poets  ;  in  this  little  town  of  yours, 
You  put  to  death,  by  means  of  a  Com 

mittee, 

The  ballad-singers  and  the  Troubadours, 
The    street-musicians   of    the    heavenly 

city, 
The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music  for  us 

nil 
In  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul. 

"The   thrush  that   carols   at  the  dawn  of 

day 
From   the   green   steeples   of    the   piny 

wood  ; 
The  oriole  in  the  elm  ;  the  noisy  jay, 

Jargoning  like  a  foreigner  at  his  food  ; 
The   bluebird  balanced   on    some   topmost 

spray, 
Flooding    with    melody    the    neighbor 

hood  ; 

Linnet  and  meadow-lark,  and  all  the  throng 
That  dwell  in  nests,  and  have  the  gift  of 
song. 

"  You  slay  them  all  !  and  wherefore  ?  for 

the  gain 
Of    a  scant   handful    more   or   less   of 

wheat, 

Or  rye,  or  barley,  or  some  other  grain, 
Scratched  up  at  random  by  industrious 

feet, 
Searching  for  worm  or  weevil  after  rain  ! 

Or  a  few  cherries,  that  are  not  so  sweet 
As  are  the  songs  these  uninvited  guests 


Sing 


at    their 
breasts. 


feast     with    comfortable 


"  Do  yon  ne'er  think  what  wondrous  beings 

these  ? 

Do  you  ne'er  think  who  made  them,  and 
who  taught 


242 


TALES   OF   A  WAYSIDE   INN 


The  dialect  they  speak,  where  melodies 

Alone  are  the  interpreters  of  thought  ? 
Whose  household  words  are  songs  in  many 

keys, 
Sweeter   than   instrument   of   man   e'er 

caught  ! 

Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops  even 
Are    half-way     houses    on    the    road    to 
heaven  ! 

"  Think,  every  morning  when  the  sun  peeps 

through 
The  dim,    leaf-latticed   windows   of  the 

grove, 
How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 

Their  old,  melodious  madrigals  of  love  ! 
And  when   you   think   of   this,  remember 

too 
'T  is   always    morning   somewhere,   and 

above 
The  awakening  continents,  from  shore  to 

shore, 
Somewhere  the  birds  are  singing  evermore. 

"  Think  of  your  woods  and  orchards  without 

birds  ! 
Of  empty  nests  that  cling  to  boughs  and 

beams 

As  in  an  idiot's  brain  remembered  words 
Hang   empty    'mid   the   cobwebs  of  his 

dreams  ! 

Will  bleat  of  flocks  or  bellowing  of  herds 
Make   up  for  the  lost  music,  when  your 

teams 
Drag   home   the    stingy   harvest,    and   no 

more 

The    feathered    gleaners    follow   to   your 
door? 

"  What  !  would  you  rather  see  the  incessant 

stir 

Of  insects  in  the  windrows  of  the  hay, 
And  hear  the  locust  and  the  grasshopper 
Their  melancholy  hurdy-gurdies  play  ? 
Is  this  more  pleasant  to  yon  than  the  whir 
Of  meadow-lark,  and  her  sweet  rounde 
lay, 

Or  twitter  of  little  field-fares,  as  you  take 
Your   nooning  in  the   shade  of   bush  and 
brake  ? 

"  You  call  them  thieves  and  pillagers  ;  but 

know, 

They  are  the  winged  wardens  of  your 
farms, 


Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the  insidious 

foe, 
And  from  your  harvests  keep  a  hundred 

harms  ; 

Even  the  blackest  of  them  all,  the  crow, 
Renders   good   service  as   your   man-at- 
arms, 

Crushing  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail, 
And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and  snail. 

"  How  can  I  teach  your  children  gentle 
ness, 

And  mercy  to  the  weak,  and  reverence 
For  Life,  which,  in  its  weakness  or  excess, 

Is  still  a  gleam  of  God's  omnipotence, 
Or  Death,  which,  seeming  darkness,  is  no 

less 
The    selfsame     light,   although    averted 

hence, 
When  by  your  laws,  your  actions,  and  your 

speech, 
You  contradict  the  very  things  I  teach  ?  " 

With  this  he  closed  ;  and  through  the  au 
dience  went 
A    murmur,    like    the    rustle    of    dead 

leaves  ; 
The  farmers  laughed  and  nodded,  and  some 

bent 
Their  yellow  heads  together   like  their 

sheaves ; 

Men  have  no  faith  in  fine-spun  sentiment 
Who  put  their  trust  in  bullocks  and  in 

beeves. 
The  birds  were  doomed  ;  and,  as  the  record 

shows, 
A  bounty  offered  for  the  heads  of  crows. 

There  was  another  audience  out  of  reach, 
Who  had  no  voice  nor  vote  in  making 

laws, 

But  in  the  papers  read  his  little  speech, 
And  crowned   his  modest  temples  with 

applause  ; 
They  made  him  conscious,  each  one  more 

than  each, 
He  still  was  victor,  vanquished  in  their 

cause. 
Sweetest  of  all  the  applause. he  won  from 

thee, 
O  fair  Almira  at  the  Academy  ! 

And  so  the  dreadful  massacre  began  ; 
O'er  fields  and  orchards,  and  o'er  wood 
land  crests, 


FINALE 


243 


The  ceaseless  fusillade  of  terror  ran. 

Dead  fell  the  birds,  with  blood-stains  on 

their  breasts, 
Or   wounded   crept    away   from    sight    of 

man, 
While  the  young  died  of  famine  in  their 

nests  ; 

A  slaughter  to  be  told  in  groans,  not  words, 
The  very  St.  Bartholomew  of  Birds  ! 

The  Summer  came,  and  all  the  birds  were 

dead  ; 
The  days  were  like  hot  coals  ;  the  very 

ground 
Was  burned  to  ashes  ;  in  the  orchards  fed 

Myriads  of  caterpillars,  and  around 
The  cultivated  fields  and  garden  beds 
Hosts  of  devouring  insects  crawled,  and 

found 
No  foe  to  check  their  march,  till  they  had 

made 
The  land  a  desert  without  leaf  or  shade. 

Devoured  by  worms,  like  Herod,  was  the 

town, 

Because,  like  Herod,  it  had  ruthlessly 
Slaughtered  the  Innocents.    From  the  trees 

spun  down 

The  canker-worms  upon  the  passers-by, 
Upon    each  woman's    bonnet,    shawl,    and 

gown, 
Who  shook  them  off  with  just  a  little 

cry  ; 

They  were  the  terror  of  each  favorite  walk, 
The  endless  theme  of  all  the  village  talk. 

The  farmers  grew  impatient,  but  a  few 
Confessed    their   error,   and   would   not 

complain, 
For  after  all,  the  best  thing  one  can  do 

When  it  is  raining,  is  to  let  it  rain. 
Then  they  repealed  the  law,  although  they 

knew 

It  would  not  call  the  dead  to  life  again  ; 
As  school-boys,   finding  their  mistake  too 

late, 

Draw   a   wet   sponge  across  the  accusing 
slate. 

That   year    in   Killingworth    the   Autumn 

came 

Without  the  light  of  his  majestic  look, 
The  wonder  of  the  falling  tongues  of  flame, 
The  illumined  pages  of  his  Doom's-Day 
book. 


A  few  lost   leaves   blushed   crimson    with 

their  shame, 

And  drowned   themselves  despairing  in 
the  brook, 

While  the  wild  wind  went  moaning  every 
where, 

Lamenting  the  dead  children  of  the  air  ! 

But  the  next  Spring  a  stranger  sight  was 

seen, 

A  sight  that  never  yet  by  bard  was  sung, 
As  great  a  wonder  as  it  would  have  been 

If  some  dumb  animal  had  found  a  tongue  J 
A  wagon,  overarched  with  evergreen, 
Upon  whose  boughs  were  wicker  cages 

hung, 
All  full  of  singing  birds,  came  down  the 

street, 
Filling  the  air  with  music  wild  and  sweet. 

From   all   the   country  round  these  birds 

were  brought, 

By  order  of  the  town,  with  anxious  quest, 
And,  loosened  from  their  wicker  prisons, 

sought 
In  woods  and  fields  the  places  they  loved 

best, 

Singing  loud  canticles,  which  many  thought 

Were  satires  to  the  authorities  addressed, 

While   others,  listening   in     green     lanes, 

averred 
Such  lovely  music  never  had  been  heard  ! 

But  blither  still  and  louder  carolled  they 
Upon   the  morrow,  for  they  seemed    to 
know 

It  was  the  fair  Almira's  wedding-day, 
And  everywhere,  around,  above,  below, 

When  the  Preceptor  bore  his  bride  away, 
Their  songs  burst  forth  in  joyous  over 
flow, 

And  a  new  heaven  bent  over  a  new  earth 

Amid  the  sunny  farms  of  Killingworth. 


FINALE 

THE  hour  was  late  ;  the  fire  burned  low, 
The  Landlord's  eyes  were  closed  in  sleep, 
And  near  the  story's  end  a  deep, 
Sonorous  sound  at  times  was  heard, 
As  when  the  distant  bagpipes  blow. 
At  this  all  laughed ;  the  Landlord  stirred, 
As  one  awaking  from  a  swound, 
And,  gazing  anxiously  around, 


244 


TALES    OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


Protested  that  he  had  not  slept, 
But  only  shut  his  eyes,  and  kept 
His  ears  attentive  to  each  word. 

Then  all  arose,  and  said  "  Good  Night." 
Alone  remained  the  drowsy  Squire 
To  rake  the  embers  of  the  fire, 
And  quench  the  waning  parlor  light ; 
While  from  the  windows,  here  and  there, 
The  scattered  lamps  a  moment  gleamed, 
And  the  illumined  hostel  seemed 
The  constellation  of  the  Bear, 
Downward,  athwart  the  misty  air, 
Sinking  and  setting  toward  the  sun. 
Far  oft'  the  village  clock  struck  one. 


PART    SECOND 
PRELUDE 

A  COLD,  uninterrupted  rain, 

That  washed  each  southern  window-pane, 

And  made  a  river  of  the  road  ; 

A  sea  of  mist  that  overflowed 

The  house,  the  barns,  the  gilded  vane, 

And  drowned  the  upland  and  the  plain, 

Through  which  the  oak-trees,   broad   and 

high, 

Like  phantom  ships  went  drifting  by  ; 
And,  hidden  behind  a  watery  screen, 
The  sun  unseen,  or  only  seen 
As  a  faint  pallor  in  the  sky  ;  — 
Thus  cold  and  colorless  and  gray, 
The  morn  of  that  autumnal  day, 
As  if  reluctant  to  begin, 
Dawned  on  the  silent  Sudbury  Inn, 
And  all  the  guests  that  in  it  lay. 

Full  late  they  slept.     They  did  not  hear 
The  challenge  of  Sir  Chanticleer, 
Who  on  the  empty  threshing-floor, 
Disdainful  of  the  rain  outside, 
W"as  strutting  with  a  martial  stride, 
As  if  upon  his  thigh  he  wore 
The  famous  broadsword  of  the  Squire, 
And  said,  "  Behold  me,  and  admire  !  " 

Only  the  Poet  seemed  to  hear, 

In  drowse  or  dream,  more  near  and  near 

Across  the  border-land  of  sleep, 

The  blowing  of  a  blithesome  horn, 

That  laughed  the  dismal  day  to  scorn  ; 

A  splash  of  hoofs  and  rush  of  wheels 

Through  sand  and  mire  like  stranding  keels, 


As  from  the  road  with  sudden  sweep 
The  Mail  drove  up  the  little  steep, 
And  stopped  beside  the  tavern  door  ; 
A  moment  stopped,  and  then  again 
With  crack  of  whip  and  bark  of  dog 
Plunged  forward  through  the  sea  of  fog, 
And  all  was  silent  as  before,  — 
All  silent  save  the  dripping  rain. 

Then  one  by  one  the  guests  came  down, 
And  greeted  with  a  smile  the  Squire, 
Who  sat  before  the  parlor  fire, 
Reading  the  paper  fresh  from  town. 
First  the  Sicilian,  like  a  bird, 
Before  his  form  appeared,  was  heard 
Whistling  and  singing  down  the  stair  ; 
Then  came  the  Student  with  a  look 
As  placid  as  a  meadow-brook  ; 
The  Theologian,  still  perplexed 
With  thoughts  of  this  world  and  the  next ; 
'I  he  Poet  then,  as  one  who  seems 
Walking  in  visions  and  in  dreams  ; 
Then  the  Musician,  like  a  fair 
Hyperion  from  whose  golden  hair 
The  radiance  of  the  morning  streams  ; 
And  last  the  aromatic  Jew 
Of  Alicant,  who,  as  he  threw 
The  door  wide  open,  on  the  air 
Breathed  round  about  him  a  perfume 
Of  damask  roses  in  full  bloom, 
Making  a  garden  of  the  room. 

The  breakfast  ended,  each  pursued 
The  promptings  of  his  various  mood  ; 
Beside  the  fire  in  silence  smoked 
The  taciturn,  impassive  Jew, 
Lost  in  a  pleasant  revery  ; 
While,  by  his  gravity  provoked, 
His  portrait  the  Sicilian  drew, 
And  wrote  beneath  it  "  Edrehi, 
At  the  Red  Horse  in  Sudbury." 

By  far  the  busiest  of  them  all, 

The  Theologian  in  the  hall 

Was  feeding  robins  in  a  cage,  — 

Two  corpulent  and  lazy  birds, 

Vagrants  and  pilferers  at  best, 

If  one  might  trust  the  hostler's  words, 

Chief  instrument  of  their  arrest  ; 

Two  poets  of  the  Golden  Age, 

Heirs  of  a  boundless  heritage 

Of  fields  and  orchards,  east  and  west, 

And  sunshine  of  long  summer  days, 

Though  outlawed  now  and  dispossessed  !  — 

Such  was  the  Theologian's  phrase. 


THE   SICILIAN'S   TALE 


245 


Meanwhile  the  Student  held  discourse 

With  the  Musician,  on  the  source 

Of  all  the  legendary  lore 

Among  the  nations,  scattered  wide 

Like  silt  and  seaweed  by  the  force 

And  fluctuation  of  the  tide  ; 

The  tale  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 

With  change  of  place  and  change  of  name, 

Disguised,  transformed,  and  yet  the  same 

We  've  heard  a  hundred  times  before. 

The  Poet  at  the  window  mused, 

And  saw,  as  in  a  dream  confused, 

The  countenance  of  the  Sun,  discrowned, 

And  haggard  with  a  pale  despair, 

And  saw  the  cloud-rack  trail  and  drift 

Before  it,  and  the  trees  uplift 

Their  leafless  branches,  and  the  air 

Filled  with  the  arrows  of  the  rain, 

And  heard  amid  the  mist  below, 

Like  voices  of  distress  and  pain, 

That  haunt  the  thoughts  of  men  insane, 

The  fateful  cawings  of  the  crow. 

Then  down  the  road,  with  mud  besprent. 
And  drenched  with  rain  from  head  to  hoof, 
The  rain-drops  dripping  from  his  mane 
And  tail  as  from  a  pent-house  roof, 
A  jaded  horse,  his  head  down  bent, 
Passed  slowly,  limping  as  he  went. 

The  young  Sicilian  —  who  had  grown 
Impatient  longer  to  abide 
A  prisoner,  greatly  mortified 
To  see  completely  overthrown 
His  plans  for  angling  in  the  brook, 
And,  leaning  o'er  the  bridge  of  stone, 
To  watch  the  speckled  trout  glide  by, 
And  float  through  the  inverted  sky, 
Still  round  and  round  the  baited  hook  — 
Now  paced  the  room  with  rapid  stride, 
And,  pausing  at  the  Poet's  side, 
Looked  forth,  and  saw  the  wretched  steed, 
And  said  :  "  Alas  for  human  greed, 
That  with  cold  hand  and  stony  eye 
Thus  turns  an  old  friend  out  to  die, 
Or  beg  his  food  from  gate  to  gate  ! 
This  brings  a  tale  into  my  mind, 
Which,  if  you  are  not  disinclined 
To  listen,  I  will  now  relate." 

All  gave  assent  ;  all  wished  to  hear, 
Not  without  many  a  jest  and  jeer, 
The  story  of  a  spavined  steed  ; 
And  even  the  Student  with  the  rest 


Put  in  his  pleasant  little  jest 
Out  of  Malherbe,  that  Pegasus 
Is  but  a  horse  that  with  all  speed 
Bears  poets  to  the  hospital  ; 
While  the  Sicilian,  self-possessed,, 
After  a  moment's  interval 
Began  his  simple  story  thus. 


THE   SICILIAN'S    TALE 
THE   BELL   OF   ATRI 

AT  Atri  in  Abruzzo,  a  small  town 
Of  ancient  Roman  date,  but  scant  renown, 
One  of  those  little  places  that  have  run 
Half  up  the  hill,  beneath  a  blazing  sun, 
And  then  sat  down  to  rest,  as  if  to  say, 
"I  climb  no  farther  upward,  come  what 

may,"  - 

The  Re  Giovanni,  now  unknown  to  fame, 
So  many  monarchs  since  have  borne  the 

name, 

Had  a  great  bell  hung  in  the  market-place, 
Beneath  a  roof,  projecting  some  small  space 
By  way  of  shelter  from  the  sun  and  rain. 
Then  rode  he  through  the  streets  with  all 

his  train, 
And,  with  the  blast  of  trumpets  loud  and 

long, 

Made  proclamation,  that  whenever  wrong 
Was  done  to  any  man,  he  should  but  ring 
The  great  bell  in  the  square,  and  he,  the 

King, 

Would  cause  the  Syndic  to  decide  thereon. 
Such  was  the  proclamation  of  King  John. 

How  swift  the  happy  days  in  Atri  sped, 
What  wrongs  were  righted,  need  not  here 

be  said. 

Suffice  it  that,  as  all  things  must  decay, 
The  hempen  rope  at  length  was  worn  away. 
Unravelled    at    the    end,    and,   strand  by 

strand, 

Loosened  and  wasted  in  the  ringer's  hand, 
Till  one,  who  noted  this  in  passing  by, 
Mended  the  rope  with  braids  of  briony, 
So  that  the  leaves  and  tendrils  of  the  vine 
Hung  like  a  votive  garland  at  a  shrine. 

By  chance  it  happened  that  in  Atri  dwelt 
A  knight,  with  spur  on  heel  and  sword  in 

belt, 
Who  loved  to  hunt  the  wild-boar  in  the 

woods, 


246 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


Who  loved  his  falcons  with  their  crimson 

hoods, 
Who  loved  his  hounds  and  horses,  and  all 

sports 

And  prodigalities  of  camps  and  courts  ;  — 
Loved,   or  had   loved  them  ;  for   at   last, 

grown  old, 
His  only  passion  was  the  love  of  gold. 

He   sold   his   horses,  sold  his  hawks   and 

hounds, 

Rented    his    vineyards    and    his    garden- 
grounds, 
Kept  but  one  steed,  his  favorite  steed  of 

all, 

To  starve  and  shiver  in  a  naked  stall, 
And  day  by  day  sat  brooding  in  his  chair, 
Devising  plans  how  best  to  hoard  and  spare. 

At  length  he  said  :   "  What  is  the  use  or 

need 

To  keep  at  my  own  cost  this  lazy  steed, 
Eating  his  head  off  in  my  stables  here, 
When  rents  are  low  and  provender  is  dear  ? 
Let  him  go  feed  upon  the  public  ways  ; 
I  want  him  only  for  the  holidays." 
So  the  old  steed  was'turned  into  the  heat 
Of  the  long,  lonely,  silent,  shadeless  street ; 
And  wandered  in  suburban  lanes  forlorn, 
Barked  at  by  dogs,  and  torn  by  brier  and 

thorn. 

One  afternoon,  as  in  that  sultry  clime 
It  is  the  custom  in  the  summer  time, 
With    bolted  doors    and    window-shutters 

closed, 

The  inhabitants  of  Atri  slept  or  dozed  ; 
When  suddenly  upon  their  senses  fell 
The  loud  alarm  of  the  accusing  bell  ! 
The  Syndic  started  from  his  deep  repose, 
Turned  on  his  couch,  and  listened,  and  then 

rose 
And  donned  his  robes,  and  with  reluctant 

pace 

Went  panting  forth  into  the  market-place, 
Where  the  great  bell  upon  its  cross-beams 

swung, 

Reiterating  with  persistent  tongue, 
In  half-articulate  jargon,  the  old  song  : 
"  Some  one  hath  done  a  wrong,  hath  done 


a  wrong 


I  » 


But  ere  he  reached  the  belfry's  light  arcade 
He  saw,   or   thought  he  saw,  beneath  its 
shade, 


No  shape  of  human  form  of  woman  born. 
But  a  poor  steed  dejected  and  forlorn, 
Who  with  uplifted  head  and  eager  eye 
Was  tugging  at  the  vines  of  briony. 
"  Domeneddio  !  "  cried  the  Syndic  straight, 
"  This  is  the  Knight  of  Atri's  steed  of  state  ! 
He  calls  for  justice,  being  sore  distressed, 
And  pleads  his  cause  as  loudly  as  the  best." 

Meanwhile  from  street  and  lane   a  noisy 

crowd 

Had  rolled  together  like  a  summer  cloud, 
And  told  the  story  of  the  wretched  beast 
In  five-and-twenty  different  ways  at  least, 
With  much  gesticulation  and  appeal 
To  heathen  gods,  in  their  excessive  zeal. 
The  Knight  was  called  and  questioned  ;  in 

reply 

Did  not  confess  the  fact,  did  not  deny  ; 
Treated  the  matter  as  a  pleasant  jest, 
And  set  at  naught  the  Syndic  and  the  rest, 
Maintaining,  in  an  angry  undertone, 
That  he  should  do  what  pleased  him  with 

his  own. 

And  thereupon  the  Syndic  gravely  read 
The  proclamation  of  the  King  ;  then  said  : 
"  Pride  goeth  forth  on  horseback  grand  and 

£ay» 

But  cometh  back  on  foot,  and  begs  its  way  ; 

Fame  is  the  fragrance  of  heroic  deeds, 

Of  flowers  of  chivalry  and  not  of  weeds  ! 

These  are  familiar  proverbs  ;  but  I  fear 

They  never  yet  have  reached  your  knightly 
ear. 

What  fair  renown,  what  honor,  what  re 
pute 

Can  come  to  you  from  starving  this  poor 
brute  ? 

He  who  serves  well  and  speaks  not,  merits 
more 

Than  the}7  who  clamor  loudest  at  the  door. 

Therefore  the  law  decrees  that  as  this  steed 

Served  you  in  youth,  henceforth  you  shall 
take  heed 

To  comfort  his  old  age,  and  to  provide 

Shelter  in  stall,  and  food  and  field  beside." 

The  Knight  withdrew  abashed  ;  the  people 

all 

Led  home  the  steed  in  triumph  to  his  stall. 
The  King  heard  and  approved,  and  laughed 

in  glee, 
And  cried  aloud  :  "  Right  well  it  pleaseth 

me  ! 


THE   SPANISH   JEW'S   TALE 


247 


Church-bells  at   best   but  ring   us   to   the 

door  ; 

But  go  not  in  to  mass  ;  my  bell  doth  more  : 
It  cometh  into  court  and  pleads  the  cause 
Of   creatures   dumb  and  unknown   to  the 

laws  ; 
And   this  shall  make,  in   every   Christian 

clime, 
The  Bell  of  Atri  famous  for  all  time." 


INTERLUDE 

"  YES,  well  your  story  pleads  the  cause 

Of  those  dumb  mouths  that  have  no  speech, 

Only  a  cry  from  each  to  each 

Iii  its  own  kind,  with  its  own  laws  ; 

Something  that  is  beyond  the  reach 

Of  human  power  to  learn  or  teach,  — 

An  inarticulate  moan  of  pain, 

Like  the  immeasurable  main 

Breaking  upon  an  unknown  beach." 

Thus  spake  the  Poet  with  a  sigh  ; 
Then  added,  with  impassioned  cry, 
As  one  who  feels  the  words  he  speaks, 
The  color  flushing  in  his  cheeks, 
The  fervor  burning  in  his  eye  : 
"  Among  the  noblest  in  the  land, 
Though  he  may  count  himself  the  least, 
That  man  I  honor  and  revere 
Who  without  favor,  without  fear, 
In  the  great  city  dares  to  stand 
The  friend  of  every  friendless  beast, 
And  tames  with  his  unflinching  hand 
The  brutes  that  wear  our  form  and  face, 
The  were-wolves  of  the  human  race  !  " 
Then  paused,  and  waited  with  a  frown, 
Like  some  old  champion  of  romance, 
Who,  having  thrown  his  gauntlet  down, 
Expectant  leans  upon  his  lance  ; 
But  neither  Knight  nor  Squire  is  found 
To  raise  the  gauntlet  from  the  ground, 
And  try  with  him  the  battle's  chance. 

"Wake  from  your  dreams,  O  Edrehi  ! 

Or  dreaming  speak  to  us,  and  make 

A  feint  of  heing  half  awake, 

And  tell  us  what  your  dreams  may  be. 

Out  of  the  hazy  atmosphere 

Of  cloud-land  deign  to  reappear 

Among  us  in  this  Wayside  Inn  ; 

Tell  us  what  visions  and  what  scenes 

Illuminate  the  dark  ravines 

In  which  you  grope  your  way.     Begin  !  " 


Thus  the  Sicilian  spake.     The  Jew 
Made  no  reply,  but  only  smiled, 
As  men  unto  a  wayward  child, 
Not  knowing  what  to  answer,  do. 
As  from  a  cavern's  mouth,  o'ergrown 
With  moss  and  iutertangled  vines, 
A  streamlet  leaps  into  the  light 
And  murmurs  over  root  and  stone 
In  a  melodious  undertone  ; 
Or  as  amid  the  noonday  night 
Of  sombre  and  wind-haunted  pines 
There  runs  a  sound  as  of  the  sea  ; 
So  from  his  bearded  lips  there  came 
A  melody  without  a  name, 
A  song,  a  tale,  a  history, 
Or  whatsoever  it  may  be, 
Writ  and  recorded  in  these  lines. 


THE  SPANISH  JEW'S  TALE 
KAMBALU 

INTO  the  city  of  Kambalu, 
By  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan, 
At  the  head  of  his  dusty  caravan, 
Laden  with  treasure  from  realms  afar, 
Baldacca  and  Kelat  and  Kandahar, 
Rode  the  great  captain  Alau. 

The  Khan  from  his  palace-window  gazed, 
And  saw  in  the  thronging  street  beneath, 
In  the  light  of  the  setting  sun,  that  blazed 
Through  the  clouds  of  dust  by  the  caravan 

raised, 

The  flash  of  harness  and  jewelled  sheath, 
And  the  shining  scimitars  of  the  guard, 
And   the    weary   camels   that   bared  their 

teeth, 
As  they  passed   and   passed   through   the 

gates  unbarred 
Into  the  shade  of  the  palace-yard. 

Thus  into  the  city  of  Kambalu 
Rode  the  great  captain  Alau  ; 
And  he  stood  before  the  Khan,  and  said  : 
"  The  enemies  of  my  lord  are  dead  ; 
All  the  Kalifs  of  all  the  West 
Bow  and  obey  thy  least  behest  ; 
The   plains   are  dark  with  the   mulberry- 
trees, 

The  weavers  are  busy  in  Samarcand, 
The  miners  are  sifting  the  golden  sand, 
The  divers  plunging  for  pearls  in  the  seas, 
And  peace  and  plenty  are  in  the  land. 


248 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE    INN 


"  Baldacca's  Kalif,  and  he  alone, 
Rose  in  revolt  against  thy  throne  : 
His  treasures  are  at  thy  palace-door, 
With  the  swords  and  the  shawls  and  the 

jewels  he  wore  ; 
His  body  is  dust  o'er  the  desert  blown. 

"  A  mile  outside  of  Baldacca's  gate 

I  left  my  forces  to  lie  in  wait, 

Concealed  by  forests  and  hillocks  of  sand, 

And  forward  dashed  with  a  handful  of 
men, 

To  lure  the  old  tiger  from  his  den 

Into  the  ambush  1  had  planned. 

Ere  we  reached  the  town  the  alarm  was 
spread, 

For  we  heard  the  sound  of  gongs  from 
within  ; 

And  with  clash  of  cymbals  and  warlike  din 

The  gates  swung  wide  ;  and  we  turned  and 
fled; 

And  the  garrison  sallied  forth  and  pur 
sued, 

With  the  gray  old  Kalif  at  their  head, 

And  above  them  the  banner  of  Mohammed: 

So  we  snared  them  all,  and  the  town  was 
subdued. 

"  As  in  at  the  gate  we  rode,  behold, 
A  tower  that  is  called  the  Tower  of  Gold  ! 
For  there  the  Kalif  had  hidden  his  wealth, 
Heaped  and  hoarded  and  piled  on  high, 
Like  sacks  of  wheat  in  a  granary  ; 
And  thither  the  miser  crept  by  stealth 
To  feel  of  the  gold  that  gave  him  health, 
And  to  gaze  and   gloat  with   his  hungry 

eye 
On  jewels  that  gleamed  like  a  glow-worm's 

spark, 
Or  the  eyes  of  a  panther  in  the  dark. 

"  I  said  to  the  Kalif  :  « Thou  art  old, 

Thou  hast  no  need  of  so  much  gold. 

Thou  shouldst  not  have  heaped  and  hidden 

it  here, 

Till  the  breath  of  battle  was  hot  and  near, 
But  have  sown  through  the  land  these  use 
less  hoards 

To  spring  into  shining  blades  of  swords, 
And  keep  thine  honor  sweet  and  clear. 
These    grains   of   gold   are    not   grains    of 

wheat  ; 

These  bars  of  silver  thou  canst  not  eat  ; 
These  jewels  and  pearls  and  precious  stones 
Cannot  cure  the  aches  in  thy  bones, 


Nor  keep  the  feet  of  Death  one  hour 
From  climbing  the  stairways  of  thy  tower  !' 

"  Then  into  his  dungeon  I  locked  the  drone, 
And  left  him  to  feed  there  all  alone 
In  the  honey-cells  of  his  golden  hive  ; 
Never  a  prayer,  nor  a  cry,  nor  a  groan 
Was  heard  from  those  massive   walls   of 

stone, 
Nor  again  was  the  Kalif  seen  alive  ! 

"  When  at  last  we  unlocked  the  door, 

We  found  him  dead  upon  the  floor  ; 

The  rings  had  dropped  from  his  withered 

hands, 
His    teeth   were  like   bones  in  the  desert 

sands : 

Still  clutching  his  treasure  he  had  died  ; 
And  as  he  lay  there,  he  appeared 
A  statue  of  gold  with  a  silver  beard, 
His  arms  outstretched  as  if  crucified." 

This  is  the  story,  strange  and  true, 
That  the  great  captain  Alau 
Told  to  his  brother  the  Tartar  Khan, 
When  he  rode  that  day  into  Kambalu 
By  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan. 


INTERLUDE 

"  I  THOUGHT  before  your  tale  began," 
The  Student  murmured,  "  we  should  have 
Some  legend  written  by  Judah  Kav 
In  his  Gemara  of  Babylon  ; 
Or  something  from  the  Gulistan, — 
The  tale  of  the  Cazy  of  Hamadan, 
Or  of  that  King  of  Khornsan 
Who  saw  in  dreams  the  eyes  of  one 
That  had  a  hundred  years  been  dead 
Still  moving  restless  in  his  head, 
Undimmed,  and  gleaming  with  the  lust 
Of  power,  though  all  the  rest  was  dust. 

"  But  lo  !  your  glittering  caravan 
On  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan 
Hath  led  us  farther  to  the  East 
Into  the  regions  of  Cathay. 
Spite  of  your  Kalif  and  his  gold, 
Pleasant  has  been  the  tale  you  told, 
And  full  of  color  ;   that  at  least 
No  one  will  question  or  gainsay. 
And  yet  on  such  a  dismal  day 
We  need  a  merrier  tale  to  clear 
The  dark  and  heavy  atmosphere. 


THE   STUDENT'S   TALE 


249 


So  listen,  Lordliugs,  while  I  tell, 
Without  a  preface,  what  befell 
A  simple  cobbler,  in  the  year  — 
No  matter  ;  it  was  long  ago  ; 
And  that  is  all  we  need  to  know." 


THE  STUDENT'S  TALE 

THE  COBBLER  OF  HAGENAU 

I  TRUST  that  somewhere  and  somehow 
You  all  have  heard  of  Hagenau, 
A  quiet,  quaint,  and  ancient  town 
Among  the  green  Alsatian  hills, 
A  place  of  valleys,  streams,  and  mills, 
Where  Barbarossa's  castle,  brown 
With  rust  of  centuries,  still  looks  down 
On  the  broad,  drowsy  land  below,  — 
On  shadowy  forests  filled  with  game, 
And  the  blue  river  winding  slow 
Through  meadows,  where  the  hedges  grow 
That  give  this  little  town  its  name. 

It  happened  in  the  good  old  times, 
While  yet  the  Master-singers  filled 
The  noisy  workshop  and  the  guild 
\\  ilh  various  melodies  and  rhymes, 
That  here  in  Hagenau  there  dwelt 
A  cobbler,  — one  who  loved  debate, 
And,  arguing  from  a  postulate, 
Would  say  what  others  only  felt  ; 
A  man  of  forecast  and  of  thrift, 
And  of  a  shrewd  and  careful  mind 
In  this  world's  business,  but  inclined 
Somewhat  to  let  the  next  world  drift. 

Hans  Sachs  with  vast  delight  he  read, 

And  Regenbogen's  rhymes  of  love, 

For  their  poetic  fame  had  spread 

Even  to  the  town  of  Hagenau  ; 

And  some  Quick  Melody  of  the  Plough, 

Or  Double  Harmony  of  the  Dove 

Was  always  running  in  his  head. 

He  kept,  moreover,  at  his  side, 

Among  his  leathers  and  his  tools, 

Reynard  the  Fox,  the  Ship  of  Fools, 

Or  Eulenspiegel,  open  wide  ; 

With  these  he  was  much  edified  : 

He  thought  them  wiser  than  the  Schools. 

His  good  wife,  full  of  godly  fear, 
Liked  not  these  worldly  themes  to  hear; 
The  Psalter  was  her  book  of  songs  ; 
The  only  music  to  her  ear 


Was  that  which  to  the  Church  belongs, 
When  the  loud  choir  on  Sunday  chanted. 
And  the  two  angels  carved  in  wood, 
That  by  the  windy  organ  stood, 
Blew  on  their  trumpets  loud  and  clear, 
And  all  the  echoes,  far  and  near, 
Gibbered  as  if  the  church  were  haunted. 

Outside  his  door,  one  afternoon, 
This  humble  votary  of  the  muse 
Sat  in  the  narrow  strip  of  shade 
By  a  projecting  cornice  made, 
Mending  the  Burgomaster's  shoes, 
And  singing  a  familiar  tune  :  — 

"  Our  ingress  into  the  world 

Was  naked  and  bare  ; 
Our  progress  through  the  world 

Is  trouble  and  care  ; 
Our  egress  from  the  world 

Will  be  nobody  knows  where  : 
But  if  we  do  well  here 

We  shall  do  well  there  ; 
And  I  could  tell  you  no  more, 

Should  I  preach  a  whole  year  ! " 

Thus  sang  the  cobbler  at  his  work  ; 
And  with  his  gestures  marked  the  time, 
Closing  together  with  a  jerk 
Of  his  waxed  thread  the  stitch  and  rhyme. 

Meanwhile  his  quiet  little  dame 

Was  leaning  o'er  the  window-sill, 

Eager,  excited,  but  mouse-still, 

Gazing  impatiently  to  see 

What  the  great  throng  of  folk  might  be 

That  onward  in  procession  came, 

Along  the  unfrequented  street, 

With   horns   that   blew,    and    drums   that 

beat, 

And  banners  flying,  and  the  flame 
Of  tapers,  and,  at  times,  the  sweet 
Voices  of  nuns  ;  and  as  they  sang 
Suddenly  all  the  church-bells  rang. 

In  a  gay  coach,  above  the  crowd, 
There  sat  a  monk  in  ample  hood, 
W7ho  with  his  right  hand  held  aloft 
A  red  and  ponderous  cross  of  wood, 
To  which  at  times  he  meekly  bowed. 
In  front  three  horsemen  rode,  and  oft, 
With  voice  and  air  importunate, 
A  boisterous  herald  cried  aloud  : 
"  The  grace  of  God  is  at  your  gate  ! " 
So  onward  to  the  church  they  passed. 


250 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


The  cobbler  slowly  turned  his  last, 
And,  wagging  his  sagacious  head, 
Unto  his  kneeling  housewife  said  : 
"  'T  is  the  monk  Tetzel.     I  have  heard 
The  cawings  of  that  reverend  bird. 
Don't  let  him  cheat  you  of  your  gold  ; 
Indulgence  is  not  bought  and  sold." 

The  church  of  Hagenau,  that  night, 

Was  full  of  people,  full  of  light  ; 

An  odor  of  incense  tilled  the  air, 

The  priest  intoned,  the  organ  groaned 

Its  inarticulate  despair  ; 

The  candles  on  the  altar  blazed, 

And  full  in  front  of  it  upraised 

The  red  cross  stood  against  the  glare. 

Below,  upon  the  altar-rail 

Indulgences  were  set  to  sale, 

Like  ballads  at  a  country  fair. 

A  heavy  strong-box,  iron-bound 

And  carved  with  many  a  quaint  device, 

Received,  with  a  melodious  sound, 

The  coin  that  purchased  Paradise. 

Then  from  the  pulpit  overhead, 

Tetzel  the  monk,  with  fiery  glow, 

Thundered  upon  the  crowd  below. 

"  Good  people  all,  draw  near  ! "  he  said  ; 

"Purchase  these  letters,  signed  and  sealed, 

By  which  all  sins,  though  unrevealed 

And  unrepented,  are  forgiven  ! 

Count  but  the  gain,  count  not  the  loss  ! 

Your  gold  and  silver  are  but  dross, 

And  yet  they  pave  the  way  to  heaven. 

I  hear  your  mothers  and  your  sires 

Cry  from  their  purgatorial  fires, 

And  will  ye  not  their  ransom  pay  ? 

0  senseless  people  !  when  the  gate 
Of  heaven  is  open,  will  ye  wait  ? 
Will  ye  not  enter  in  to-day  ? 
To-morrow  it  will  be  too  late  ; 

1  shall  be  gone  upon  my  way. 

Make  haste  !  bring  money  while  ye  may  ! " 

The  women  shuddered,  and  turned  pale  ; 
Allured  by  hope  or  driven  by  fear, 
With  many  a  sob  and  many  a  tear, 
All  crowded  to  the  altar-rail. 
Pieces  of  silver  and  of  gold 
Into  the  tinkling  strong-box  fell 
Like  pebbles  dropped  into  a  well  ; 
And  soon  the  ballads  were  all  sold. 
The  cobbler's  wife  among  the  rest 
Slipped  into  the  capacious  chest 
A  golden  florin  ;  then  withdrew, 


Hiding  the  paper  in  her  breast  ; 

And  homeward  through  the  darkness  went 

Comforted,  quieted,  content  ; 

She  did  not  walk,  she  rather  flew, 

A  dove  that  settles  to  her  nest, 

When  some  appalling  bird  of  prey 

That  scared  her  has  been  driven  away. 

The  days  went  by,  the  monk  was  gone, 

The  summer  passed,  the  winter  came  ; 

Though  seasons  changed,  yet  still  the  same 

The  daily  round  of  life  went  on  ; 

The  daily  round  of  household  care, 

The  narrow  life  of  toil  and  prayer. 

But  in  her  heart  the  cobbler's  dame 

Had  now  a  treasure  beyond  price, 

A  secret  joy  without  a  name, 

The  certainty  of  Paradise. 

Alas,  alas  !  Dust  unto  dust  ! 

Before  the  winter  wore  away, 

Her  body  in  the  churchyard  lay, 

Her  patient  soul  was  with  the  Just ! 

After  her  death,  among  the  things 

That  even  the  poor  preserve  with  care,  — 

Some  little  trinkets  and  cheap  rings, 

A  locket  with  her  mother's  hair, 

Her  wedding  gown,  the  faded  flowers 

She  wore  upon  her  wedding  day,  — 

Among  these  memories  of  past  hours, 

That  so  much  of  the  heart  reveal, 

Carefully  kept  and  put  away, 

The  Letter  of  Indulgence  lay 

Folded,  with  signature  and  seal. 

Meanwhile     the     Priest,     aggrieved    and 

pained, 

Waited  and  wondered  that  no  word 
Of  mass  or  requiem  he  heard, 
As  by  the  Holy  Church  ordained  : 
Then  to  the  Magistrate  complained, 
That  as  this  woman  had  been  dead 
A  week  or  more,  and  no  mass  said, 
It  was  rank  heresy,  or  at  least 
Contempt  of  Church  ;  thus  said  the  Priest: 
And  straight  the  cobbler  was  arraigned. 

He  came,  confiding  in  his  cause, 
But  rather  doubtful  of  the  laws. 
The  Justice  from  his  elbow-chair 
Gave  him  a  look  that  seemed  to  say  : 
"  Thou  standest  before  a  Magistrate, 
Therefore  do  not  prevaricate  !  " 
Then  asked  him  in  a  business  way, 
Kindly  but  cold  :  "  Is  thy  wife  dead  ?  " 
The  cobbler  meekly  bowed  his  head  ; 


INTERLUDE 


251 


"  She  is,"  came  struggling  from  his  throat 

Scarce  audibly.     The  Justice  wrote 

The  words  down  in  a  book,  and  then 

Continued,  as  he  raised  his  pen  ; 

"  She  is  ;  and  hath  a  mass  been  said 

For  the  salvation  of  her  soul  ? 

Come,  speak  the  truth  !  confess  the  whole  ! " 

The  cobbler  without  pause  replied  : 

"  Of  mass  or  prayer  there  was  no  need  ; 

For  at  the  moment  when  she  died 

Her  soul  was  with  the  glorified  !  " 

And  from  his  pocket  with  all  speed 

He  drew  the  priestly  title-deed, 

And  prayed  the  Justice  he  would  read. 

The  Justice  read,  amused,  amazed  ; 
And  as  he  read  his  mirth  increased  ; 
At  times  his  shaggy  brows  he  raised, 
Now  wondering  at  the  cobbler  gazed, 
Now  archly  at  the  angry  Priest. 
"  From  all  excesses,  sins,  and  crimes 
Thou  hast  committed  in  past  times 
Thee  I  absolve  !     And  furthermore, 
Purified  from  all  earthly  taints, 
To  the  communion  of  the  Saints 
And  to  the  sacraments  restore  ! 
All  stains  of  weakness,  and  all  trace 
Of  shame  and  censure  I  efface  ; 
Remit  the  pains  thou  shouldst  endure, 
And  make  thee  innocent  and  pure, 
So  that  in  dying,  unto  thee 
The  gates  of  heaven  shall  open  be  ! 
Though  long  thou  livest,  yet  this  grace 
Until  the  moment  of  thy  death 
Unchangeable  continuetk  !  " 

Then  said  he  to  the  Priest :  "  I  find 
This  document  is  duly  signed 
Brother  John  Tetzel,  his  own  hand. 
At  all  tribunals  in  the  land 
In  evidence  it  may  be  used  ; 
Therefore  acquitted  is  the  accused." 
Then  to  the  cobbler  turned  :  "  My  friend, 
Pray  tell  me,  didst  thou  ever  read 
Reynard     the    Fox  ?  "  —  "Oh    yes,   in 
deed!"— 
"  I  thought  so.     Don't  forget  the  end." 


INTERLUDE 

"  WHAT  was  the  end  ?     I  am  ashamed 
Not  to  remember  Reynard's  fate  ; 
I  have  not  read  the  book  of  late  ; 
Was  he  not  hanged  ?  "  the  Poet  said. 


The  Student  gravely  shook  his  head, 

And  answered  :  "  You  exaggerate. 

There  was  a  tournament  proclaimed, 

And  Reynard  fought  with  Isegrim 

The  Wolf,  and  having  vanquished  him, 

Rose  to  high  honor  in  the  State, 

And  Keeper  of  the  Seals  was  named  !  " 

At  this  the  gay  Sicilian  laughed  : 

"  Fight    fire    with    fire,    and    craft    with 

craft  ; 

Successful  cunning  seems  to  be 
The  moral  of  your  tale,"  said  he. 
"  Mine  had  a  better,  and  the  Jew's 
Had  none  at  all,  that  I  could  see  ; 
His  aim  was  only  to  amuse." 

Meanwhile  from  out  its  ebon  case 

His  violin  the  Minstrel  drew, 

And  having  tuned  its  strings  anew, 

Now  held  it  close  in  his  embrace, 

And  poising  in  his  outstretched  hand 

The  bow,  like  a  magician's  wand, 

He  paused,  and  said,  with  beaming  face ; 

"  Last  night  my  story  was  too  long  ; 

To-day  I  give  you  but  a  song, 

An  old  tradition  of  the  North  ; 

But  first,  to  put  you  in  the  mood, 

I  will  a  little  while  prelude, 

And  from  this  instrument  draw  forth 

Something  by  way  of  Overture." 

He  played  ;  at  first  the  tones  were  pure 

And  tender  as  a  summer  night, 

The  full  moon  climbing  to  her  height, 

The  sob  and  ripple  of  the  seas, 

The  flapping  of  an  idle  sail  ; 

And  then  by  sudden  and  sharp  degrees 

The  multiplied,  wild  harmonies 

Freshened  and  burst  into  a  gale  ; 

A  tempest  howling  through  the  dark, 

A  crash  as  of  some  shipwrecked  bark, 

A  loud  and  melancholy  wail. 

Such  was  the  prelude  to  the  tale 
Told  by  the  Minstrel  ;  and  at  times 
He  paused  amid  its  varying  rhymes, 
And  at  each  pause  again  broke  in 
The  music  of  his  violin, 
With  tones  of  sweetness  or  of  fear, 
Movements  of  trouble  or  of  calm, 
Creating  their  own  atmosphere  ; 
As  sitting  in  a  church  we  hear 
Between  the  verses  of  the  psalm 
The  organ  playing  soft  and  clear, 
Or  thundering  on  the  startled  ear. 


252 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


THE   MUSICIAN'S   TALE 
THE  BALLAD  OF  CARMILHAN 

I 

AT  Stralsund,  by  the  Baltic  Sea, 

Within  the  sandy  bar, 
At  sunset  of  a  summer's  day, 
Ready  for  sea,  at  anchor  lay 

The  good  ship  Valdemar. 

The  sunbeams  danced  upon  the  waves, 

And  played  along  her  side  ; 
And  through  the  cabin  windows  streamed 
In  ripples  of  golden  light,  that  seemed 

The  ripple  of  the  tide. 

There  sat  the  captain  with  his  friends, 

Old  skippers  brown  and  hale, 
Who    smoked    and    grumbled    o'er    their 

grog, 
And  talked  of  iceberg  and  of  fog, 

Of  calm  and  storm  and  gale. 

And  one  was  spinning  a  sailor's  yarn 

About  Klaboterman, 
The  Kobold  of  the  sea  ;  a  spright 
Invisible  to  mortal  sight, 

Who  o'er  the  rigging  ran. 

Sometimes  he  hammered  in  the  hold, 

Sometimes  upon  the  mast, 
Sometimes  abeam,  sometimes  abaft, 
Or  at  the  bows  he  sang  and  laughed, 

And  made  all  tight  and  fast. 

He  helped  the  sailors  at  their  work, 

And  toiled  with  jovial  din  ; 
He  helped  them  hoist  and  reef  the  sails, 
He  helped  them  stow  the  casks  and  bales, 

And  heave  the  anchor  in. 

But  woe  unto  the  lazy  louts, 

The  idlers  of  the  crew  ; 
Them  to  torment  was  his  delight, 
And  worry  them  by  day  and  night, 

And  pinch  them  black  and  blue. 

And  woe  to  him  whose  mortal  eyes 

Klaboterman  behold. 
It  is  a  certain  sign  of  death  !  — 
The  cabin-boy  here  held  his  breath, 

He  felt  his  blood  run  cold. 


The  jolly  skipper  paused  awhile, 

And  then  again  began  ; 
"  There  is  a  Spectre  IShip,"  quoth  he, 
"  A  ship  of  the  Dead  that  sails  the  sea, 

And  is  called  the  Carmilhan. 

"  A  ghostly  ship,  with  a  ghostly  crew, 

In  tempests  she  appears  ; 
And  before  the  gale,  or  against  the  gale, 
She  sails  without  a  rag  of  sail, 

Without  a  helmsman  steers. 

"  She  haunts  the  Atlantic  north  and  south, 

But  mostly  the  mid-sea, 
Where   three  great   rocks  rise   bleak  and 

bare 
Like  furnace  chimneys  in  the  air, 

And  are  called  the  Chimneys  Three. 

"And  ill  betide  the  luckless  ship 

That  meets  the  Carmilhan  ; 
Over  her  decks  the  seas  will  leap, 
She  must  go  down  into  the  deep, 

And  perish  mouse  and  man." 

The  captain  of  the  Valdemar 
Laughed  loud  with  merry  heart. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  this  ship,"  said  he  ; 

"  I  should  like  to  find  these  Chimneys  Three 
That  are  marked  down  in  the  chart. 

"  I  have  sailed  right  over  the  spot,"  he  said, 

"  With  a  good  stiff  breeze  behind, 
When  the  sea  was  blue,  and  the  sky  was 

clear,  — 
You  can  follow  my  course  by  these  pinholes 

here,  — 
And  never  a  rock  could  find." 

And  then  he  swore  a  dreadful  oath, 

He  swore  by  the  Kingdoms  Three, 
That,  should  he  meet  the  Carmilhan, 
He  would  run  her  down,  although  he  ran 
Right  into  Eternity  ! 

All  this,  while  passing  to  and  fro, 

The  cabin-boy  had  heard  ; 
He  lingered  at  the  door  to  hear, 
And  drank  in  all  with  greedy  ear, 

And  pondered  every  word. 

He  was  a  simple  country  lad, 
But  of  a  roving  mind. 


THE   MUSICIAN'S   TALE 


253 


"  Oh,  it  must  be  like  heaven,"  thought  he, 
"  Those  far-off  foreign  lands  to  see, 
And  fortune  seek  and  find  !  " 

But  in  the  fo'castle,  when  he  heard 

The  mariners  blaspheme, 
He  thought  of  home,  he  thought  of  God, 
And    his    mother    under    the    churchyard 
sod, 

And  wished  it  were  a  dream. 

One  friend  on  board  that  ship  had  he  ; 

'T  was  the  Klabotermau, 
Who  saw  the  Bible  in  his  chest, 
And  made  a  sign  upon  his  breast, 

All  evil  things  to  bail. 


Ill 


The  cabin  windows  have  grown  blank 

As 'eyeballs  of  the  dead  ; 
No  more  the  glancing  sunbeams  burn 
On  the  gilt  letters  of  the  stern, 

But  on  the  figure-head  ; 

On  Valdemar  Victorious, 

Who  looketh  with  disdain 
To  see  his  image  in  the  tide 
Dismembered  float  from  side  to  side, 

And  reunite  again. 

"  It  is  the  wind,"  those  skippers  said, 

"  That  swings  the  vessel  so  ; 
It  is  the  wind  ;  it  freshens  fast, 
'T  is  time  to  say  farewell  at  last, 

'Tis  time  for  us  to  go." 

They  shook  the  captain  by  the  hand, 

"  Good  luck  !  good  luck  !  "  they  cried  ; 
Each  face  was  like  the  setting  sun, 
As,  broad  and  red,  they  one  by  one 
Went  o'er  the  vessel's  side. 

The  sun  went  down,  the  full  moon  rose, 

Serene  o'er  field  and  flood  ; 
And  all  the  winding  creeks  and  bays 
And  broad  sea-meadows  seemed  ablaze, 

The  sky  was  red  as  blood. 

The  southwest  wind  blew  fresh  and  fair, 

As  fair  as  wind  could  be  ; 
Bound  for  Odessa,  o'er  the  bar, 
With  all  sail  set,  the  Valdemar 

Went  proudly  out  to  sea. 


The  lovely  moon  climbs  up  the  sky 

As  one  who  walks  in  dreams  ; 
A  tower  of  marble  in  her  light, 
A  wall  of  black,  a  wall  of  white, 
The  stately  vessel  seems. 

Low  down  upon  the  sandy  coast 

The  lights  begin  to  burn  ; 
And  now,  uplifted  high  in  air, 
They  kindle  with  a  fiercer  glare, 
And  now  drop  far  astern. 

The  dawn  appears,  the  land  is  gone, 

The  sea  is  all  around  ; 
Then  on  each  hand  low  hills  of  sand 
Emerge  and  form  another  land  ; 

She  steereth  through  the  Sound. 

Through  Kattegat  and  Skager-rack 

She  nitteth  like  a  ghost  ; 
By  day  and  night,  by  night  and  day, 
She  bounds,  she  flies  upon  her  way 

Along  the  English  coast. 

Cape  Finisterre  is  drawing  near, 

Cape  Finisterre  is  past  ; 
Into  the  open  ocean  stream 
She  floats,  the  vision  of  a  dream 

Too  beautiful  to  last. 

Suns  rise  and  set,  and  rise,  and  yet 

There  is  no  land  in  sight  ; 
The  liquid  planets  overhead 
Burn  brighter  now  the  moon  is  dead, 
And  longer  stays  the  night. 


IV 


And  now  along  the  horizon's  edge 

Mountains  of  cloud  uprose, 
Black  as  with  forests  underneath, 
Above,  their  sharp  and  jagged  teeth 

Were  white  as  drifted  snows. 

Unseen  behind  them  sank  the  sun, 

But  flushed  eacli  snowy  peak 
A  little  while  with  rosy  light, 
That  faded  slowly  from  the  sight 

As  blushes  from  the  cheek. 

Block  grew  the  sky,  —  all  black,  all  black  ; 

The  clouds  were  everywhere  ; 
There  was  a  feeling  of  suspense 
In  nature,  a  mysterious  sense 

Of  terror  in  the  air. 


254 


TALES   OF   A  WAYSIDE   INN 


And  all  on  board  the  Valdemar 

Was  3till  as  still  could  be  ; 
Save  when  the  dismal  ship-bell  tolled, 
As  ever  and  anon  she  rolled, 

And  lurched  into  the  sea. 

The  captain  up  and  down  the  deck 

Went  striding  to  and  fro  ; 
Now  watched  the  compass  at  the  wheel, 
Now  lifted  up  his  hand  to  feel 

Which  way  the  wind  might  blow. 

And  now  he  looked  up  at  the  sails, 

And  now  upon  the  deep  ; 
In  every  fibre  of  his  frame 
He  felt  the  storm  before  it  came, 

He  had  no  thought  of  sleep. 

Eight  bells  !  and  suddenly  abaft, 

With  a  great  rush  of  rain, 
Making  the  ocean  white  with  spume, 
In  darkness  like  the  day  of  doom, 

On  came  the  hurricane. 

The  lightning  flashed  from  cloud  to  cloud, 

And  rent  the  sky  in  two  ; 
A  jagged  flame,  a  single  jet 
Of  white  fire,  like  a  bayonet, 

That  pierced  the  eyeballs  through. 

Then  all  around  was  dark  again, 

And  blacker  than  before  ; 
But  in  that  single  flash  of  light 
He  had  beheld  a  fearful  sight, 

And  thought  of  the  oath  he  swore. 

For  right  ahead  lay  the  Ship  of  the  Dead, 

The  ghostly  Carmilhan  ! 
Her  masts  were  stripped,  her  yards  were 

bare, 
And  on  her  bowsprit,  poised  in  air, 

Sat  the  Klaboterman. 

Her  crew  of  ghosts  was  all  on  deck 
Or  clambering  up  the  shrouds  ; 

The     boatswain's     whistle,     the     captain's 
hail 

Were  like  the  piping  of  the  gale, 
And  thunder  in  the  clouds. 

And  close  behind  the  Carmilhan 

There  rose  up  from  the  sea, 
As  from  a  foundered  ship  of  stone, 
Three  bare  and  splintered  masts  alone  : 

They  were  the  Chimneys  Three. 


And  onward  dashed  the  Valdemar 

And  leaped  into  the  dark  ; 
A  denser  mist,  a  colder  blast, 
A  little  shudder,  and  she  had  passed 

Right  through  the  Phantom  Bark. 

She  cleft  in  twain  the  shadowy  hulk, 

But  cleft  it  unaware  ; 
As  when,  careering  to  her  nest, 
The  sea-gull  severs  with  her  breast 

The  unresisting  air. 

Again  the  lightning  flashed  ;  again 

They  saw  the  Carmilhan, 
Whole  as  before  in  hull  and  spar  ; 
But  now  on  board  of  the  Valdemar 

Stood  the  Klabotermau. 

And  they  all  knew  their  doom  was  sealed  ; 

They  knew  that  death  was  near  ; 
Some  prayed  who  never  prayed  before, 
And    some    they    wept,    and    some    they 
swore, 

And  some  were  mute  with  fear. 

Then  suddenly  there  came  a  shock, 

And  louder  than  wind  or  sea 
A  cry  burst  from  the  crew  on  deck, 
As  she    dashed  and    crashed,  a    hopeless 
wreck, 

Upon  the  Chimneys  Three. 

The  storm  and  night  were  passed,  the  light 

To  streak  the  east  began  ; 
The  cabin-boy,  picked  up  at  sea, 
Survived  the  wreck,  and  only  he, 

To  tell  of  the  Carmilhan. 


INTERLUDE 

WHEN  the  long  murmur  of  applause 

That  greeted  the  Musician's  lay 

Had  slowly  buzzed  itself  away, 

And  the  long  talk  of  Spectre  Ships 

That  followed  died  upon  their  lips 

And  came  unto  a  natural  pause, 

"  These  tales  you  tell  are  one  and  all 

Of  the  Old  World,"  the  Poet  said, 

"  Flowers  gathered  from  a  crumbling  wall, 

Dead  leaves  that  rustle  as  they  fall  ; 

Let  me  present  you  in  thpir  stead 

Something  of  our  New  England  earth, 

A  tale,  which,  though  of  no  great  worth, 

Has  still  this  merit,  that  it  yields 


THE   POET'S   TALE 


255 


A  certain  freshness  of  the  fields, 

A  sweetness  as  of  home-made  bread." 

The  Student  answered  :  "  Be  discreet  5 
For  if  the  flour  be  fresh  and  sound, 
And  if  the  bread  be  light  and  sweet, 
Who  careth  in  what  mill  't  was  ground, 
Or  of  what  oven  felt  the  heat, 
Unless,  as  old  Cervantes  said, 
You  are  looking  after  better  bread 
Than  any  that  is  made  of  wheat  ? 
You  know  that  people  nowadays 
To  what  is  old  give  little  praise  ; 
All  must  be  new  in  prose  and  verse  ; 
They  want  hot  bread,  or  something  worse, 
Fresh  every  morning,  and  half  baked  ; 
The  wholesome  bread  of  yesterday, 
Too  stale  for  them,  is  thrown  away, 
Nor  is  their  thirst  with  water  slaked." 

As  oft  we  see  the  sky  in  May 
Threaten  to  rain,  and  yet  not  rain, 
The  Poet's  face,  before  so  gay, 
Was  clouded  with  a  look  of  pain, 
But  suddenly  brightened  up  again  ; 
And  without  further  let  or  stay 
He  told  his  tale  of  yesterday. 


THE  POET'S  TALE 
LADY   WENTWORTH 

ONE  hundred   years   ago,   and   something 

more, 

In  Queen  Street,  Portsmouth,  at  her  tav 
ern  door, 

Neat  as  a  pin,  and  blooming  as  a  rose, 
Stood  Mistress  Stavers  in  her  furbelows, 
Just  as  her  cuckoo-clock  was  striking  nine. 
Above  her  head,  resplendent  on  the  sign, 
The  portrait  of  the  Earl  of  Halifax, 
In  scarlet  coat  and  periwig  of  flax, 
Surveyed  at  leisure  all  her  varied  charms, 
Her  cap,  her  bodice,  her  white  folded  arms, 
And  half  resolved,  though  he  was  past  his 

prime, 

And  rather  damaged  by  the  lapse  of  time, 
To  fall  down  at  her  feet,  and  to  declare 
The  passion  that  had  driven    him    to  de 
spair. 

For  from  his  lofty  station  he  had  seen 
Stavers,   her   husband,  dressed   in   bottle- 
green, 


Drive  his  new  Flying  Stage-coach,  four  in 

hand, 

Down  the  long  lane,  and  out  into  the  land. 
And  knew  that  he  was  far  upon  the  way 
To  Ipswich  and  to  Boston  011  the  Bay  ! 

Just  then  the  meditations  of  the  Earl 
Were  interrupted  by  a  little  girl, 
Barefooted,  ragged,  with  neglected  hair, 
Eyes  full  of  laughter,  neck  and  shoulders 

bare, 

A  thin  slip  of  a  girl,  like  a  new  moon, 
Sure  to  be  rounded  into  beauty  soon, 
A  creature  men  would  worship  and  adore, 
Though  now  in  mean  habiliments  she  bore 
A  pail  of  water,  dripping  through  the  street, 
And  bathing,  as  she  went,  her  naked  feet. 

It  was  a  pretty  picture,  full  of  grace,  — 
The  slender  form,  the  delicate,  thin  face  ; 
The  swaying  motion,  as  she  hurried  by  ; 
The  shining  feet,  the  laughter  in  her  eye, 
That  o'er  her  face  in  ripples  gleamed  and 

glanced, 

As  in  her  pail  the  shifting  sunbeam  danced  : 
And  with  uncommon  feelings  of  delight 
The  Earl  of  Halifax  beheld  the  sight. 
Not  so  Dame  Stavers,  for  he  heard  her  say 
These  words,  or  thought  he  did,  as  plain  as 

day : 
"  O  Martha  Hilton  !      Fie  !  how  dare  you 

go 
About  the  town  half  dressed,  and  looking 

so!" 
At  which  the  gypsy  laughed,  and  straight 

replied  : 

"  No  matter  how  I  look  ;  I  yet  shall  ride 
In  my  own  chariot,  ma'am."     And  on  the 

child 

The  Earl  of  Halifax  benignly  smiled, 
As  with  her  heuvy  burden  she  passed  on, 
Looked  back,  then  turned  the  corner,  and 

was  gone. 

What  next,  upon  that  memorable  day, 

Arrested  his  attention  was  a  gay 

And  brilliant  equipage,    that   flashed   and 

spun, 

The  silver  harness  glittering  in  the  sun, 
Outriders  with  red  jackets,  lithe  and  lank, 
Pounding  the  saddles  as  they  rose  and  sank, 
While  all  alone  within  the  chariot  sat 
A  portly  person  with  three-cornered  hat, 
A  crimson  velvet  coat,  head  high  in  air, 
Gold-headed  cane,  and  nicely  powdered  hair, 


256 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


And   diamond    buckles    sparkling    at   bis 

knees, 

Dignified,  stately,  florid,  much  at  ease. 
Onward     tbe    pageant    swept,    and   as   it 

passed, 
Fair  Mistress  Stavers  courtesied  low  and 

fast  ; 
For  this  was  Governor  Wentworth,  driving 

down 

To  Little  Harbor,  just  beyond  the  town, 
Where  his  Great  House  stood  looking  out 

to  sea, 
A  goodly  place,  where  it  was  good  to  be. 

It  was  a  pleasant  mansion,  an  abode 
Near  and  yet  hidden  from  the  great  high 
road, 

Sequestered  among  trees,  a  noble  pile, 
Baronial  and  colonial  in  its  style  ; 
Gables  and  dormer-windows  everywhere, 
And   stacks   of   chimneys    rising   high   in 

air,— 
PandcMU)   pipes,  on  which  all   winds   that 

blew 
Made    mournful   music   the    whole   winter 

through. 

Within,  unwonted  splendors  met  the  eye, 
Panels,  and  floors  of  oak,  and  tapestry  ; 
Carved  chimney-pieces,    where  on   brazen 

dogs 
Revelled  and  roared  the  Christmas  fires  of 

logs  ; 

Doors  opening  into  darkness  unawares, 
Mysterious  passages,  and  flights  of  stairs  ; 
And  on  the  walls,  in  heavy  gilded  frames, 
The  ancestral  Wentworths  with  Old-Scrip 
ture  names. 

Such  was  the  mansion  where  the  great  man 

dwelt, 

A  widower  and  childless  ;  and  he  felt 
The  loneliness,  the  uncongenial  gloom, 
That  like  a  presence  haunted  every  room  ; 
For  though  not  given  to  weakness,  he  cotdd 

feel 
The    pain   of    wounds,   that   ache   because 

they  heal. 

The  years  came  and  the  years  went,  — 
seven  in  all, 

And  passed  in  cloud  and  sunshine  o'er  the 
Hall  ; 

The  dawns  their  splendor  through  its  cham 
bers  shed, 

The  sunsets  flushed  its  western  windows  red ; 


The  snow  was  on  its  roofs,  the  wind,  the 

rain  ; 

Its  woodlands  were  in  leaf  and  bare  again  ; 
Moons  waxed  and  waned,  the  lilacs  bloomed 

and  died, 
In  the  broad  river  ebbed  and  flowed  the 

tide, 
Ships  went  to  sea,  and  ships  came  home 

from  sea, 
And  the  slow  years  sailed  by  and  ceased 

to  be. 

And  all  these  years  had  Martha  Hilton 
served 

In  the  Great  House,  not  wholly  unob 
served  : 

By  day,  by  night,  the  silver  crescent  grew, 

Though  hidden  by  clouds,  her  light  still 
shining  through  ; 

A  maid  of  all  work,  whether  coarse  or 
fine, 

A  servant  who  made  service  seem  divine  ! 

Through  her  each  room  was  fair  to  look 
upon  ; 

The  mirrors  glistened,  and  the  brasses 
shone, 

The  very  knocker  on  the  outer  door, 

If  she  but  passed,  was  brighter  than  be 
fore. 

And  now  the  ceaseless  turning  of  the  mill 
Of  time,  that  never  for  an   hour  stands 

still, 

Ground  out  the  Governor's  sixtieth  birth 
day, 

And  powdered  his  brown  hair  with  silver- 
gray. 

The  robin,  the  forerunner  of  the  spring, 
The  bluebird  with  his  jocund  carolling, 
The  restless  swallows  building  in  the  eaves, 
The    golden    buttercups,    the    grass,    the 

leaves, 

The  lilacs  tossing  in  the  winds  of  May, 
All  welcomed  this  majestic  holiday  ! 
He   gave  a   splendid   banquet,   served   on 

plate, 

Such  as  became  the  Governor  of  the  State, 
Who  represented  England  and  the  King, 
And  was  magnificent  in  everything. 
He  had  invited  ail  his  friends  and  peers, — 
The    Pepperels,    the    Langdons,    and    the 

Lears, 
The   Sparhawks,  the   Penhallows,    and  the 

rest  ; 
For  why  repeat  the  name  of  every  guest  ? 


THE   THEOLOGIAN'S   TALE 


257 


But  I  must  mention  one  in  bands  and  gown, 
The  rector  there,  the  Reverend  Arthur 

Brown 
Of  the  Established  Church  ;  with  smiling 

face 

He  sat  beside  the  Governor  and  said  grace  ; 
And  then  the  feast  went  on,  as  others  do, 
But  ended  as  none  other  I  e'er  knew. 

When  they  had  drunk  the  King,  with  many 

a  cheer, 

The  Governor  whispered  in  a  servant's  ear, 
Who  disappeared,  and  presently  there  stood 
Within  the  room,  in  perfect  womanhood, 
A  maiden,  modest  and  yet  self-possessed, 
Youthful  and  beautiful,  and  simply  dressed. 
Can  this  be  Martha  Hilton  ?     It  must  be  ! 
Yes,  Martha  Hilton,  and  no  other  she  ! 
Dowered  with   the    beauty  of  her  twenty 

years, 

How  ladylike,  how  queenlike  she  appears  ; 
The  pale,  thin  crescent  of  the  days  gone  by 
Is  Dian  now  in  all  her  majesty  ! 
Yet  scarce  a  guest  perceived  that  she  was 

there, 

Until  the  Governor,  rising  from  his  chair, 
Played  slightly  with  his  ruffles,  then  looked 

down, 
And    said    unto     the     Reverend     Arthur 

Brown  : 

"  This  is  my  birthday  :  it  shall  likewise  be 
My  wedding-day  ;  and  you  shall  marry 

me!" 

The  listening  guests  were  greatly  mystified, 
None  more  so  than  the  rector,  who  replied  : 
"  Marry  you  ?  Yes,  that  were  a  pleasant 

task, 

Your  Excellency  ;  but  to  whom?  I  ask." 
The  Governor  answered  :    "  To  this  lady 

here  ;  " 

And  beckoned  Martha  Hilton  to  draw  near. 
She  came  and  stood,  all  blushes,  at  his  side. 
The  rector   paused.     The  impatient   Gov 
ernor  cried  : 

"  This  is  the  lady  ;  do  you  hesitate  ? 
Then  I  command  you  as  Chief  Magistrate." 
The  rector  read  the  service  loud  and  clear : 
"  Dearly  beloved,  we  are  gathered  here," 
And  so  on  to  the  end.     At  his  command 
On  the  fourth  finger  of  her  fair  left  hand 
The  Governor  placed  the   ring  ;  and   that 

was  all  : 
Martha  was  Lady  Wentworth  of  the  Hall  ! 


INTERLUDE 

WELL  pleased  the  audience  heard  the  tale. 
The  Theologian  said  :  "  Indeed, 
To  praise  you  there  is  little  need  ; 
One  almost  hears  the  farmer's  flail 
Thresh   out   your   wheat,   nor   does   there 

fail 

A  certain  freshness,  as  you  said, 
And  sweetness  as  of  home-made  bread. 
But  not  less  sweet  and  not  less  fresh 
Are  many  legends  that  I  know, 
Writ  by  the  monks  of  long-ago, 
Who  loved  to  mortify  the  flesh, 
So  that  the  soul  might  purer  grow, 
And  rise  to  a  diviner  state  ; 
And  one  of  these  —  perhaps  of  all 
Most  beautiful  —  I  now  recall, 
And  with  permission  will  narrate  ; 
Hoping  thereby  to  make  amends 
For  that  grim  tragedy  of  mine, 
As  strong  and  black  as  Spanish  wine, 
I  told  last  night,  and  wish  almost 
It  had  remained  untold,  my  friends  ; 
For  Torquemada's  awful  ghost 
Came  to  me  in  the  dreams  I  dreamed, 
And  in  the  darkness  glared  and  gleamed 
Like  a  great  lighthouse  on  the  coast." 

The  Student  laughing  said  :     "  Far  more 

Like  to  some  dismal  fire  of  bale 

Flaring  portentous  on  a.  hill  ; 

Or  torches  lighted  on  a  shore 

By  wreckers  in  a  midnight  gale. 

No  matter  ;  be  it  as  you  will, 

Only  go  forward  with  your  tale." 


THE   THEOLOGIAN'S   TALE 
THE   LEGEND   BEAUTIFUL 

"  HADST  thou  stayed,  I  must  have  fled  1 " 
That  is  what  the  Vision  said. 

In  his  chamber  all  alone, 
Kneeling  on  the  floor  of  stone, 
Prayed  the  Monk  in  deep  contrition 
For  his  sins  of  indecision, 
Prayed  for  greater  self-denial 
In  temptation  and  in  trial  ; 
It  was  noonday  by  the  dial, 
And  the  Monk  was  all  alone. 


258 


TALES   OF   A  WAYSIDE   INN 


Suddenly,  as  if  it  lightened, 
An  unwonted  splendor  brightened 
All  within  him  and  without  him 
In  that  narrow  cell  of  stone  ; 
And  he  saw  the  Blessed  Vision 
Of  our  Lord,  with  light  Elysian 
Like  a  vesture  wrapped  about  Him, 
Like  a  garment  round  Him  thrown. 

Not  as  crucified  and  slain, 

Not  in  agonies  of  pain, 

Not  with  bleeding  hands  and  feet, 

Did  the  Monk  his  Master  see  ; 

But  as  iii  the  village  street, 

In  the  house  or  harvest-field, 

Halt  and  lame  and  blind  He  healed, 

When  He  walked  in  Galilee. 

In  an  attitude  imploring, 

Hands  upon  his  bosom  crossed, 

Wondering,  worshipping,  adoring, 

Knelt  the  Monk  in  rapture  lost. 

Lord,  he  thought,  in  heaven  that  reignest, 

Who  am  I,  that  thus  thoti  deignest 

To  reveal  thyself  to  me  ? 

Who  am  I,  that  from  the  centre 

Of  thy  glory  thou  shouldst  enter 

This  poor  cell,  my  guest  to  be  ? 

Then  amid  his  exaltation, 
Loud  the  convent  bell  appalling, 
From  its  belfry  calling,  calling, 
Rang  through  court  and  corridor 
With  persistent  iteration 
He  had  never  heard  before. 
It  was  now  the  appointed  hour 
When  alike  in  shine  or  shower, 
Winter's  cold  or  summer's  heat, 
To  the  convent  portals  came 
All  the  blind  and  halt  and  lame, 
All  the  beggars  of  the  street, 
For  their  daily  dole  of  food 
Dealt  them  by  the  brotherhood  ; 
And  their  almoner  was  he 
Who  upon  his  bended  knee, 
Rapt  in  silent  ecstasy 
Of  divinest  self-surrender, 
Saw  the  Vision  and  the  Splendor. 
Deep  distress  and  hesitation 
Mingled  with  his  adoration  ; 
Should  he  go  or  should  he  stay  ? 
Should  he  leave  the  poor  to  wait 
Hungry  at  the  convent  gate, 
Till  the  Vision  passed  away  ? 


Should  he  slight  his  radiant  guest, 
Slight  this  visitant  celestial, 
For  a  crowd  of  ragged,  bestial 
Beggars  at  the  convent  gate  ? 
Would  the  Vision  there  remain? 
Would  the  Vision  come  again  ? 
Then  a  voice  within  his  breast 
Whispered,  audible  and  clear 
As  if  to  the  outward  ear  : 
"  Do  thy  duty  ;  that  is  best ; 
Leave  unto  thy  Lord  the  rest ! " 

Straightway  to  his  feet  he  started, 
And  with  longing  look  intent 
On  the  Blessed  Vision  bent, 
Slowly  from  his  cell  departed, 
Slowly  011  his  errand  went. 

At  the  gate  the  poor  were  waiting, 
Looking  through  the  iron  grating, 
With  that  terror  in  the  eye 
That  is  only  seen  in  those 
Who  amid  their  wants  and  woes 
Hear  the  sound  of  doors  that  close, 
And  of  feet  that  pass  them  by  ; 
Grown  familiar  with  disfavor, 
Grown  familiar  with  the  savor 
Of  the  bread  by  which  men  die  ! 
But  to-day,  they  know  not  why, 
Like  the  gate  of  Paradise 
Seemed  the  convent  gate  to  rise, 
Like  a  sacrament  divine 
Seemed  to  them  the  bread  and  wine. 
In  his  heart  the  Monk  was  praying, 
Thinking  of  the  homeless  poor, 
What  they  suffer  and  endure  ; 
What  we  see  not,  what  we  see  ; 
And  the  inward  voice  was  saying : 
"  Whatsoever  thing  thou  doest 
To  the  least  of  mine  and  lowest, 
That  thou  doest  unto  me  !  " 

Unto  me  !  but  had  the  Vision 
Come  to  him  in  beggar's  clothing1, 
Come  a  mendicant  imploring, 
Would  he  then  have  knelt  adoring, 
Or  have  listened  with  derision, 
And  have  turned  away  with  loathing  ? 

Thus  his  conscience  put  the  question, 
Full  of  troublesome  suggestion, 
As  at  length,  with  hurried  pace, 
Towards  his  cell  he  turned  his  face, 
And  beheld  the  convent  bright 


THE   STUDENT'S   SECOND   TALE 


259 


With  a  supernatural  light, 

Like  a  luminous  cloud  expanding 

Over  floor  and  wall  and  ceiling. 

But  he  paused  with  awe-struck  feeling 
At  the  threshold  of  his  door, 
For  the  Vision  still  was  standing 
As  he  left  it  there  before, 
When  the  convent  bell  appalling, 
From  its  belfry  calling,  calling, 
Summoned  him  to  feed  the  poor. 
Through  the  long  hour  intervening 
It  had  waited  his  return, 
And  he  felt  his  bosom  burn, 
Comprehending  all  the  meaning, 
When  the  Blessed  Vision  said, 
"  Hadst  thou  stayed,  I  must  have  fled  !  " 


INTERLUDE 

ALL  praised  the  Legend  more  or  less  ; 

Some  liked  the  moral,  some  the  verse  ; 

Some  thought  it  better,  and  some  worse 

Than  other  legends  of  the  past  ; 

Until,  with  ill-concealed  distress 

At  all  their  cavilling,  at  last 

The  Theologian  gravely  said  : 

"  The  Spanish  proverb,  then,  is  right ; 

Consult  your  friends  on  what  you  do, 

And  one  will  say  that  it  is  white, 

And  others  say  that  it  is  red." 

And  "  Amen  !  "  quoth  the  Spanish  Jew. 

"  Six  stories  told  !     We  must  have  seven, 

A  cluster  like  the  Pleiades, 

And  lo  !  it  happens,  as  with  these, 

That  one  is  missing  from  our  heaven. 

Where    is    the    Landlord  ?        Bring    him 

here  ; 
Let  the  Lost  Pleiad  reappear." 

Thus  the  Sicilian  cried,  and  went 
Forthwith  to  seek  his  missing'  star, 
But  did  not  find  him  in  the  bar, 
A  place  that  landlords  most  frequent, 
Nor  yet  beside  the  kitchen  fire, 
Nor  up  the  stairs,  nor  in  the  hall  ; 
It  wac  in  vain  to  ask  or  call, 
There  were  no  tidings  of  the  Squire. 

So  he  came  back  with  downcast  head, 
Exclaiming  :  "  Well,  our  bashful  host 
Hath  surely  given  up  the  ghost. 
Another  proverb  says  the  dead 


Can  tell  no  tales  ;  and  that  is  true. 
It  follows,  then,  that  one  of  you 
Must  tell  a  story  in  his  stead. 
You  must,"  he  to  the  Student  said, 
"  Who  know  so  many  of  the  best, 
And  tell  them  better  than  the  rest." 

Straight,  by    these   flattering  words    be 
guiled, 

The  Student,  happy  as  a  child 
When  he  is  called  a  little  man, 
Assumed  the  double  task  imposed, 
And  without  more  ado  unclosed 
His  smiling  lips,  and  thus  began. 


THE    STUDENT'S  SECOND  TALE 
THE    BARON     OF     ST.    CASTINE 

BARON  CASTINE  of  St.  Castine 
Has  left  his  chateau  in  the  Pyrenees, 
And  sailed  across  the  western  seas. 
When  he  went  away  from  his  fair  demesne 
The  birds  were  building,  the  woods  were 

green  ; 

And  now  the  winds  of  winter  blow 
Hound  the  turrets  of  the  old  chateau, 
The  birds  are  silent  and  unseen, 
The  leaves  lie  dead  in  the  ravine, 
And  the  Pyrenees  are  white  with  snow. 

His  father,  lonely,  old,  and  gray, 
Sits  by  the  fireside  day  by  day, 
Thinking  ever  one  thought  of  care  ; 
Through  the  southern  windows,  narrow  and 

tall, 

The  sun  shines  into  the  ancient  hall, 
And  makes  a  glory  round  his  hair. 
The     house-dog,    stretched    beneath     his 

chair, 

Groans  in  his  sleep,  as  if  in  pain, 
Then  wakes,  and  yawns,  and  sleeps  again, 
So  silent  is  it  everywhere,  — 
So  silent  you  can  hear  the  mouse 
Run  and  rummage  along  the  beams 
Behind  the  wainscot  of  the  wall ; 
And  the  old  man  rouses  from  his  dreamss 
And  wanders  restless  through  the  house, 
As  if  he  heard  strange  voices  call. 

His  footsteps  echo  along  the  floor 
Of  a  distant  passage,  and  pause  awhile  ; 
He  is  standing  by  an  open  door 
Looking  long,  with  a  sad,  sweet  smile, 


260 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


Into  the  room  of  his  absent  son. 
There  is  the  bed  oil  which  he  lay, 
There  are  the  pictures  bright  and  gay, 
Horses  and  hounds  and  suu-lit  seas  ; 
There  are  his  povvder-tlask  and  gun, 
And  his  hunting-knives  in  shape  of  a  fan  ; 
The  chair  by  the  window  where  he  sat, 
With  the  clouded  tiger-skin  for  a  mat, 
Looking  out  on  the  Pyrenees, 
Looking  out  on  Mount  Marbore* 
And  the  Seven  Valleys  of  Lavedan. 
Ah  me  !  he  turns  away  and  sighs  ; 
There  is  a  mist  before  his  eyes. 

At  night,  whatever  the  weather  be, 
Wind  or  rain  or  starry  heaven, 
Just  as  the  clock  is  striking  seven, 
Those  who  look  from  the  windows  see 
The  village  Curate,  with  lantern  and  maid, 
Come  through  the  gateway  from  the  park 
And     cross     the     courtyard     damp     and 

dark,  — 
A  ring  of  light  in  a  ring  of  shade. 

And  now  at  the  old  man's  side  he  stands, 
His  voice  is  cheery,  his  heart  expands, 
He  gossips  pleasantly,  by  the  blaze 
Of  the  fire  of  fagots,  about  old  days, 
And  Cardinal  Mazarin  and  the  Fronde, 
And  the  Cardinal's  nieces  fair  and  fond, 
And  what  they  did,  and  what  they  said, 
When  they  heard  his  Eminence  was  dead. 

And  after  a  pause  the  old  man  says, 

His  mind  still  coming  back  again 

To  the  one   sad   thought   that   haunts  his 

brain, 

"  Are  there  any  tidings  from  over  sea  ? 
Ah,   why  has    that    wild    boy  gone    from 

me  ?  " 

And  the  Curate  answers,  looking  down, 
Harmless  and  docile  as  a  lamb, 
"  Young  blood  !  young  blood  !     It  must  so 

be!" 

And  draws  from  the  pocket  of  his  gown 
A  handkerchief  like  an  oriflamb, 
And  wipes  his  spectacles,  and  they  play 
Their  little  game  of  lansquenet 
In  silence  for  an  hour  or  so, 
Till  the  clock  at  nine  strikes  loud  and  clear 
From  the  village  lying  asleep  below, 
And  across  the  courtyard,  into  the  dark 
Of  the  winding  pathway  in  the  park, 
Curate  and  lantern  disappear, 
And  darkness  reigns  in  the  old  chateau. 


The  ship  has  come  back  from  over  sea, 
She  has  been  signalled  from  below, 
And  into  the  harbor  of  Bordeaux 
She  sails  with  her  gallant  company. 
But  among  them  is  nowhere  seen 
The  brave  young  Baron  of  St.  Castine  ; 
He  hath  tarried  behind,  I  ween, 
In  the  beautiful  land  of  Acadie  ! 

And  the  father  paces  to  and  fro 

Through  the  chambers  of  the  old  chateau. 

Waiting,  waiting  to  hear  the  hum 

Of  wheels  on  the  road  that  runs  below, 

Of  servants  hurrying  here  and  there, 

The  voice  in  the  courtyard,  the  step  on  the 

stair, 

Waiting  for  some  one  who  doth  not  come  ! 
But  letters  there  are,  which  the  old  man 

reads 

To  the  Curate,  when  he  comes  at  night, 
Word  by  word,  as  an  acolyte 
Repeats  his  prayers  and  tells  his  beads  ; 
Letters  full  of  the  rolling  sea, 
Full  of  a  young  man's  joy  to  be 
Abroad  in  the  world,  alone  and  free  ; 
Full  of  adventures  and  wonderful  scenes 
Of  hunting  the  deer  through  forests  vast 
In  the  royal  grant  of  Pierre  du  Gast  ; 
Of  nights  in  the  tents  of  the  Tarratines  ; 
Of  Madocawando  the  Indian  chief, 
And  his  daughters,  glorious  as  queens, 
And  beautiful  beyond  belief  ; 
And   so   soft    the    tones   of    their    native 

tongue, 
The  words  are  not  spoken,  they  are  sung  ! 

And  the  Curate  listens,  and  smiling  says  : 

"  Ah  yes,  dear  friend  !  in  our  young  days 

We  should  have  liked  to  hunt  the  deer 

All  day  amid  those  forest  scenes, 

And  to  sleep  in  the  tents  of  the  Tarratines  ; 

But  now  it  is  better  sitting  here 

Within  four  walls,  and  without  the  fear 

Of  losing  our  hearts  to  Indian  queens  ; 

For  man  is  fire  and  woman  is  tow, 

And  the  Somebody  comes   and   begins  to 

blow." 

Then  a  gleam  of  distrust  and  vague  sur 
mise 

Shines  in  the  father's  gentle  eyes, 
As  fire-light  on  a  window-pane 
Glimmers  and  vanishes  again  ; 
But  naught  he  answers  ;  he  only  sighs, 
And  for  a  moment  bows  his  head  ; 
Then,  as  their  custom  is,  they  play 


THE   STUDENT'S   SECOND  TALE 


261 


Their  little  game  of  lansquenet, 
And  another  day  is  with  the  dead. 

Another  day,  and  many  a  day 

And  many  a  week  and  month  depart, 

When  a  fatal  letter  wings  its  way 

Across  the  sea,  like  a  bird  of  prey, 

And  strikes  and  tears  the  old  man's  heart. 

Lo  !  the  young  Baron  of  St.  Castine, 

Swift  as  the  wind  is,  and  as  wild, 

Has  married  a  dusky  Tarratine, 

Has  married  Madocawando's  child  1 

The  letter  drops  from  the  father's  hand  ; 
Though  the  sinews  of  his  heart  are  wrung, 
He  utters  no  cry,  he  breathes  no  prayer, 
No  malediction  falls  from  his  tongue  ; 
But  his  stately  figure,  erect  and  grand, 
Bends  and  sinks  like  a  column  of  sand 
In  the  whirlwind  of  his  great  despair. 
Dying,  yes,  dying  !     His  latest  breath 
Of  parley  at  the  door  of  death 
Is  a  blessing  on  his  wayward  son. 
Lower  and  lower  on  his  breast 
Sinks  his  gray  head  ;  he  is  at  rest  ; 
No  longer  he  waits  for  any  one. 

For  many  a  year  the  old  chateau 
Lies  tenantless  and  desolate  ; 
Rank  grasses  in  the  courtyard  grow, 
About  its  gables  caws  the  crow  ; 
Only  the  porter  at  the  gate 
Is  left  to  guard  it,  and  to  wait 
The  coming  of  the  rightful  heir  ; 
No  other  life  or  sound  is  there  ; 
No  more  the  Curate  comes  at  night, 
No  more  is  seen  the  unsteady  light, 
Threading  the  alleys  of  the  park  ; 
The  windows  of  the  hall  are.  dark, 
The  chambers  dreary,  cold,  and  bare  ! 

At  length,  at  last,  when  the  winter  is  past, 
And    birds    are    building,  and    woods   are 

green, 

With  flying  skirts  is  the  Curate  seen 
Speeding  along  the  woodland  way, 
Humming  gayly,  "  No  day  is  so  long 
But  it  comes  at  last  to  vesper-song." 
He  stops  at  the  porter's  lodge  to  say 
That  at  last  the  Baron  of  St.  Castine 
Is  coming  home  with  his  Indian  queen, 
Is  coming  without  a  week's  delay  ; 
And  all  the  house  must  be  swept  and  clean, 
And  all  things  set  in  good  array  ! 
And  the  solemn  porter  shakes  his  head  ; 


And  the  answer  he  makes  is  :  "  Lackaday  1 
We  will  see,  as  the  blind  man  said  1 " 

Alert  since  first  the  day  began, 
The  cock  upon  the  village  church 
Looks  northward  from  his  airy  perch, 
As  if  beyond  the  ken  of  man 
To  see  the  ships  come  sailing  on, 
And  pass  the  Isle  of  Ole'ron, 
And  pass  the  Tower  of  Cordouan. 

In  the  church  below  is  cold  in  clay 

The  heart  that  would  have  leaped  for  joy  — 

O  tender  heart  of  truth  and  trust  !  — 

To  see  the  corning  of  that  day  ; 

In  the  church  below  the  lips  are  dust  ; 

Dust  are  the  hands,  and  dust  the  feet 

That  would  have  been  so  swift  to  meet 

The  coming  of  that  wayward  boy. 

At  night  the  front  of  the  old  chateau 
Is  a  blaze  of  light  above  and  below  ; 
There  's  a  sound  of  wheels  and  hoofs  in  the 

street, 

A  cracking  of  whips,  and  scamper  of  feet, 
Bells  are  ringing,  and  horns  are  blown, 
And  the  Baron  hath  come  again  to  his  own. 
The  Curate  is  waiting  in  the  hall, 
Most  eager  and  alive  of  all 
To  welcome  the  Baron  and  Baroness  ; 
But  his  mind  is  full  of  vague  distress, 
For  he  hath  read  in  Jesuit  books 
Of  those  children  of  the  wilderness, 
And  now,  good,  simple  man  !  he  looks 
To  see  a  painted  savage  stride 
Into  the  room,  with  shoulders  bare, 
And  eagle  feathers  in  her  hair, 
And  around  her  a  robe  of  panther's  hide. 

Instead,  he  beholds  with  secret  shame 
A  form  of  beauty  undefined, 
A  loveliness  without  a  name, 
Not  of  degree,  but  more  of  kind  ; 
Nor  bold  nor  shy,  nor  short  nor  tall, 
But  a  new  mingling  of  them  all. 
Yes,  beautiful  beyond  belief, 
Transfigured  and  transfused,  he  sees 
The  lady  of  the  Pyrenees, 
The  daughter  of  the  Indian  chief. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  her  hair 
The  gold-bronze  color  of  the  skin 
Seems  lighted  by  a  fire  within, 
As  when  a  burst  of  sunlight  shines 
Beneath  a  sombre  grove  of  pines,  — 
A  dusky  splendor  in  the  air. 


262 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


The  two  small  hands,  that  now  are  pressed 

In  his,  seem  made  to  be  caressed, 

They  lie  so  warm  and  soft  and  still, 

Like  birds  half  hidden  in  a  nest, 

Trustful,  and  innocent  of  ill. 

And  ah  !  he  cannot  believe  his  ears 

When  her  melodious  voice  he  hears 

Speaking  his  native  Gascon  tongue  ; 

The  words  she  utters  seem  to  be 

Part  of  some  poem  of  Goudouli, 

They  are  not  spoken,  they  are  sung  ! 

And  the  Baron  smiles,  and  says,  "  You  see, 

I  told  you  but  the  simple  truth  ; 

Ah,  you  may  trust  the  eyes  of  youth  !  " 

Down  in  the  village  day  by  day 

The  people  gossip  in  their  way, 

And  stared  to  see  the  Baroness  pass 

On  Sunday  morning  to  early  mass  ; 

And  when  she  kneeleth  down  to  pray, 

They  wonder,  and  whisper  together,  and  say 

"  Surely  this  is  no  heathen  lass  !  " 

And  in  course  of  time  they  learn  to  bless 

The  Baron  and  the  Baroness. 

And  in  course  of  time  the  Curate  learns 

A  secret  so  dreadful,  that  by  turns 

He  is  ice  and  fire,  he  freezes  and  burns. 

The  Baron  at  confession  hath  said, 

That  though  this  woman  be  his  wife, 

He  hath  wed  her  as  the  Indians  wed, 

He  hath  bought  her  for  a  gun  and  a  knife  ! 

And  the  Curate  replies  :  "  O  profligate, 

O  Prodigal  Son  !  return  once  more 

To  the  open  arms  and  the  open  door 

Of  the  Church,  or  ever  it  be  too  late. 

Thank  God,  thy  father  did  not  live 

To  see  what  he  could  not  forgive  ; 

On  thee,  so  reckless  and  perverse, 

He  left  his  blessing,  not  his  curse. 

But  the  nearer  the  dawn  the   darker .  the 

night, 

And  by  going  wrong  all  things  come  right  ; 
Things  have  been  mended  that  were  worse, 
And  the  worse,  the  nearer  they  are  to  mend. 
For  the  sake  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Thou  shalt  be  wed  as  Christians  wed, 
And  all  things  come  to  a  happy  end." 

O  sun,  that  followest  the  night, 
In  yon  blue  sky,  serene  and  pure, 
And  pourest  thine  impartial  light 
Alike  on  mountain  and  on  moor, 
Pause  for  a  moment  in  thy  course, 
Aiid  bless  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  I 


O  Gave,  that  from  thy  hidden  source 
In  yon  mysterious  mountain-side 
Pursuest  thy  wandering  way  alone, 
And  leaping  down  its  steps  of  stone, 
Along  the  meadow-lands  demure 
Stealest  away  to  the  A  dour, 
Pause  for  a  moment  in  thy  course 
To  bless  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  ! 

The  choir  is  singing  the  matin  song, 
The  doors  of  the  church  are  opened  wide, 
The  people  crowd,  and  press,  and  throng 
To  see  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 
They  enter  and  pass  along  the  nave  ; 
They  stand  upon  the  father's  grave  ; 
The  bells  are  ringing  soft  and  slow  ; 
The  living  above  and  the  dead  below 
Give  their  blessing  on  one  and  twain  ; 
The    warm  wind  blows   from   the  hills  of 

Spain, 
The    birds   are   building,   the   leaves    are 

green, 

And  Baron  Castine  of  St.  Castine 
Hath  come  at  last  to  his  own  again. 


FINALE 

"  Nunc  plaudite  !  "  the  Student  cried, 

When  he  had  finished  ;  "now  applaud, 

As  Roman  actors  used  to  say 

At  the  conclusion  of  a  play  ;  " 

And  rose,  and  spread  his  hands  abroad, 

And  smiling  bowed  from  side  to  side, 

As  one  who  bears  the  palm  away. 

And  generous  was  the  applause  and  loud, 
But  less  for  him  than  for  the  sun, 
That  even  as  the  tale  was  done 
Burst  from  its  canopy  of  cloud, 
And  lit  the  landscape  with  the  blaze 
Of  afternoon  on  autumn  days, 
And  filled  the  room  with  light,  and  made 
The  fire  of  logs  a  painted  shade. 

A  sudden  wind  from  out  the  west 
Blew  all  its  trumpets  loud  and  shrill  ; 
The  windows  rattled  with  the  blast, 
The  oak-trees  shouted  as  it  passed, 
And  straight,  as  if  by  fear  possessed, 
The  cloud  encampment  on  the  hill 
Broke  up,  and  fluttering  flag  and  tent 
Vanished  into  the  firmament, 
And  down  the  valley  fled  amain 
The  rear  of  the  retreating  rain. 


PRELUDE 


263 


Only  fur  up  in  the  blue  sky 

A  mass  of  clouds,  like  drifted  snow 

Suffused  with  a  faint  Alpine  glow, 

Was  heaped  together,  vast  and  high, 

On  which  a  shattered  rainbow  hung, 

Not  rising  like  the  ruined  arch 

Of  some  aerial  aqueduct, 

But  like  a  roseate  garland  plucked 

From  an  Olympian  god,  and  Hung 

Aside  in  his  triumphal  march. 

Like  prisoners  from  their  dungeon  gloom, 
Like  birds  escaping  from  a  snare, 
Like  school-boys  at  the  hour  of  play, 
All  left  at  once  the  pent-up  room, 
And  rushed  into  the  open  air  ; 
And  no  more  tales  were  told  that  day. 


PART   THIRD 
PRELUDE 

THE  evening  came  ;  the  golden  vane 
A  moment  in  the  sunset  glanced, 
Then  darkened,  and  then  gleamed  again, 
As  from  the  east  the  moon  advanced 
And  touched  it  with  a  softer  light  ; 
While  underneath,  with  flowing  mane, 
Upon  the  sign  the  Red  Horse  pranced, 
And  galloped  forth  into  the  night. 

But  brighter  than  the  afternoon 
That  followed  the  dark  day  of  rain, 
And  brighter  than  the  golden  vane 
That  glistened  in  the  rising  moon, 
Within,  the  ruddy  fire-light  gleamed  ; 
And  every  separate  window-pane, 
Backed  by  the  outer  darkness,  showed 
A  mirror,  where  the  flamelets  gleamed 
And  flickered  to  and  fro,  and  seemed 
A  bonfire  lighted  in  the  road. 

Amid  the  hospitable  glow, 
Like  an  old  actor  on  the  stage, 
With  the  uncertain  voice  of  age, 
The  singing  chimney  chanted  low 
The  homely  songs  of  long  ago. 

The  voice  that  Ossian  heard  of  yore, 
When  midnight  winds  were  in  his  hall  ; 
A  ghostly  and  appealing  call, 
A  sound  of  days  that  are  no  more  ! 
And  dark  as  Ossian  sat  the  Jew, 
And  listened  to  the  sound,  and  knew 


The  passing  of  the  airy  hosts, 
The  gray  and  misty  cloud  of  ghosts 
In  their  interminable  flight  ; 
And  listening  muttered  in  his  beard, 
With  accent  indistinct  and  weird, 
Who  are  ye,  children  of  the  Night  ?  " 

Beholding  his  mysterious  face, 
Tell  me,"  the  gay  Sicilian  said, 
Why  was  it  that  in  breaking  bread 
At  supper,  you  bent  down  your  head 
And,  musing,  paused  a  little  space, 
As  one  who  says  a  silent  grace  ?  " 

The  Jew  replied,  with  solemn  air, 

I  said  the  Mauichsean's  prayer. 
It  was  his  faith,  —  perhaps  is  mine,  — 
That  life  in  all  its  forms  is  one, 
And  that  its  secret  conduits  run 
Unseen,  but  in  unbroken  line, 
From  the  great  fountain-head  divine 
Through  man  and  beast,  through  grain  and 

grass. 

Howe'er  we  struggle,  strive,  and  cry, 
From  death  there  can  be  no  escape, 
And  no  escape  from  life,  alas  ! 
Because  we  cannot  die,  but  pass 
From  one  into  another  shape  : 
It  is  but  into  life  we  die. 

Therefore  the  Manichsean  said 
This  simple  prayer  on  breaking  bread, 
Lest  he  with  hasty  hand  or  knife 
Might  wound  the  incarcerated  life, 
The  soul  in  things  that  we  call  dead  : 
*  I  did  not  reap  thee,  did  not  bind  thee, 
I  did  not  thrash  thee,  did  not  grind  thee, 
Nor  did  I  in  the  oven  bake  thee  ! 
It  was  not  I,  it  was  another 
Did  these  things  unto  thee,  O  brother  ; 
I  only  have  thee,  hold  thee,  break  thee  ! ' ' 

"  That  birds  have  souls  I  can  concede," 

The  Poet  cried,  with  glowing  cheeks  ; 

"  The  flocks  that  from  their  beds  of  reed 

Uprising  north  or  southward  fly, 

And  flying  write  upon  the  sky 

The  bi'forked  letter  of  the  Greeks, 

As  hath  been  said  by  Rucellai  ; 

All  birds  that  sing  or  chirp  or  cry, 

Even  those  migratory  bands, 

The  minor  poets  of  the  air, 

The  plover,  peep,  and  sanderling, 

That  hardly  can  be  said  to  sing, 

But  pipe  along  the  barren  sands,  — 


264 


TALES    OF   A    WAYSIDE   INN 


All  these  have  souls  akin  to  ours  ; 

So  hath  the  lovely  race  of  flowers  : 

Thus  much  I  grant,  but  nothing  more. 

The  rusty  hinges  of  a  door 

Are  not  alive  because  they  creak  ; 

This  ehimne}',  with  its  dreary  roar, 

These  rattling  windows,  do  not  speak  !  " 

"  To  me  they  speak,"  the  Jew  replied  ; 

"  And  in  the  sounds  tiiat  sink  and  soar, 

I  hear  the  voices  of  a  tide 

That  breaks  upon  an  unknown  shore  ! " 

Here  the  Sicilian  interfered  : 
"  That  was  your  dream,  then,  as  you  dozed 
A  moment  since,  with  eyes  half-closed, 
And  murmured  something  in  your  beard." 
The  Hebrew  smiled,  and  answered,  "Kay  ; 
Not  that,  but  something  very  near  ; 
Like,  and  yet  not  the  same,  may  seem 
The  vision  of  my  waking  dream  ; 
Before  it  wholly -dies  away, 
Listen  to  me,  and  you  shall  hear." 


THE   SPANISH   JEW'S   TALE 
AZRAEL 

KING  SOLOMON,  before  his  palace  gate 
At  evening,  on  the  pavement  tessellate 
Was  walking  with  a  stranger  from  the 

East, 

Arrayed  in  rich  attire  as  for  a  feast, 
The  mighty  Runjeet-Sing,  a  learned  man, 
And  Rajah  of  the  realms  of  Hindostan. 
And  as    they    walked   the    guest    became 

aware 

Of  a  white  figure  in  the  twilight  air, 
Gazing  intent,  as  one  who  with  surprise 
His  form   and  features  seemed  to  recog 
nize  ; 

And  in  a  whisper  to  the  king  he  said  : 
"  What   is   yon  shape,  that,  pallid  as  the 

dead, 

Is  watching  me,  as  if  he  sought  to  trace 
In  the  dim  light  the  features  of  my  face  ?  " 

The   king  looked,  and  replied  :  "  I  know 

him  well  ; 

It  is  the  Angel  men  call  Azrael, 
'T  is  the  Death  Angel ;  what  hast  thou  to 

fear  ?  " 
And  the  guest  answered  :  "  Lest  he  should 

come  near, 


And   speak    to    me,    and    take    away    my 

breath  ! 
Save    me    from    Azrael,   save    me    from 

death  ! 

0  king,  that  hast  dominion  o'er  the  wind, 
Bid  it  arise  and  bear  me  hence  to  Ind." 

The  king  gazed    upward  at  the  cloudless 

sky, 
Whispered  a  word,  and  raised  his  hand  on 

high, 

And  lo  !  the  signet-ring  of  chrysoprase 
On  his  uplifted  finger  seemed  to  blaze 
With  hidden  fire,  and    rushing   from   the 

west 
There  came  a  mighty  wind,  and  seized  the 

guest 
And    lifted  him  from  earth,  and  on  they 

passed, 
His    shining   garments    streaming    in    the 

blast, 

A  silken  banner  o'er  the  walls  upreared, 
A  purple  cloud,  that  gleamed  and  disap 
peared. 
Then    said    the    Angel,  smiling  :  "  If  this 

man 

Be  Rajah  Runjeet-Sing  of  Hindostan, 
Thou  hast    done    well  in    listening  to   his 

prayer  ; 

1  was  upon  my  way  to  seek  him  there." 


INTERLUDE 

"  O  EDREHI,  forbear  to-night 
Your  ghostly  k-gends  of  affright, 
And  let  the  Talmud  rest  in  peace  ; 
Spare  us  your  dismal  tales  of  death 
That  almost  take  away  one's  breath  ; 
So  doing,  may  your  tribe  increase." 

Thus  the  Sicilian  said  ;  then  went 
And  on  the  spinet's  rattling  keys 
Played  Marianina,  like  a  breeze 
From  Naples  and  the  Southern  seas, 
That  brings  us  the  delicious  scent 
Of  citron  and  of  oraitgc  trees, 
And  memories  of  soft  days  of  ease 
At  Capri  and  Amalfi  spent. 

"  Not  so,"  the  eager  Poet  said  ; 
"  At  least,  not  so  before  I  tell 
The  story  of  my  Azrael, 
An  angel  mortal  as  ourselves, 
Which  in  an  ancient  tome  I  found 


THE   POET'S   TALE 


265 


Upon  a  convent's  dusty  shelves, 
Chained  with  an  iron  chain,  and  bound 
In  parchment,  and  with  clasps  of  brass, 
Lest  from  its  prison,  some  dark  day, 
It  might  be  stolen  or  steal  away, 
While  the  good  friars  were  singing  mass. 

"  It  is  a  tale  of  Charlemagne, 
When  like  a  thunder-cloud,  that  lowers 
And  sweeps  from  mountain-crest  to  coast, 
With  lightning  flaming  through  its  show 
ers, 

He  swept  across  the  Lombard  plain, 
Beleaguering  with  his  warlike  train 
Pavia,  the  country's  pride  and  boast, 
The  City  of  the  Hundred  Towers." 

Thus  heralded  the  tale  began, 
And  thus  in  sober  measure  ran. 


THE  POET'S   TALE 
CHARLEMAGNE 

OLGER  the  Dane  and  Desiderio, 

King  of  the  Lombards,  on  a  lofty  tower 

Stood   gazing   northward   o'er   the   rolling 

plains, 
League   after   league   of  harvests,   to  the 

foot 

Of  the  snow-crested  Alps,  and  saw  ap 
proach 

A  mighty  army,  thronging  all  the  roads 
That  led  into  the  city.     And  the  King 
Said  unto  Olger,  who  had  passed  his  youth 
As   hostage   at  the   court  of  France,   and 

knew 

The  Emperor's  form  and  face  :  "  Is  Char 
lemagne 

Among  that  host  ?  "  And  Olger  answered  : 
"  No." 

And  still  the  innumerable  multitude 

Flowed  onward  and  increased,  until  the 
King 

Cried  in  amazement  :  "  Surely  Charle 
magne 

Is  coming  in  the  midst  of  all  these 
knights  !  " 

And  Olger  answered  slowly  :  "  No  ;  not 
yet; 

He  will  not  come  so  soon."  Then  much 
disturbed 

King  Desiderio  asked  :  "  What  shall  we  do, 


If  he  approach  with  a  still  greater  army  ?  " 
And  Oiger   answered  :     "  When   he   shall 

appear, 

You  will  behold  what  manner  of  man  he  is  ; 
But  what  will  then  befall  us  I  know  not." 

Then  came   the   guard   that    never   knew 

repose, 

The  Paladins  of  France  ;  and  at  the  sight 
The  Lombard  King  o'ercome  with  terror 

cried  : 
"  This    must    be    Charlemagne  !  "   and   as 

before 
Did   Olger   answer :    "  No ;   not  yet,   not 

yet." 

And  then  appeared  in  panoply  complete 
The    Bishops    and    the    Abbots    and    the 

Priests 

Of  the  imperial  chapel,  and  the  Counts  ; 
And  Desiderio  could  no  more  endure 
The  light  of  day,  nor  yet  encounter  death, 
But  sobbed  aloud  and  said  :     "  Let  us  go 

down 

And  hide  us  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 
Far  from  the  sight  and  anger  of  a  foe 
So  terrible  as  this  !  "     And  Olger  said  : 
"  When   you   behold   the   harvests   in  the 

fields 

Shaking  with  fear,  the  Po  and  the  Ticino 
Lashing  the  city  walls  with  iron  waves, 
Then  may  you  know  that  Charlemagne  is 

come." 

And  even  as  he  spake,  in  the  northwest, 
Lo  !  there  uprose  a  black  and  threatening 

cloud, 
Out  of  whose  bosom  flashed  the  light  of 

arms 

Upon  the  people  pent  up  in  the  city  ; 
A  light  more  terrible  than  any  darkness, 
And  Charlemagne  appeared;  —  a  Man  of 

Iron  ! 

His  helmet  was  of  iron,  and  his  gloves 
Of  iron,  and  his  breastplate  and  his  greaves 
And  tassets  were  of  iron,  and  his  shield. 
In  his  left  hand  he  held  an  iron  spear, 
In  his  right  hand  his  sword  invincible. 
The  horse  he  rode  on  had  the  strength  of 

iron, 
And  color  of  iron.     All  who  went  before 

him, 

Beside  him  and  behind  him,  his  whole  host, 
Were  armed  with  iron,    and   their   hearts 

within  them 


266 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


Were  stronger  than  the  armor  that  they 

wore. 
The  fields  and  all   the  roads   were   filled 

with  iron, 

And  points  of  iron  glistened  in  the  sun 
And  shed  a  terror  through  the  city  streets. 

This  at  a  single  glance  Olger  the  Dane 
Saw  from  the  tower,  and   turning  to  the 

King 
Exclaimed  in  haste  :    "  Behold  !  this  is  the 

man 
You  looked  for  with  such  eagerness  ! "  and 

then 
Fell  as  one  dead  at  Desiderio's  feet. 


INTERLUDE 

WELL  pleased  all  listened  to  the  tale, 

That  drew,  the  Student  said,  its  pith 

And  marrow  from  the  ancient  myth 

Of  some  one  with  an  iron  flail  ; 

Or  that  portentous  Man  of  Brass 

Hephaestus  made  in  days  of  yore, 

Who  stalked  about  the  Cretan  shore, 

And  saw  the  ships  appear  and  pass, 

And  threw  stones  at  the  Argonauts, 

Being  filled  with  indiscriminate  ire 

That  tangled  and  perplexed  his  thoughts  ; 

But,  like  a  hospitable  host, 

When  strangers  landed  on  the  coast, 

Heated  himself  red-hot  with  fire, 

And  hugged  them  in  his  arms,  and  pressed 

Their  bodies  to  his  burning  breast. 

The  Poet  answered  :    "  No,  not  thus 

The  legend  rose  ;  it  sprang  at  first 

Out  of  the  hunger  and  the  thirst 

In  all  men  for  the  marvellous. 

And  thus  it  filled  and  satisfied 

The  imagination  of  mankind, 

And  this  ideal  to  the  mind 

Was  truer  than  historic  fact. 

Fancy  enlarged  and  multiplied 

The  terrors  of  the  awful  name 

Of  Charlemagne,  till  he  became 

Armipotent  in  every  act, 

And,  clothed  in  mystery,  appeared 

Not  what  men  saw,  but  what  they  feared. 

"  Besides,  unless  my  memory  fail, 
Your  some  one  with  an  iron  flail 
Is  not  an  ancient  myth  at  all, 
But  comes  much  later  on  the  scene 


As  Talus  in  the  Faerie  Queene, 

The  iron  groom  of  Artegall, 

Who  threshed  out  falsehood  and  deceit, 

And  truth  upheld,  and  righted  wrong, 

And  was,  as  is  the  swallow,  fleet, 

And  as  the  lion  is,  was  strong." 

The  Theologian  said  :    "  Perchance 

Your  chronicler  in  writing  this 

Had  in  his  mind  the  Anabasis, 

Where  Xenophon  describes  the  advance 

Of  Artaxerxes  to  the  fight  ; 

At  first  the  low  gray  cloud  of  dust, 

And  then  a  blackness  o'er  the  fields 

As  of  a  passing  thunder-gust, 

Then  flash  of  brazen  armor  bright, 

And  ranks  of  men,  and  spears  up-thrust, 

Bowmen  and  troops  with  wicker  shields, 

And  cavalry  equipped  in  white, 

And  chariots  ranged  in  front  of  these 

With  scythes  upon  their  axle-trees." 

To  this  the  Student  answered  :  "  Well, 
I  also  have  a  tale  to  tell 
Of  Charlemagne  ;  a  tale  that  throws 
A  softer  light,  more  tinged  with  rose, 
Than  your  grim  apparition  cast 
Upon  the  darkness  of  the  past. 
Listen,  and  hear  in  English  rhyme 
What  the  good  Monk  of  Lauresheim 
Gives  as  the  gossip  of  his  time, 
In  mediaeval  Latin  prose." 


THE  STUDENT'S  TALE 
EMMA    A.ND    EGINHARD 

WHEN  Alcuin  taught  the  sons  of  Charle 
magne, 
In  the  free  schools  of  Aix,  how  kings  should 

reign, 
And  with  them  taught  the  children  of  the 

poor 

How  subjects  should  be  patient  and  endure, 
He  touched  the  lips  of  some,  as  best  befit, 
With  honey  from  the  hives  of  Holy  Writ ; 
Others  intoxicated  with  the  wine 
Of  ancient  history,  sweet  but  less  divine  ; 
Some  with  the  wholesome  fruits  of  grammar 

fed; 

Others  with  mysteries  of  the  stars  o'erheacl, 
That  hang  suspended  in  the  vaulted  sky 
Like  lamps  in  some  fair   palace  vast  and 
high. 


THE   STUDENT'S   TALE 


267 


In  sooth,  it  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see 
That  Saxon  monk,  with  hood  and  rosary, 
With  inkhorn  at  his  belt,  and  pen  and  book, 
And  mingled  love  and  reverence  in  his  look, 
Or  hear  the  cloister  and  the  court  repeat 
The  measured  footfalls  of  his  sandaled  feet, 
Or  watch  him  with  the  pupils  of  his  school, 
Gentle  of  speech,  but  absolute  of  rule. 

Among  them,  always  earliest  in  his  place, 
Was  Eginhard,  a  youth  of  Prankish  race, 
Whose  face  was  bright  with  flashes  that 

forerun 

The  splendors  of  a  yet  unrisen  sun. 
To  him  all  things  were  possible,  and  seemed 
Not  what  he  had   accomplished,    but  had 

dreamed, 
And  what   were  tasks  to  others  were  his 


The  pastime  of  an  idle  holiday. 

Smaragdo,  Abbot  of  St.  Michael's,  said, 
With   many   a  shrug  and   shaking  of  the 

head, 

Surely  some  demon  must  possess  the  lad, 
Who  showed  more  wit  than  ever  school-boy 

had, 
And   learned  his  Trivium  thus  without  the 

rod  ; 
But  Alcuin  said  it  was  the  grace  of  God. 

Thus  he  grew  up,  in  Logic  point-device, 
Perfect  in  Grammar,  and  in  Rhetoric  nice  ; 
Science  of  Numbers,  Geometric  art, 
And  lore   of   Stars,  and   Music  knew  by 

heart  ; 

A  Minnesinger,  long  before  the  times 
Of  those  who  sang  their  love  in  Suabian 

rhymes. 

The  Emperor,  when  he   heard  this  good 

report 

Of  Eginhard  much  buzzed  about  the  court, 
Said  to  himself,  "  This  stripling  seems  to  be 
Purposely  sent  into  the  world  for  me  ; 
He  shall  become  my  scribe,  and  shall  be 

schooled 

In  all  the  arts  whereby  the  world  is  ruled." 
Thus  did  the  gentle  Eginhard  attain 
To  honor  in  the  court  of  Charlemagne  ; 
Became  the  sovereign's  favorite,  his  right 

hand, 

So  that  his  fame  was  great  in  all  the  land, 
And  all  men  loved  him  for  his  modest  grace 
And  comeliness  of  figure  and  of  face. 


An  inmate  of  the  palace,  yet  recluse, 
A  man  of  books,  yet  sacred  from  abuse 
Among   the   armed   knights  with  spur  on 

heel, 

The  tramp  of  horses  and  the  clang  of  steel  ; 
And  as  the  Emperor  promised  he  was 

schooled 

In  all  the  arts  by  which  the  world  is  ruled. 
But  the  one  art  supreme,  whose  law  is  fate, 
The  Emperor  never  dreamed  of  till  too 

late. 

Home  from  her  convent  to  the  palace  came 
The  lovely  Princess  Emma,  whose  sweet 

name, 

Whispered  by  seneschal  or  sung  by  bard, 
Had  often  touched  the  soul  of  Eginhard. 
He  saw  her  from  his  window,  as  in  state 
She  came,  by  knights  attended  through  the 

gate  ; 

He  saw  her  at  the  banquet  of  that  day, 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  beautiful  as  May  ; 
He  saw  her  in  the  garden,  as  she  strayed 
Among   the   flowers   of  summer  with  her 

maid, 

And  said  to  him,  "  O  Eginhard,  disclose 
The  meaning  and  the  mystery  of  the  rose  ;  " 
And  trembling  he  made  answer  :  "  In  good 

sooth, 
Its  mystery  is  love,  its  meaning  youth  ! " 

How  can  I  tell  the  signals  and  the  signs 
By  which  one  heart  another  heart  divines  ? 
How  can  I  tell  the  many  thousand  ways 
By  which  it  keeps  the  secret  it  betrays  ? 

O  mystery  of  love  !     O  strange  romance  ! 
Among  the  Peers  and  Paladins  of  France, 
Shining  in  steel,  and  prancing  on  gay  steeds, 
Noble  by  birth,  yet  nobler  by  great  deeds, 
The  Princess  Emma  had  no  words  nor  looks 
But  for  this  clerk,  this  man  of  thought  and 
books. 

The  summer  passed,  the  autumn  came  ;  the 

stalks 

Of  lilies  blackened  in  the  garden  walks  ; 
The  leaves  fell,  russet-golden  and  blood-red, 
Love-letters  thought  the  poet  fancy-led, 
Or  Jove  descending  in  a  shower  of  gold 
Into  the  lap  of  Danae  of  eld  ; 
For  poets  cherish  many  a  strange  conceit, 
And  love  transmutes  all  nature  by  its  heat. 
No  more  the  garden  lessons,  nor  the  dark 
And  hurried  meetings  in  the  twilight  park  ; 


268 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


But  now  the  studious  lamp,  and  the  de 
lights 

Of  firesides  in  the  silent  winter  nights, 

And  watching1  from  his  window  hour  by 
hour 

The  light  that  burned  in  Princess  Emma's 
tower. 

At  length  one  night,  while  musing  by  the 

tire, 

O'ercome  at  last  by  his  insane  desire,  — 
For  what  will  reckless   love   not   do   and 

dare  ? 

He  crossed  the  court,  and  climbed  the  wind 
ing  stair, 

With  some  feigned  message  in  the  Em 
peror's  name  ; 

But  when  he  to  the  lady's  presence  came 
He  knelt  clown  at  her  feet,  until  she  laid 
Her  hand  upon  him,  like  a  naked  blade, 
And    whispered   in   his    ear :    "  Arise,  Sir 

Knight, 
To  my  heart's  level,  O  my  heart's  delight." 

And    there    he    lingered    till  the   crowing 

cock, 
The  Alectryon  of  the    farmyard   and   the 

flock, 

Sang  his  aubade  with  lusty  voice  and  clear, 
To  tell  the  sleeping  world  that  dawn  was 

near. 

And  then  they  parted  ;  but  at  parting,  lo  ! 
They  saw  the  palace  courtyard  white  with 

snow, 

And,  placid  as  a  nun,  the  moon  on  high 
Gazing  from  cloudy  cloisters  of  the  sky. 
"  Alas  !  "  he  said,  "  how  hide  the  fatal  line 
Of    footprints    leading    from    thy  door   to 

mine, 

And  none  returning  !  "     Ah,  he  little  knew 
What  woman's  wit,  when  put  to  proof,  can 

do  ! 

That  night  the  Emperor,  sleepless  with  the 

cares 

And  troubles  that  attend  on  state  affairs, 
Had   risen    before   the  dawn,  and  musing 

gazed 

Into  the  silent  night,  as  one  amazed 
To    see    the    calm    that    reigned    o'er    all 

supreme, 
When  his  own   reign  was   but  a  troubled 

dream. 
The  moon  lit  up  the   gables  capped  with 

snow, 


And    the  white    roofs,  and  half  the  court 

below, 
And    he    beheld  a  form,  that   seemed    to 

cower 
Beneath    a   burden,   come    from    Emma's 

tower,  — 

A  woman,  who  upon  her  shoulders  bore 
Clerk  Eginhard  to  his  own  private  door, 
And  then  returned  in  haste,  but  still 

essayed 
To   tread    the    footprints    she  herself  had 

made  ; 

And  as  she  passed  across  the  lighted  space, 
The    Emperor    saw  his  daughter  Emma's 

face  ! 

He  started  not  ;  he  did  not  speak  or  moan, 
But  seemed  as  one  who  hath  been  turned  to 

stone  ; 

And  stood  there  like  a  statue,  nor  awoke 
Out   of    his    trance  of    pain,  till    morning 

broke, 
Till  the  stars   faded,  and  the  moon  went 

down, 
And  o'er  the  towers  and  steeples  of   the 

town 
Came  the  gray  daylight  ;  then  the  sun,  who 

took 
The  em]  ire  of   the  world  with   sovereign 

look, 

Suffusing  with  a  soft  and  golden  glow 
All   the    dead  landscape  in   its   shroud  of 

snow, 
Touching  with  flame  the  tapering  chapel 

spires, 

Windows  and  roofs,  and  smoke  of  house 
hold  fires, 

And  kindling  park  and  palace  as  he  came  ; 
The  stork's  nest  on  the  chimney  seemed  in 

flame. 

And  thus  he  stood  till  Eginhard  appeared, 
Demure  and  modest  with  his  comely  beard 
And  flowing  flaxen  tresses,  come  to  ask, 
As  was  his  wont,  the  day's  appointed  task. 
The    Emperor    looked   upon    him   with   a 

smile, 
And    gently   said :     "My    son,    wait    yet 

awhile  ; 
This   hour   my  council   meets   upon  some 

great 

And  very  urgent  business  of  the  state. 
Come   back  within  the  hour.     On  thy  re 
turn 

The   work   appointed   for  thee   shalt  thou 
learn." 


INTERLUDE 


269 


Having  dismissed  this  gallant  Troubadour, 
He    summoned   straight   his   council,   and 

secure 
And   steadfast   in   his   purpose,   from  the 

throne 
All    the    adventure    of    the    night     made 

known  ; 
Then  asked  for  sentence  ;  and  with  eager 

breath 
Some    answered    banishment,   and   others 

death. 

Then  spake  the  king  :  "  Your  sentence  is 
not  mine  ; 

Life  is  the  gift  of  God,  and  is  divine  ; 

Nor  from  these  palace  walls  shall  one 
depart 

Who  carries  such  a  secret  in  his  heart  ; 

My  better  judgment  points  another  way. 

Good  Alcuin,  I  remember  how  one  day 

When  my  Pepino  asked  you,  *  What  are 
men  ? ' 

You  wrote  upon  his  tablets  with  your  pen, 

'Guests  of  the  grave  and  travellers  that 
pass  ! ' 

This  being  true  of  all  men,  we,  alas  ! 

Being  all  fashioned  of  the  selfsame  dust, 

Let  us  be  merciful  as  well  as  just ; 

This  passing  traveller  who  hath  stolen 
away 

The  brightest  jewel  of  my  crown  to-day, 

Shall  of  himself  the  precious  gem  re 
store  ; 

By  giving  it,  I  make  it  mine  once  more. 

Over  those  fatal  footprints  I  will  throw 

My  ermine  mantle  like  another  snow." 

Then    Eginhard    was    summoned    to    the 

hall, 

And  entered,  and  in  presence  of  them  all, 
The  Emperor  said  :  "  My  son,  for  thou  to 

me 

Hast  been  a  son,  and  evermore  shalt  be, 
Long  hast  thou  served  thy  sovereign,  and 

thy  zeal 

Pleads  to  me  with  importunate  appeal, 
While  I  have  been  forgetful  to  requite 
Thy  service  and  affection  as  was  right. 
But  now  the  hour  is  come,  when  I,  thy 

Lord, 
Will   crown  thy  love  with  such   supreme 

reward, 
A  gift  so  precious  kings  have  striven  in 

vain 
To  win  it  from  the  hands  of  Charlemagne." 


Then  sprang  the  portals  of  the  chamber 

wide, 

And  Princess  Emma  entered,  in  the  pride 
Of  birth  and  beauty,  that  in  part  o'ercame 
The  conscious  terror  and  the  blush  of 

shaine. 
And  the  good  Emperor  rose  up  from  his 

throne, 

And  taking  her  white  hand  within  his  own 
Placed  it  in  Eginhard's,  and  said  :  "  My 

son, 

This  is  the  gift  thy  constant  zeal  hath  won  ; 
Thus  I  repay  the  royal  debt  I  owe, 
And  cover  up  the  footprints  in  the  snow." 


INTERLUDE 

THUS  ran  the  Student's  pleasant  rhyme 
Of  Eginhard  and  love  and  youth  ; 
Some  doubted  its  historic  truth, 
But  while  they  doubted,  ne'ertheless 
Saw  in  it  gleams  of  truthfulness, 
And  thanked  the  Monk  of  Lauresheim. 

This  they  discussed  in  various  mood  ; 
Then  in  the  silence  that  ensued 
Was  heard  a  sharp  and  sudden  sound 
As  of  a  bowstring  snapped  in  air  ; 
And  the  Musician  with  a  bound 
Sprang  up  in  terror  from  his  chair, 
And  for  a  moment  listening  stood, 
Then  strode  across  the  room,  and  found 
His  dear,  his  darling  violin 
Still  lying  safe  asleep  within 
Its  little  cradle,  like  a  child 
That  gives  a  sudden  cry  of  pain, 
And  wakes  to  fall  asleep  again  ; 
And  as  he  looked  at  it  and  smiled, 
By  the  uncertain  light  beguiled, 
Despair  !     two   strings    were   broken    in 
twain. 

While  all  lamented  and  made  moan, 
With  many  a  sympathetic  word 
As  if  the  loss  had  been  their  own, 
Deeming  the  tones  they  might  have  heard 
Sweeter  than  they  had  heard  before, 
They  saw  the  Landlord  at  the  door, 
The  missing  man,  the  portly  Squire  ! 
He  had  not  entered,  but  he  stood 
With  both  arms  full  of  seasoned  wood, 
To  feed  the  much-devouring  fire, 
That  like  a  lion  in  a  cage 
Lashed  its  long  tail  and  roared  with  rage, 


270 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


The  missing  man  !    Ah,  yes,  they  said, 
Missing,  but  whither  had  he  fled  ? 
Where  had  he  hidden  himself  away  ? 
No  farther  than  the  barn  or  shed  ; 
He  had  not  hidden  himself,  nor  fled  ; 
How  should  he  pass  the  rainy  day 
But  in  his  barn  with  hens  and  hay, 
Or  mending  harness,  cart,  or  sled  ? 
Now,  having  come,  he  needs  must  stay 
And  tell  his  tale  as  well  as  they. 

The  Landlord  answered  only :  "  These 

Are  logs  from  the  dead  apple-trees 

Of  the  old  orchard  planted  here 

By  the  first  Howe  of  Sudbury. 

Nor  oak  nor  maple  has  so  clear 

A  flame,  or  burns  so  quietly, 

Or  leaves  an  ash  so  clean  and  white  ;  " 

Thinking  by  this  to  put  aside 

The  impending  tale  that  terrified  ; 

When  suddenly,  to  his  delight, 

The  Theologian  interposed, 

Saying  that  when  the  door  was  closed, 

And  they  had  stopped  that  draft  of  cold, 

Unpleasant  night  air,  he  proposed 

To  tell  a  tale  world-wide  apart 

From  that  the  Student  had  just  told  ; 

World-wide  apart,  and  yet  akin, 

As  showing  that  the  human  heart 

Beats  on  forever  as  of  old, 

As  well  beneath  the  snow-white  fold 

Of  Quaker  kerchief,  as  within 

Sendal  or  silk  or  cloth  of  gold, 

And  without  preface  would  begin. 

And  then  the  clamorous  clock  struck  eight, 

Deliberate,  with  sonorous  chime 

Slow  measuring  out  the  march  of  time, 

Like  some  grave  Consul  of  Old  Rome 

In  Jupiter's  temple  driving  home 

The    nails    that    marked    the    year    and 

date. 

Thus  interrupted  in  his  rhyme, 
The  Theologian  needs  must  wait  ; 
But  quoted  Horace,  where  he  sings 
The  dire  Necessity  of  things, 
That  drives  into  the  roofs  sublime 
Of  new-built  houses  of  the  great 
The  adamantine  nails  of  Fate. 

When  ceased  the  little  carillon 
To  herald  from  its  wooden  tower 
The  important  transit  of  the  hour, 
The  Theologian  hastened  on, 
Content  to  be  allowed  at  last 
To  sing  his  Idyl  of  the  Past. 


THE  THEOLOGIAN'S  TALE 
ELIZABETH 


"  AH,  how  short  are  the  days  !  How  soon 
the  night  overtakes  us  ! 

In  the  old  country  the  twilight  is  longer  ; 
but  here  in  the  forest 

Suddenly  comes  the  dark,  with  hardly  a 
pause  in  its  coming, 

Hardly  a  moment  between  the  two  lights, 
the  day  and  the  lamplight  ; 

Yet  how  grand  is  the  winter  !  How  spot 
less  the  snow  is,  and  perfect  1  " 

Thus  spake  Elizabeth  Haddon  at  night 
fall  to  Hannah  the  housemaid, 

As  in  the  farm-house  kitchen,  that  served 
for  kitchen  and  parlor, 

By  the  window  she  sat  with  her  work,  and 
looked  on  the  landscape 

White  as  the  great  white  sheet  that  Peter 
saw  in  his  vision, 

By  the  four  corners  let  down  and  descend 
ing  out  of  the  heavens. 

Covered  with  snow  were  the  forests  of  pine, 
and  the  fields  and  the  meadows. 

Nothing  was  dark  but  the  sky,  and  the  dis 
tant  Delaware  flowing 

Down  from  its  native  hills,  a  peaceful  and 
bountiful  river. 

Then  with  a  smile  on  her  lips  made  an 
swer  Hannah  the  housemaid  : 

"  Beautiful  winter  !  yea,  the  winter  is  beau 
tiful,  surely, 

If  one  could  only  walk  like  a  fly  with  one's 
feet  on  the  ceiling. 

But  the  great  Delaware  River  is  not  like 
the  Thames,  as  we  saw  it 

Out  of  our  upper  windows  in  Rotherhithe 
Street  in  the  Borough, 

Crowded  with  masts  and  sails  of  vessels 
coming  and  going  ; 

Here  there  is  nothing  but  pines,  with 
patches  of  snow  on  their  branches. 

There  is  snow  in  the  air,  and  see  !  it  is  fall 
ing  already ; 

All  the  roads  will  be  blocked,  and  I  pity 
Joseph  to-morrow, 

Breaking  his  way  through  the  drifts,  with 
his  sled  and  oxen  ;  and  then,  too, 

How  in  all  the  world  shall  we  get  to  Meet 
ing  on  First-Day  ?  " 


THE  THEOLOGIAN'S   TALE 


271 


But  Elizabeth  checked  her,  and  answered, 

mildly  reproving  : 
"  Surely  the  Lord  will  provide  ;  for  unto 

the  snow  He  sayeth, 
Be  thou  on  the  earth,  the  good  Lord  sayeth  ; 

He  is  it 
Giveth  snow  like  wool,  like  ashes  scatters 

the  hoar-frost." 
So  she  folded  her  work  and  laid  it  away  in 

her  basket. 

Meanwhile   Hannah  the  housemaid  had 

closed  and  fastened  the  shutters, 
Spread  the  cloth,  and  lighted  the  lamp  on 

the  table,  and  placed  there 
Plates  and  cups  from  the  dresser,  the  brown 

rye  loaf,  and  the  butter 
Fresh  from  the  dairy,  and  then,  protecting 

her  hand  with  a  holder, 
Took  from  the  crane  in  the  chimney  the 

steaming  and  simmering  kettle, 
Poised  it  aloft  in  the  air,  and  filled  up  the 

earthen  teapot, 
Made   in  Delft,  and   adorned  with  quaint 

and  wonderful  figures. 

Then  Elizabeth  said,   "  Lo  !  Joseph    is 

long  on  his  errand. 
I  have  sent  him  away  with  a  hamper  of  food 

and  of  clothing 
For  the  poor  in  the  village.     A  good  lad 

and  cheerful  is  Joseph  ; 
In  the  right  place  is  his  heart,  and  his  hand 

is  ready  and  willing." 

Thus  in  praise  of  her  servant  she  spake, 

and  Hannah  the  housemaid 
Laughed  with  her  eyes,  as  she  listened,  but 

governed  her  tongue,  and  was  silent, 
While  her  mistress  went  on  :  "  The  house 

is  far  from  the  village  ; 
We  should  be  lonely  here,  were  it  not  for 

Friends  that  in  passing 
Sometimes  tarry   o'ernight,   and  make   us 

glad  by  their  coming." 

Thereupon  answered  Hannah  the  house 
maid,  the  thrifty,  the  frugal : 

"  Yea,  they  come  and  they  tarry,  as  if  thy 
house  were  a  tavern  ; 

Open  to  all  are  its  doors,  and  they  come 
and  go  like  the  pigeons 

In  and  out  of  the  holes  of  the  pigeon-house 
over  the  hayloft,  . 

Cooing  and  smoothing  their  feathers  and 
basking  themselves  in  the  sunshine." 


But  in  meekness  of  spirit,   and  calmly, 

Elizabeth  answered  : 
"  All  I  have  is  the  Lord's,  not  mine  to  give 

or  withhold  it ; 
I  but  distribute  his  gifts  to  the  poor,  and  tc 

those  of  his  people 
Who  in  journeyings  often  surrender  their 

lives  to  his  service. 
His,  not  mine,  are  the  gifts,  and  only  so  far 

can  I  make  them 

Mine,  as  in  giving  I  add  my  heart  to  what 
ever  is  given. 
Therefore  my  excellent  father  first  built 

this  house  in  the  clearing  ; 
Though  he  came  not  himself,  I  came  ;  for 

the  Lord  was  my  guidance, 
Leading  me   here   for    this   service.     We 

must  not  grudge,  then,  to  others 
Ever  the  cup  of  cold  water,  or  crumbs  that 

fall  from  our  table." 

Thus  rebuked,  for  a  season  was  silent  the 

penitent  housemaid  ; 
And  Elizabeth  said  in  tones  even  sweeter 

and  softer  : 
"  Dost  thou  remember,  Hannah,  the  great 

May-Meeting  in  London, 
When  I  was  still  a  child,  how  we  sat  in  the 

silent  assembly, 

Waiting  upon  the  Lord  in  patient  and  pas 
sive  submission  ? 
No  one  spake,  till  at  length  a  young  man, 

a  stranger,  John  Estaugh, 
Moved  by  the  Spirit,  rose,  as  if  he  were 

John  the  Apostle, 
Speaking   such  words  of  power  that  they 

bowed     our     hearts,    as    a    strong 

wind 
Bends  the  grass  of  the  fields,  or  grain  that 

is  ripe  for  the  sickle. 
Thoughts  of  him  to-day  have  been  oft  borne 

inward  upon  me, 
Wherefore  I  do  not  know  ;  but  strong  is 

the  feeling  within  me 
That  once  more  I  shall  see  a  face  I  have 

never  forgotten." 


II 


E'en  as  she  spake  they  heard  the  musical 
jangle  of  sleigh-bells, 

First  far  off,  with  a  dreamy  sound  and  faint 
in  the  distance, 

Then  growing  nearer  and  louder,  and  turn 
ing  into  the  farmyard, 


272 


TALES   OF   A  WAYSIDE   INN 


Till  it  stopped   at  the  door,  with   sudden 

creaking  of  runners. 
Then  there  were  voices  heard   as  of  two 

men  talking  together, 
And  to  herself,  as  she  listened,  upbraiding 

said  Hannah  the  housemaid, 
"It  is  Joseph  come   back,   and  I  wonder 

what  stranger  is  with  him." 

Down  from  its  nail  she  took  and  lighted 

the  great  tin  lantern 
Pierced  with  holes,  and  round,  and  roofed 

like  the  top  of  a  lighthouse, 
And  went  forth  to  receive  the  corning  guest 

at  the  doorway, 
Casting  into  the  dark  a  network  of  glimmer 

and  shadow 
Over  the  falling  snow,  the   yellow  sleigh, 

and  the  horses, 

And  the  forms  of  men,  snow-covered,  loom 
ing  gigantic. 

Then  giving  Joseph  the   lantern,  she   en 
tered  the  house  with  the  stranger. 
Youthful  he  was  and  tall,  and  his  cheeks 

aglow  with  the  night  air  ; 
And  as  he  entered,  Elizabeth  rose,  and,  going 

to  meet  him, 
As  if  an  unseen  power  had  announced  and 

preceded  his  presence, 
And  he  had  come  as  one  whose  coming  had 

long  been  expected, 
Quietly    gave    him   her   hand,    and    said, 

"  Thou  art  welcome,  John  Estaugh." 
And  the  stranger  replied,  with  staid  and 

quiet  behavior, 
"  Dost  thou  remember  me  still,  Elizabeth  ? 

After  so  many 
Years  have  passed,  it  seemeth  a  wonderful 

thing  that  I  find  thee. 
Surely  the  hand  of  the  Lord  conducted  me 

here  to  thy  threshold. 
For  as  I  journeyed  along,  and  pondered 

alone  and  in  silence 
On  his  ways,  that  are  past  finding  out,  I 

saw  in  the  snow-mist, 
Seemingly  weary  with  travel,  a  wayfarer, 

who  by  the  wayside 

Paused  and  waited.     Forthwith  I  remem 
bered  Queen  Candace's  eunuch, 
How   on   the   way  that   goes   down  from 

Jerusalem  unto  Gaza, 
Reading  Esaias  the  Prophet,  he  journeyed, 

and  spake  unto  Philip, 
Praying  him  to  come   up   and   sit   in  his 

chariot  with  him. 


So  I  greeted  the  man,  and  he  mounted  the 

sledge  beside  me, 
And  as  we  talked  on  the  way  he  told  me  of 

thee  and  thy  homestead, 
How,  being  led  by  the  light  of  the  Spirit, 

that  never  deceiveth, 
Full  of  zeal  for  the  work  of  the  Lord,  thou 

hadst  come  to  this  country. 
And   I   remembered   thy   name,   and   thy 

father  and  mother  in  England, 
And  on  my  journey  have  stopped  to  see 

thee,  Elizabeth  Haddon, 
Wishing   to   strengthen    thy   hand   in   the 

labors  of  love  thou  art  doing." 

And  Elizabeth  answered  with  confident 

voice,  and  serenely 
Looking  into  his  face   with  her  innocent 

eyes  as  she  answered, 
"  Surely  the  hand  of  the  Lord  is  in  it  ;  his 

Spirit  hath  led  thee 
Out  of  the  darkness  and  storm  to  the  light 

and  peace  of  my  fireside." 

Then,  with  stamping  of  feet  the  door 
was  opened,  and  Joseph 

Entered,  bearing  the  lantern,  and,  care 
fully  blowing  the  light  out, 

Hung  it  up  on  its  nail,  and  all  sat  down  to 
their  supper  ; 

For  underneath  that  roof  was  no  distinction 
of  persons, 

But  one  family  only,  one  heart,  one  hearth, 
and  one  household. 

When  the  supper  was  ended  they  drew 
their  chairs  to  the  fireplace, 

Spacious,  open-hearted,  profuse  of  flame 
and  of  firewood, 

Lord  of  forests  unfelled,  and  not  a  gleaner 
of  fagots, 

Spreading  its  arms  to  embrace  with  inex 
haustible  bounty 

All  who  fled  from  the  cold,  exultant,  laugh 
ing  at  winter  ! 

Only  Hannah  the  housemaid  was  busy  in 
clearing  the  table, 

Coming  and  going,  and  bustling  about  in 
closet  and  chamber. 

Then  Elizabeth  told  her  story  again  to 

John  Estaugh, 

Going  far  back  to  the  past,  to  the  early 
days  of  her  childhood  ; 


THE  THEOLOGIAN'S   TALE 


273 


How  she  had  waited  and  watched,  in  all 
her  doubts  and  besetments, 

Comforted  with  the  extendings  and  holy, 
sweet  inflowings 

Of  the  spirit  of  love,  till  the  voice  impera 
tive  sounded, 

And  she  obeyed  the  voice,  and  cast  in  her 
lot  with  her  people 

Here  in  the  desert  land,  and  God  would 
provide  for  the  issue. 

Meanwhile  Joseph  sat  with  folded  hands, 

and  demurely 
Listened,  or  seemed  to  listen,  and  in  the 

silence  that  followed 
Nothing  was  heard  for  a  while  but  the  step 

of  Hannah  the  housemaid 
Walking  the  floor  overhead,  and  setting  the 

chambers  in  order. 

And  Elizabeth  said,  with  a  smile  of  com 
passion,  "  The  maiden 
Hath  a  light  heart  in  her  breast,  but  her 

feet  are  heavy  and  awkward." 
Inwardly  Joseph  laughed,  but  governed  his 

tongue,  and  was  silent. 

Then  came  the  hour  of  sleep,  death's 
counterfeit,  nightly  rehearsal 

Of  the  great  Silent  Assembly,  the  Meeting 
of  shadows,  where  no  man 

Speaketh,  but  all  are  still,  and  the  peace 
and  rest  are  unbroken  ! 

Silently  over  that  house  the  blessing  of 
slumber  descended. 

But  when  the  morning  dawned,  and  the  sun 
uprose  in  his  splendor, 

Breaking  his  way  through  clouds  that 
encumbered  his  path  in  the  hea 
vens, 

Joseph  was  seen  with  his  sled  and  oxen 
breaking  a  pathway 

Through  the  drifts  of  snow  ;  the  horses 
already  were  harnessed, 

And  John  Estaugh  was  standing  and  taking 
leave  at  the  threshold, 

Saying  that  he  should  return  at  the  Meet 
ing  in  May  ;  while  above  them 

Hannah  the  housemaid,  the  homely,  was 
looking  out  of  the  attic, 

Laughing  aloud  at  Joseph,  then  suddenly 
closing  the  casement, 

As  the  bird  in  a  cuckoo-clock  peeps  out  of 
its  window, 

Then  disappears  again,  and  closes  the 
shutter  behind  it. 


Ill 


Now  was  the  winter  gone,  and  the  snow  ; 

and  Robin  the  Redbreast 
Boasted  on  bush  and  tree  it  was  he,  it  was 

he  and  no  other 
That  had  covered  with  leaves  the  Babes  in 

the  Wood,  and  blithely 
All  the  birds  sang  with  him,  and  little  cared 

for  his  boasting, 
Or  for  his  Babes  in  the  Wood,  or  the  Cruel 

Uncle,  and  only 
Sang  for  the  mates  they  had  chosen,  and 

cared  for  the  nests  they  were  build 
ing. 
With  them,  but  more  sedately  and  meekly, 

Elizabeth  Haddon 
Sang  in  her  inmost  heart,  but  her  lips  were 

silent  and  songless. 
Thus  came  the  lovely  spring  with  a  rush  of 

blossoms  and  music, 
Flooding  the  earth  with  flowers,  and  the 

air  with  melodies  vernal. 

Then  it  came  to  pass,  one  pleasant  morn 
ing,  that  slowly 

Up  the  road  there  came  a  cavalcade,  as  of 
pilgrims, 

Men  and  women,  wending  their  way  to  the 
Quarterly  Meeting 

In  the  neighboring  town  ;  and  with  them 
came  riding  John  Estaugh. 

At  Elizabeth's  door  they  stopped  to  rest, 
and  alighting 

Tasted  the  currant  wine,  and  the  bread  of 
ryo,  and  the  honey 

Brought  from  the  hives,  that  stood  by  the 
sunny  wall  of  the  garden  ; 

Then  remounted  their  horses,  refreshed, 
and  continued  their  journey, 

And  Elizabeth  with  them,  and  Joseph,  and 
Hannah  the  housemaid. 

But,  as  they  started,  Elizabeth  lingered  a 
little,  and  leaning 

Over  her  horse's  neck,  in  a  whisper  said  to 
John  Estaugh  : 

"  Tarry  awhile  behind,  for  I  have  some 
thing  to  tell  thee, 

Not  to  be  spoken  lightly,  nor  in  the  pres 
ence  of  others  ; 

Them  it  concerneth  not,  only  thee  and  me 
it  concerneth." 

And  they  rode  slowly  along  through  the 
woods,  conversing  together. 


274 


TALES   OF   A  WAYSIDE   INN 


It  was  a  pleasure  to  breathe  the  fragrant 

air  of  the  forest ; 
It  was  a  pleasure    to  live  on  that  bright 

and  happy  May  morning  ! 

Then  Elizabeth  said,  though  still  with  a 

certain  reluctance, 
As  if  impelled  to  reveal  a  secret  she  fain 

would  have  guarded  : 
"  I  will  no  longer  conceal  what  is  laid  upon 

me  to  tell  thee  ; 
I  have  received  from  the  Lord  a  charge  to 

love  thee,  John  Estaugh." 

And  John  Estaugh  made  answer,  sur 
prised  at  the  words  she  had  spo 
ken, 

"Pleasant  to  me  are  thy  converse,  thy 
ways,  thy  meekness  of  spirit  ; 

Pleasant  thy  frankness  of  speech,  and  thy 
soul's  immaculate  whiteness, 

Love  without  dissimulation,  a  holy  and  in 
ward  adorning. 

But  I  have  yet  no  light  to  lead  me,  no  voice 
to  direct  me. 

When  the  Lord's  work  is  done,  and  the 
toil  and  the  labor  completed 

He  hath  appointed  to  me,  I  will  gather 
into  the  stillness 

Of  my  own  heart  awhile,  and  listen  and 
wait  for  his  guidance." 

Then    Elizabeth    said,  not  troubled  nor 

wounded  in  spirit, 
"  So  is  it  best,  John  Estaugh.     We  will  not 

speak  of  it  further. 
It  hath  been  laid  upon  me  to  tell  thee  this, 

for  to-morrow 
Thou  art  going  away,  across  the  sea,  and 

I  know  not 
When  I   shall  see    thee  more  ;  but  if  the 

Lord  hath  decreed  it, 
Thou  wilt  return  again  to  seek  me  here  and 

to  find  me." 

And  they  rode  onward  in  silence,  and  en 
tered  the  town  with  the  others. 


IV 


Ships  that  pass  in  the  night,  and  speak  each 

other  in  passing, 
Only  a  signal  shown  and  a  distant  voice  in 

the  darkness ; 


So  on  the  ocean  of  life,  we  pass  and  speak 

one  another, 
Only   a    look    and  a  voice,  then  darkness 

again  and  a  silence. 

Now  went  on  as  of  old  the  quiet  life  of 
the  homestead. 

Patient  and  unrepining  Elizabeth  labored^ 
in  all  things 

Mindful  not  of  herself,  but  bearing  the  bur 
dens  of  others, 

Always  thoughtful  and  kind  and  untrou 
bled  ;  and  Hannah  the  housemaid 

Diligent  early  and  late,  and  rosy  with 
washing  and  scouring, 

Still  as  of  old  disparaged  the  eminent  mer 
its  of  Joseph, 

And  was  at  times  reproved  for  her  light 
and  frothy  behavior, 

For  her  shy  looks,  and  her  careless  words, 
and  her  evil  surmisings, 

Being  pressed  down  somewhat,  like  a  cart 
with  sheaves  overladen, 

As  she  would  sometimes  say  to  Joseph, 
quoting  the  Scriptures. 

Meanwhile  John  Estaugh  departed  across 

the  sea,  and  departing 
Carried  hid  in  his  heart  a  secret  sacred  and 

precious, 
Filling  its  chambers   with  fragrance,   and 

seeming  to  him  in  its  sweetness 
Mary's   ointment  of  spikenard,  that  filled 

all  the  house  with  its  odor. 
O  lost  days  of  delight,  that  are  wasted  in 

doubting  and  waiting ! 
O  lost  hours  and  days  in  which  we  might 

have  been  happy  ! 
But  the  light  shone  at  last,  and  guided  his 

wavering  footsteps, 
And  at  last  came   the   voice,   imperative, 

questionless,  certain. 

Then  John  Estaugh  came  back  o'er  the 

sea  for  the  gift  that  was  offered, 
Better  than  houses  and  lands,  the  gift  of  a 

woman's  affection. 
And  on  the  First-Day  that  followed,  he  rose 

in  the  Silent  Assembly, 
Holding  in  his   strong   hand  a   hand  that 

trembled  a  little, 
Promising  to  be  kind  and  true  and  faithful 

in  all  things. 
Such  were  the  marriage  rites  of  John  and 

Elizabeth  Estaugh. 


THE   SICILIAN'S   TALE 


275 


And   not   otherwise  Joseph,  the  honest, 

the  diligent  servant, 
Sped  in   his   bashful  wooing  with  homely 

Hannah  the  housemaid  ; 
For  when  he  asked  her  the  question,  she 

answered, "  Nay  ;  "  and  then  added  : 
"  But  thee  may  make  believe,  and  see  what 

will  come  of  it,  Joseph." 


INTERLUDE 

"  A  PLEASANT  and  a  winsome  tale," 

The  Student  said,  "  though  somewhat  pal< 

And  quiet  in  its  coloring, 

As  if  it  caught  its  tone  and  air 

From  the  gray  suits  that  Quakers  wear ; 

Yet  worthy  of  some  German  bard, 

Hebel,  or  Voss,  or  Eberhard, 

Who  love  of  humble  themes  to  sing, 

In  humble  verse  ;  but  no  more  true 

Than  was  the  tale  I  told  to  you." 

The  Theologian  made  reply, 

And  with  some  warmth,  "  That  I  deny  ; 

'T  is  no  invention  of  my  own, 

But  something  well  and  widely  known 

To  readers  of  a  riper  age, 

Writ  by  the  skilful  hand  that  wrote 

The  Indian  tale  of  Hobomok, 

And  Philothea's  classic  page. 

I  found  it  like  a  waif  afloat, 

Or  dulse  uprooted  from  its  rock, 

On  the  swift  tides  that  ebb  and  flow 

In  daily  papers,  and  at  flood 

Bear  freighted  vessels  to  and  fro, 

But  later,  when  the  ebb  is  low, 

Leave  a  long  waste  of  sand  and  mud." 

"  It  matters  little,"  quoth  the  Jew  ; 
"  The  cloak  of  truth  is  lined  with  lies, 
Sayeth  some  proverb  old  and  wise  ; 
And  Love  is  master  of  all  arts, 
And  puts  it  into  human  hearts 
The  strangest  things  to  say  and  do." 

And  here  the  controversy  closed 

Abruptly,  ere  't  was  well  begun  ; 

For  the  Sicilian  interposed 

With,  "  Lordlings,  listen,  every  one 

That  listen  may,  unto  a  tale 

That 's  merrier  than  the  nightingale  ; 

A  tale  that  cannot  boast,  forsooth, 

A  single  rag  or  shred  of  truth  ; 

That  does  not  leave  the  mind  in  doubt 


As  to  the  with  it  or  without ; 
A  naked  falsehood  and  absurd 
As  mortal  ever  told  or  heard. 
Therefore  I  tell  it  ;  or,  maybe, 
Simply  because  it  pleases  me." 


THE  SICILIAN'S  TALE 
THE    MONK   OF   CASAL-MAGGIORE 

ONCE  on  a  time,  some  centuries  ago, 

In  the  hot  sunshine  two  Franciscan  friars 
Wended  their  weary   way,  with  footsteps 

slow, 
Back  to  their  convent,  whose  white  walls 

and  spires 
Gleamed  on  the  hillside  like  a  patch  of 

snow  ; 
Covered  with  dust  they  were,  and  torn 

by  briers, 
And   bore   like  sumpter-mules  upon  their 

backs 
The  badge  of  poverty,  their  beggar's  sacks. 

The  first  was  Brother  Anthony,  a  spare 
And  silent  man,  with  pallid  cheeks  and 

thin, 
Much  given    to  vigils,    penance,  fasting, 

prayer, 

Solemn  and  gray,  and  worn  with  disci 
pline, 
As  if  his  body  but  white  ashes  were, 

Heaped  on  the  living  coals  that  glowed 

within  ; 

A  simple  monk,  like  many  of  his  day, 
Whose  instinct  was  to  listen  and  obey. 

A  different  man  was  Brother  Timothy, 
Of  larger  mould  and  of  a  coarser  paste  ; 

A  rubicund  and  stalwart  monk  was  he, 
Broad  in  the  shoulders,  broader  in  the 
waist, 

Who  often  filled  the  dull  refectory 

With  noise  by  which  the  convent  was  dis 
graced, 

But  to  the  mass-book  gave  but  little  heed, 

By  reason  he  had  never  learned  to  read. 

Now,  as  they  passed  the  outskirts  of  a 

wood, 
They   saw,  with  mingled  pleasure   and 

surprise, 

Fast  tethered  to  a  tree  an  ass,  that  stood 
Lazily  winking  his  large,  limpid  eyes. 


276 


TALES   OF  A  WAYSIDE   INN 


The  farmer  Gilbert,  of  that  neighborhood, 
His  owner  was,  who,  looking   for   sup 
plies 

Of  fagots,  deeper  in  the  wood  had  strayed, 
Leaving  his  beast  to  ponder  in  the  shade. 

As  soon  as  Brother  Timothy  espied 

The   patient  animal,   he   said  :    "  Good- 
lack  ! 

Thus  for  our  needs  doth  Providence  pro 
vide  ; 
We  '11  lay  our  wallets  on  the  creature's 

back." 
This  being  done,  he  leisurely  untied 

From  head  and  neck  the  halter  of   the 

jack, 

And  put  it  round  his  own,  and  to  the  tree 
Stood  tethered  fast  as  if  the  ass  were  he. 

And,  bursting  forth  into  a  merry  laugh, 
He  cried  to  Brother  Anthony  :  "  Away  ! 

And  drive  the  ass  before  you  with  your 

staff; 

And  when  you   reach  the   convent  you 
may  say 

You  left  me  at  a  farm,  half  tired  and  half 
111  with  a  fever,  for  a  night  and  day, 

And  that  the  farmer  lent  this  ass  to  bear 

Our  wallets,  that  are  heavy  with  good  fare." 

Now    Brother    Anthony,   who    knew    the 

pranks 

Of  Brother  Timothy,  would  not  persuade 
Or    reason  with    him   on  his  quirks   and 

cranks, 

But,  being  obedient,  silently  obeyed  ; 
And,  smiting  with  his  staff  the  ass's  flanks, 
Drove   him   before   him    over  hill   and 

glade, 

Safe  with  his  provend  to  the  convent  gate, 
Leaving  poor  Brother  Timothy  to  his  fate. 

Then  Gilbert,  laden  with  fagots  for  his  fire, 
Forth  issued  from  the  wood,  and  stood 

aghast 

To  see  the  ponderous  body  of  the  friar 
Standing  where  he  had  left  his  donkey 

last. 
Trembling  he  stood,  and  dared  not  venture 

nigher, 

But  stared,  and  gaped,  and  crossed  him 
self  full  fast  ; 

For,  being  credulous  and  of  little  wit, 
He  thought  it  was  some  demon  from  the 
pit. 


While  speechless  and  bewildered  thus  he 

gazed, 
And  dropped  his  load  of  fagots  on  the 

ground, 

Quoth  Brother  Timothy  :  "  Be  not  amazed 
That  where  you  left  a  donkey  should  be 

found 
A  poor  Franciscan  friar,  half-starved  and 

crazed, 
Standing    demure    and    with    a    halter 

bound  ; 

But  set  me  free,  and  hear  the  piteous  story 
Of  Brother  Timothy  of  Casal-Maggiore. 

"  I  am  a  sinful  man,  although  you  see 

I  wear  the  consecrated  cowl  and  cape  ; 
You  never  owned  an  ass,  but  you  owned 

me, 
Changed  and  transformed  from  my  own 

natural  shape 
All  for  the  deadly  sin  of  gluttony, 

From  which  I  could  not  otherwise  es 
cape, 

Than  by  this  penance,  dieting  on  grass, 
And  being  worked  and  beaten  as  an  ass. 

"  Think  of  the  ignominy  I  endured  ; 

Think  of  the  miserable  life  I  led, 
The  toil  and  blows  to  which  I  was  inured, 

My  wretched  lodging  in  a  windy  shed, 
My  scanty  fare  so  grudgingly  procured, 

The  damp  and  musty  straw  that  formed 

my  bed  ! 

But,  having  done  this  penance  for  my  sins, 
My  life  as  man  and  monk  again  begins." 

The   simple   Gilbert,   hearing   words    like 

these, 
Was  conscience-stricken,  and  fell  down 

apace 

Before  the  friar  upon  his  bended  knees, 
And  with  a  suppliant  voice  implored  his 

grace  ; 
And  the  good  monk,  now  very  much  at 

ease, 

Granted  him  pardon  with  a  smiling  face, 
Nor  could  refuse  to  be  that  night  his  guest, 
It  being  late,  and  he  in  need  of  rest. 

Upon  a  hillside,  where  the  olive  thrives, 
With  figures  painted  on  its  whitewashed 

walls, 
The  cottage  stood  ;  and  near  the  humming 

hives 
Made  murmurs  as  of  far-off  waterfalls  ; 


THE   SICILIAN'S   TALE 


277 


A  place   where  those  who  love   secluded 

lives 
Might  live  content,  and,  free  from  noise 

and  brawls, 

Like  Claudian's  Old  Man  of  Verona  here 
Measure  by  fruits  the  slow-revolving  year. 

And,  coming  to  this  cottage  of  content, 
They  found  his  children,  and  the  buxom 
wench 

His  wife,  Dame  Cicely,  and  his  father,  bent 
With  years  and  labor,  seated  on  a  bench, 

Repeating  over  some  obscure  event 

In  the  old  wars  of  Milanese  and  French  ; 

All  welcomed  the  Franciscan,  with  a  sense 

Of  sacred  awe  and  humble  reverence. 

When  Gilbert  told  them  what  had  come  to 

pass, 

How  beyond  question,  cavil,  or  surmise, 
Good  Brother  Timothy  had  been  their  ass, 
You   should   have   seen   the   wonder  in 

their  eyes  ; 
You  should  have  heard  them  cry  "  Alas  ! 

alas!" 
Have  heard  their  lamentations  and  their 

sighs  ! 

For  all  believed  the  story,  and  began 
To  see  a  saint  in  this  afflicted  man. 

Forthwith    there  was    prepared  a  grand 

repast, 

To  satisfy  the  craving  of  the  friar 
After  so  rigid  and  prolonged  a  fast  ; 

The  bustling  housewife  stirred  the  kitch 
en  fire  ; 
Then  her  two  barn-yard  fowls,  her  best  and 

last, 

Were  put  to  death,  at  her  express  desire, 
And  served  up  with  a  salad  in  a  bowl, 
And  flasks  of  country  wine  to  crown  the 
whole. 

It  would  not  be  believed  should  I  repeat 

How  hungry  Brother  Timothy  appeared  ; 
It  was  a  pleasure  but  to  see  him  eat, 

His    white    teeth    flashing   through  his 

russet  beard, 
His  face  aglow  and  flushed  with  wine  and 

meat, 
His  roguish  eyes  that  rolled  and  laughed 

and  leered  ! 
Lord  !  how  he  drank  the  blood-red  coun-try 

wine 
As  if  the  village  vintage  were  divine  ! 


tales  with  jovial  glee 
but   rather    did   in 


And  all  the  while  he  talked  without  sur 

cease, 

And  told  his  merr 
That   never   flagged 

crease, 

And  laughed  aloud  as  if  insane  were  he, 
And  wagged  his  red  beard,  matted  like  a 

fleece, 

And  cast  such  glances  at  Dame  Cicely 
That  Gilbert  now  grew  angry  with  his  guest, 
And   thus  in  words  his    rising    wrath  ex 
pressed. 

"  Good  father,"  said  he,  "  easily  we  see 
How  needful  in  some  persons,  and  how 

right, 
Mortification  of  the  flesh  may  be. 

The    indulgence   you   have  given  it  to 

night, 

After  long  penance,  clearly  proves  to  me 
Your  strength  against  temptation  is  but 

slight, 

And  shows  the  dreadful  peril  you  are  in 
Of  a  relapse  into  your  deadly  sin. 

"  To-morrow  morning,  with  the  rising  sun, 

Go  back  unto  your  convent,  nor  refrain 
From  fasting  and  from  scourging,  for  you 

run 

Great  danger  to  become  an  ass  again, 
Since  monkish  flesh  and  asinine  are  one  ; 
Therefore  be  wise,  nor  longer  here  re 

main, 
Unless  you  wish  the  scourge  should  be  ap 

plied 

By  other  hands,  that   will  not  spare  your 
hide." 

When  this  the  monk  had  heard,  his  color 

fled 
And  then  returned,  like  lightning  in  the 

air, 
Till   he    was  all   one  blush    from  foot  to 

head, 

And  even  the  bald  spot  in  his  russet  hair 
Turned    from   its    usual    pallor   to  bright 

red! 

The  old  man  was  asleep  upon  his  chair. 
Then  all  retired,  and  sank  into  the  deep 
And  helpless  imbecility  of  sleep. 

They    slept  until   the  dawn  of  day  drew 

near, 

Till  the  cock  should   have  crowed,  but 
did  not  crow, 


278 


TALES   OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN 


For  they  had  slain  the  shining  chanticleer 
And  eaten  him  for  supper,  as  you  know. 

The  monk  was  up    betimes  and   of   good 

cheer, 
And,  having  breakfasted,  made  haste  to 

g°» 

As  if  he  heard  the  distant  matin  bell, 
And  had  but  little  time  to  say  farewell. 

Fresh  was   the  morning  as  the  breath  of 
kine  ; 

Odors   of    herbs    commingled  with    the 

sweet 
Balsamic  exhalations  of  the  pine  ; 

A  haze  was  in  the  air  presaging  heat ; 
Uprose  the  sun  above  the  Apennine, 

And  all  the  misty  valleys  at  its  feet 
Were  full  of  the  delirious  song  of  birds, 
Voices  of  men,  and  bells,  and  low  of  herds. 

All  this  to  Brother  Timothy  was  naught  ; 

He  did  not  care  for  scenery,  nor  here 
His  busy  fancy  found  the  thing  it  sought  ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  convent  walls  ap 
pear, 
And  smoke  from  kitchen  chimneys  upward 

caught 

And  whirled  aloft  into  the  atmosphere, 
He    quickened   his   slow   footsteps,  like  a 

beast 
That  scents  the  stable  a  league  off  at  least. 

And  as   he  entered   through    the  convent 

gate 
He  saw  there  in  the  court  the  ass,  who 

stood 
Twirling  his   ears  about,    and   seemed  to 

wait, 
Just  as   he    found    him  waiting   in  the 

wood  ; 
And  told  the  Prior  that,  to  alleviate 

The  daily  labors  of  the  brotherhood, 
The   owner,  being   a  man   of  means   and 

thrift, 
Bestowed  him  on  the  convent  as  a  gift, 

And  thereupon  the  Prior  for  many  days 
Revolved    this    serious    matter    in    his 

mind, 

And  turned  it  over  many  different  ways, 
Hoping  that    some  safe  issue  he  might 

find; 
But  stood  in  fear  of  what  the  world  would 

say, 
If  he  accepted  presents  of  this  kind, 


Employing  beasts  of  burden  for  the  packs 
That    lazy    monks  should    carry  on    their 
backs. 

Then,  to  avoid  all  scandal  of  the  sort, 

And  stop  the  mouth  of  cavil,  he  decreed 
That    he    would    cut    the    tedious    matter 

short,  * 

And    sell  the  ass  with   all   convenient 

speed, 

Thus  saving  the  expense  of  his  support, 
And   hoarding  something  for  a  time  of 

need. 
So  he  despatched  him  to  the  neighboring 

Fair, 
And  freed  himself  from  cumber  and  from 


It   happened    now  by    chance,   as    some 
might  say, 

Others  perhaps  would  call  it  destiny, 
Gilbert  was  at  the  Fair  ;  and  heard  a  bray, 

And  nearer  came,  and  saw  that  it  was 

he, 
And  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  Ah,  lackaday  ! 

Good  father,  the  rebellious  flesh,  I  see, 
Has  changed  you  back  into  an  ass  again, 
And  all  my  admonitions  were  in  vain." 

The  ass,  who  felt  this  breathing  in  his  ear, 
Did  not  turn  round  to  look,  but  shook  his 

head, 
As  if  he  were  not  pleased  these  words  to 

hear, 

And  contradicted  all  that  had  been  said. 
And  this  made  Gilbert  cry  in  voice  more 

clear, 

"  I  know  you  well  ;  your  hair  is  russet- 
red  ; 

Do  not  deny  it ;  for  you  are  the  same 
Franciscan  friar,  and  Timothy  by  name." 

The  ass,  though  now  the  secret  had  come  out, 
Was    obstinate,    and    shook    his    head 

again  ; 

Until  a  crowd  was  gathered  round  about 
To    hear    this    dialogue    between    the 

twain  ; 

And  raised  their  voices  in  a  noisy  shout 
When  Gilbert  tried  to  make  the  matter 

plain, 
And  flouted  him  and  mocked  him  all  day 

long 

With  laughter  and  with  jibes  and   scraps 
of  song. 


INTERLUDE 


279 


« If  this  be  Brother  Timothy,"  they  cried, 
"  Buy  him,  and  feed  him  on  the  tenderest 

grass  ; 
Thou   canst   not   do  too  much   for  one  so 

tried 

As  to  be  twice  transformed  into  an  ass." 
So  simple  Gilbert  bought  him,  and  untied 
His  halter,  and   o'er  mountain  and  mo 
rass 

He  led  him  homeward,  talking  as  he  went 
Of  good  behavior  and  a  mind  content. 

The  children   saw  them  coming,  and  ad 
vanced, 
Shouting  with  joy,  and  hung  about  his 

neck, — 
Not  Gilbert's,  but  the  ass's,  —  round  him 

danced, 
And   wove  green  garlands    wherewithal 

to  deck 

His  sacred  person  ;  for  again  it  chanced 
Their  childish  feelings,  without  rein  or 

check, 

Could  not  discriminate  in  any  way 
A  donkey  from  a  friar  of  Orders  Gray. 

"  0  Brother  Timothy,"  the  children  said, 
"  You   have  come  back  to  us  just  as 

before  ; 
We  were  afraid,  and  thought  that  you  were 

dead, 

And  we  should  never  see  you  any  more." 
And  then  they  kissed  the  white  star  on  his 

head, 
That  like  a  birth-mark  or  a  badge  he 

wore, 

And  patted  him  upon  the  neck  and  face, 
And  said  a  thousand  things  with  childish 
grace. 

Thenceforward  and  forever  he  was  known 
As  Brother  Timothy,  and  led  alway 

A  life  of  luxury,  till  he  had  grown 

Ungrateful,  being  stuffed  with  corn  and 
hay, 

And  very  vicious.     Then  in  angry  tone, 
Rousing  himself,  poor  Gilbert  said   one 
day, 

"  When  simple  kindness  is  misunderstood 

A  little  flagellation  may  do  good." 

His  many  vices  need  not  here  be  told  ; 

Among  them  was  a  habit  that  he  had 
Of  flinging  up  his  heels  at  young  and  old, 

Breaking  his  halter,  running  off  like  mad 


O'er  pasture-lands  and  meadow,  wood  and 

wold, 

And  other  misdemeanors  quite  as  bad  ; 
But  worst  of  all  was  breaking   from   his 

shed 
At  night,  and  ravaging  the  cabbage-bed. 

So  Brother  Timothy  went  back  once  more 

To  his  old  life  of  labor  and  distress  ; 
Was    beaten    worse    than    he    had    been 

before  ; 

And   now,  instead   of  comfort   and   ca 
ress, 

Came  labors  manifold  and  trials  sore  ; 
And  as  his  toils  increased  his  food  grew 

less, 

Until  at  last  the  great  consoler,  Death, 
Ended  his  many  sufferings  with  his  breath. 

Great  was  the  lamentation  when  he  died  ; 

And  mainly  that  he  died  impenitent  ; 
Dame  Cicely  bewailed,  the  children  cried, 

The  old  man  still  remembered  the  event 
In   the   French  war,   and  Gilbert   magni 
fied 

His  many  virtues,  as  he  came  and  went, 
And  said  :  "  Heaven  pardon  Brother  Tim 
othy, 
And  keep  us  from  the  sin  of  gluttony." 


INTERLUDE 

"  SIGNOR  LUIGI,"  said  the  Jew, 
When  the  Sicilian's  tale  was  told, 

"  The  were-wolf  is  a  legend  old, 
But  the  were-ass  is  something  new, 
And  yet  for  one  I  think  it  true. 
The  days  of  wonder  have  not  ceased  ; 
If  there  are  beasts  in  forms  of  men, 
As  sure  it  happens  now  and  then, 
Why  may  not  man  become  a  beast, 
In  way  of  punishment  at  least  ? 

"  But  this  I  will  not  now  discuss  ; 
I  leave  the  theme,  that  we  may  thus 
Remain  within  the  realm  of  song. 
The  story  that  I  told  before, 
Though  not  acceptable  to  all, 
At  least  you  did  not  find  too  long. 
I  beg  you,  let  me  try  again, 
With  something  in  a  different  vein, 
Before  you  bid  the  curtain  fall. 
Meanwhile  keep  watch  upon  the  door, 
Nor  let  the  Landlord  leave  his  chair, 


280 


TALES   OF   A  WAYSIDE   INN 


Lest  he  should  vanish  into  air, 

And  so  elude  our  search  once  more." 

Thus  saying,  from  his  lips  he  blew 
A  little  cloud  of  perfumed  breath, 
And  then,  as  if  it  were  a  clew 
To  lead  his  footsteps  safely  through, 
Began  his  tale  as  followeth. 


THE   SPANISH   JEW'S   SECOND 
TALE 

SCANDERBEG 

THE  battle  is  fought  and  won 
By  King  Ladislaus,  the  Hun, 
In  fire  of  hell  and  death's  frost, 
On  the  day  of  Pentecost. 
And  in  rout  before  his  path 
From  the  field  of  battle  red 
Flee  all  that  are  not  dead 
Of  the  army  of  Amurath. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night 
Iskander,  the  pride  and  boast 
Of  that  mighty  Othman  host, 
With  his  routed  Turks,  takes  flight 
From  the  battle  fought  and  lost 
On  the  day  of  Pentecost  ; 
Leaving  behind  him  dead 
The  army  of  Amurath, 
The  vanguard  as  it  led, 
The  rearguard  as  it  fled, 
Mown  down  in  the  bloody  swath 
Of  the  battle's  aftermath. 

But  he  cared  not  for  Hospodars, 
Nor  for  Baron  or  Voivode, 
As  on  through  the  night  he  rode 
And  gazed  at  the  fateful  stars, 
That  were  shining  overhead  ; 
But  smote  his  steed  with  his  staff, 
And  smiled  to  himself,  and  said  : 
"  This  is  the  time  to  laugh." 

In  the  middle  of  the  night, 
In  a  halt  of  the  hurrying  flight, 
There  came  a  Scribe  of  the  King 
Wearing  his  signet  ring, 
And  said  in  a  voice  severe  : 
"  This  is  the  first  dark  blot 
On  thy  name,  George  Castriot  ! 
Alas  !  why  art  thou  here, 
And  the  army  of  Amurath  slain, 
And  left  on  the  battle  plain  ?  " 


And  Iskander  answered  and  said  : 
"  They  lie  on  the  bloody  sod 
By  the  hoofs  of  horses  trod  ; 
But  this  was  the  decree 
Of  the  watchers  overhead  ; 
For  the  war  belongeth  to  God, 
And  in  battle  who  are  we, 
Who  are  we,  that  shall  withstand 
The  wind  of  his  lifted  hand  ?  " 

Then  he  bade  them  bind  with  chains 
This  man  of  books  and  brains  ; 
And  the  Scribe  said  :  "  What  misdeed 
Have  I  done,  that,  without  need, 
Thou  doest  to  me  this  thing  ?  " 
And  Iskander  answering 
Said  unto  him  :  "  Not  one 
Misdeed  to  me  hast  thou  done  ; 
But  for  fear  that  thou  shouldst  run 
And  hide  thyself  from  me, 
Have  I  done  this  unto  thee. 

"  Now  write  me  a  writing,  O  Scribe, 

And  a  blessing  be  on  thy  tribe  ! 

A  writing  sealed  with  thy  ring, 

To  King  Amurath's  Pasha 

In  the  city  of  Croia, 

The  city  moated  and  walled, 

That  he  surrender  the  same 

In  the  name  of  my  master,  the  King  ; 

For  what  is  writ  in  his  name 

Can  never  be  recalled." 

And  the  Scribe  bowed  low  in  dread, 

And  unto  Iskander  said  : 

"  Allah  is  great  and  just, 

But  we  are  as  ashes  and  dust ; 

How  shall  I  do  this  thing, 

When  I  know  that  my  guilty  head 

Will  be  forfeit  to  the  King  ?  " 

Then  swift  as  a  shooting  star 

The  curved  and  shining  blade 

Of  Iskander's  scimetar 

From  its  sheath,  with  jewels  brights 

Shot,  as  he  thundered  :  "  Write  !  " 

And  the  trembling  Scribe  obeyed, 

And  wrote  in  the  fitful  glare 

Of  the  bivouac  fire  apart, 

With  the  chill  of  the  midnight  air 

On  his  forehead  white  and  bare, 

And  the  chill  of  death  in  his  heart. 

Then  again  Iskander  cried  : 
"  Now  follow  whither  I  ride, 


INTERLUDE 


281 


For  here  thou  must  not  stay. 
Thou  shalt  be  as  my  dearest  friend, 
And  honors  without  end 
Shall  surround  thee  on  every  side, 
And  attend  thee  night  and  day." 
But  the  sullen  Scribe  replied  : 
"  Our  pathways  here  divide  ; 
Mine  leadeth  not  thy  way." 

And  even  as  he  spoke 

Fell  a  sudden  scimetar  stroke, 

When  no  one  else  was  near  ; 

And  the  Scribe  sank  to  the  ground, 

As  a  stone,  pushed  from  the  brink 

Of  a  black  pool,  might  sink 

With  a  sob  and  disappear  ; 

And  no  one  saw  the  deed  ; 

And  in  the  stillness  around 

No  sound  was  heard  but  the  sound 

Of  the  hoofs  of  Iskander's  steed, 

As  forward  he  sprang  with  a  bound. 

Then  onward  he  rode  and  afar, 
With  scarce  three  hundred  men, 
Through  river  and  forest  and  fen, 
O'er  the  mountains  of  Argentar  ; 
And  his  heart  was  merry  within, 
When  he  crossed  the  river  Drin, 
And  saw  in  the  gleam  of  the  morn 
The  White  Castle  Ak-Hissar, 
The  city  Croia  called, 
The  city  moated  and  walled, 
The  city  where  he  was  born, — 
And  above  it  the  morning  star. 

Then  his  trumpeters  in  the  van 
On  their  silver  bugles  blew, 
And  in  crowds  about  him  ran 
Albanian  and  Turkoman, 
That  the  sound  together  drew. 
And  he  feasted  with  his  friends, 
And  when  they  were  warm  with  wine, 
He  said  :  "  O  friends  of  mine, 
Behold  what  fortune  sends, 
And  what  the  fates  design  ! 
King  Amurath  commands 
That  my  father's  wide  domain, 
This  city  and  all  its  lands, 
Shall  be  given  to  me  again." 

Then  to  the  Castle  White 
He  rode  in  regal  state, 
And  entered  in  at  the  gate 
In  all  his  arms  bedight, 
And  gave  to  the  Pasha 


Who  ruled  in  Croia 
The  writing  of  the  King, 
Sealed  with  his  signet  ring. 
And  the  Pasha  bowed  his  head, 
And  after  a  silence  said  : 
"  Allah  is  just  and  great  ! 
I  yield  to  the  will  divine, 
The  city  and  lands  are  thine  ; 
Who  shall  contend  with  fate  ?  " 

Anon  from  the  castle  walls 

The  crescent  banner  falls, 

And  the  crowd  beholds  instead, 

Like  a  portent  in  the  sky, 

Iskander's  banner  fly, 

The  Black  Eagle  with  double  head  ; 

And  a  shout  ascends  on  high, 

For  men's  souls  are  tired  of  the  Turks, 

And  their  wicked  ways  and  works, 

That  have  made  of  Ak-Hissar 

A  city  of  the  plague  ; 

And  the  loud,  exultant  cry 

That  echoes  wide  and  far 

Is  :  "  Long  live  Scanderbeg  !  " 

It  was  thus  Iskander  came 

Once  more  unto  his  own  ; 

And  the  tidings,  like  the  flame 

Of  a  conflagration  blown 

By  the  winds  of  summer,  ran, 

Till  the  land  was  in  a  blaze, 

And  the  cities  far  and  near, 

Sayeth  Ben  Joshua  Ben  Meir, 

In  his  Book  of  the  Words  of  the  Days, 

"  Were  taken  as  a  man 

Would  take  the  tip  of  his  ear." 


INTERLUDE 

"  Now  that  is  after  my  own  heart," 
The  Poet  cried  ;  "  one  understands 
Your  swarthy  hero  Scanderbeg, 
Gauntlet  on  hand  and  boot  on  leg, 
And  skilled  in  every  warlike  art, 
Riding  through  his  Albanian  lands, 
And  following  the  auspicious  star 
That  shone  for  him  o'er  Ak-Hissar." 

The  Theologian  added  here 

His  word  of  praise  not  less  sincere, 

Although  he  ended  with  a  jibe  ; 

"  The  hero  of  romance  and  song 

Was  born,"  he  said,  "  to  right  the  wrong  ; 

And  I  approve  ;  but  all  the  same 


282 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


That  bit  of  treason  with  the  Scribe 
Adds  nothing  to  your  hero's  fame." 

The  Student  praised  the  good  old  times, 
And  liked  the  canter  of  the  rhymes, 
That  had  a  hoofbeat  in  their  sound  ; 
But  longed  some  further  word  to  hear 
Of  the  old  chronicler  Ben  Meir, 
And  where  his  volume  might  be  found. 

The  tall  Musician  walked  the  room 
With  folded  arms  and  gleaming  eyes, 
As  if  he  saw  the  Vikings  rise, 
Gigantic  shadows  in  the  gloom  ; 
And  much  he  talked  of  their  emprise 
And  meteors  seen  in  Northern  skies, 
And  Heimdal's  horn,  and  day  of  doom. 
But  the  Sicilian  laughed  again  ; 
"  This  is  the  time  to  laugh,"  he  said, 
For  the  whole  story  he  well  knew 
Was  an  invention  of  the  Jew, 
Spun  from  the  cobwebs  in  his  brain, 
And  of  the  same  bright  scarlet  thread 
As  was  the  Tale  of  Kambalu. 

Only  the  Landlord  spake  no  word  ; 
'T  was  doubtful  whether  he  had  heard 
The  tale  at  all,  so  full  of  care 
Was  he  of  his  impending  fate, 
That,  like  the  sword  of  Damocles, 
Above  his  head  hung  blank  and  bare, 
Suspended  by  a  single  hair, 
So  that  he  could  not  sit  at  ease, 
But  sighed  and  looked  disconsolate, 
And  shifted  restless  in  his  chair, 
Revolving  how  he  might  evade 
The  blow  of  the  descending  blade. 

The  Student  came  to  his  relief 
By  saying  in  his  easy  way 
To  the  Musician  :  "  Calm  your  grief, 
My  fair  Apollo  of  the  North, 
Balder  the  Beautiful  and  so  forth  ; 
Although  your  magic  lyre  or  lute 
With  broken  strings  is  lying  mute, 
Still  you  can  tell  some  doleful  tale 
Of  shipwreck  in  a  midnight  gale, 
Or  something  of  the  kind  to  suit 
The  mood  that  we  are  in  to-night 
For  what  is  marvellous  and  strange  ; 
So  give  your  nimble  fancy  range, 
And  we  will  follow  in  its  flight." 

But  the  Musician  shook  his  head ; 
"  No  tale  I  tell  to-night,"  he  said, 


"  While  my  poor  instrument  lies  there, 
Even  as  a  child  with  vacant  stare 
Lies  in  its  little  coffin  dead." 

Yet,  being  urged,  he  said  at  last : 

"  There  comes  to  me  out  of  the  Past 

A  voice,  whose  tones  are  sweet  and  wild, 

Singing  a  song  almost  divine, 

And  with  a  tear  in  every  line  ; 

An  ancient  ballad,  that  my  nurse 

Sang  to  me  when  I  was  a  child, 

In  accents  tender  as  the  verse  ; 

And  sometimes  wept,  and  sometimes  smiled 

While  singing  it,  to  see  arise 

The  look  of  wonder  in  my  eyes, 

And  feel  my  heart  with  terror  beat. 

This  simple  ballad  I  retain 

Clearly  imprinted  on  my  brain, 

And  as  a  tale  will  now  repeat." 


THE  MUSICIAN'S  TALE 
THE  MOTHER'S  GHOST 

SVEND  DYKING  he  rideth  adown  the  glade  ; 

/  myself  was  young  ! 

There  he  hath  wooed   him  so  winsome  a 
maid ; 

Fair  words  gladden  so  many  a  heart. 

Together  were  they  for  seven  years, 
And  together  children  six  were  theirs. 

Then  came  Death  abroad  through  the  land, 
And  blighted  the  beautiful  lily-wand. 

Svend  Dyring  he  rideth  adown  the  glade, 
And  again  hath  he  wooed  him  another  maid. 

He   hath  wooed  him  a  maid  and  brought 

home  a  bride, 
But  she  was  bitter  and  full  of  pride. 

When  she  came  driving  into  the  yard, 
There  stood  the  six  children  weeping  so 
hard. 

There  stood  the  small  children  with  sorrow 
ful  heart ; 
From  before  her  feet  she  thrust  them  apart 

She  gave  to  them  neither  ale  nor  bread  ; 
"Ye   shall  suffer  hunger  and  hate,"  she 
said. 


INTERLUDE 


283 


She  took  from  them  their  quilts  of  blue, 
And  said  :  "  Ye  shall  lie  on  the  straw  we 
strew." 

She  took  from  them  the  great  waxlight  : 
"  Now  ye  shall  lie  in  the  dark  at  night." 

In  the  evening  late  they  cried  with  cold  ; 
The  mother  heard  it  under  the  mould. 

The  woman  heard  it  the  earth  below  : 
"  To  my  little  children  I  must  go." 

She  standeth  before  the  Lord  of  all : 
"  And  may  I  go  to  my  children  small  ?  " 

She  prayed   him  so  long,  and   would   not 

cease, 
Until  he  bade  her  depart  in  peace. 

"  At  cock-crow  thou  shalt  return  again  ; 
Longer  thou  shalt  not  there  remain  !  " 

She  girded  up  her  sorrowful  bones, 
And    rifted    the    walls    and    the   marble 
stones. 

As  through  the  village  she  flitted  by, 
The  watch-dogs  howled  aloud  to  the  sky. 

When  she  came  to  the  castle  gate, 
There  stood  her  eldest  daughter  in  wait. 

"  Why  standest  thou  here,  dear  daughter 

mine  ? 
How    fares   it   with    brothers    and  sisters 

thine  ?  " 

"  Never  art  thou  mother  of  mine, 
For  my  mother  was  both  fair  and  fine. 

"My  mother  was    white,  with    cheeks  of 

red, 
But  thou  art  pale,  and  like  to  the  dead." 

"  How  should  I  be  fair  and  fine  ? 

I  have  been  dead  ;  pale  cheeks  are  mine. 

"  How  should  I  be  white  and  red, 
So  long,  so  long  have  I  been  dead  ?  " 

When  she  came  in  at  the  chamber  door, 
There  stood  the   small  children    weeping 
sore. 


One  she  braided,  another  she  brushed, 
The  third  she  lifted,  the  fourth  she  hushed. 

The  fifth  she  took  on  her  lap  and  pressed, 
As  if  she  would  suckle  it  at  her  breast. 

Then  to  her  eldest  daughter  said  she, 
"  Do  thou  bid  Svend  Dyring  come  hither 
to  me." 

Into  the  chamber  when  he  came 

She  spake  to  him  in  anger  and  shame. 

"  I  left  behind  me  both  ale  and  bread  ; 
My  children  hunger  and  are  not  fed. 

"  I  left  behind  me  quilts  of  blue  ; 
My  children  lie  on  the  straw  ye  strew. 

"  I  left  behind  me  the  great  waxlight ; 
My  children  lie  in  the  dark  at  night. 

"  If  I  come  again  unto  your  hall, 
As  cruel  a  fate  shall  you  befall ! 

"  Now  crows  the  cock  with  feathers  red  ; 
Back  to  the  earth  must  all  the  dead. 

"  Now  crows  the  cock  with  feathers  swart ; 
The  gates  of  heaven  fly  wide  apart. 

"  Now  crows  the  cock  with  feathers  white  ; 
I  can  abide  no  longer  to-night." 

Whenever  they  heard  the  watch-dogs  wail, 
They  gave  the  children  bread  and  ale. 

Whenever  they  heard  the  watch-dogs  bay, 
They  feared  lest  the  dead  were  on  their 
way. 

Whenever  they  heard  the  watch-dogs  bark, 

/  myself  was  young  ! 

They   feared  the   dead   out   there   in   the 
dark. 

Fair  words  gladden  so  many  a  heart. 


INTERLUDE 

TOUCHED  by  the  pathos  of  these  rhymes, 
The  Theologian  said  :  "  All  praise 
Be  to  the  ballads  of  old  times 
And  to  the  bards  of  simple  ways, 


284 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


Who  walked  with  Nature  hand  iu  hand, 
Whose  country  was  their  Holy  Land, 
Whose  singing  robes  were  homespun  brown 
From  looms  of  their  own  native  town, 
Which  they  were  not  ashamed  to  wear, 
And  not  of  silk  or  sendal  gay, 
Nor  decked  with  fanciful  array 
Of  cockle-shells  from  Outre-Mer." 

To  whom  the  Student  answered  ;  "  Yes  ; 
All  praise  and  honor  !     I  confess 
That  bread   and   ale,  home-baked,   home 
brewed, 

Are  wholesome  and  nutritious  food, 
But  not  enough  for  all  our  needs  ; 
Poets  —  the  best  of  them  —  are  birds 
Of  passage  ;  where  their  instinct  leads 
They  range  abroad  for  thoughts  and  words, 
And  from  all  climes  bring  home  the  seeds 
That  germinate  in  flowers  or  weeds. 
They  are  not  fowls  in  barnyards  born 
To  cackle  o'er  a  grain  of  corn  ; 
And,  if  you  shut  the  horizon  down 
To  the  small  limits  of  their  town, 
What  do  you  do  but  degrade  your  bard 
Till  he  at  last  becomes  as  one 
Who  thinks  the  all-encircling  sun 
Rises  and  sets  in  his  back  yard  ?  " 

The  Theologian  said  again  : 
"  It  may  be  so  ;  yet  I  maintain 
That  what  is  native  still  is  best, 
And  little  care  I  for  the  rest. 
'T  is  a  long  story  ;  time  would  fail 
To  tell  it,  and  the  hour  is  late  ; 
We  will  not  waste  it  in  debate, 
But  listen  to  our  Landlord's  tale." 

And  thus  the  sword  of  Damocles 
Descending  not  by  slow  degrees, 
But  suddenly,  on  the  Landlord  fell, 
Who  blushing,  and  with  much  demur 
And  many  vain  apologies, 
Plucking  up  heart,  began  to  tell 
The  Rhyme  of  one  Sir  Christopher. 


THE   LANDLORD'S   TALE 
THE   RHYME  OF    SIR   CHRISTOPHER 

IT  was  Sir  Christopher  Gardiner, 
Knight  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
From  Merry  England  over  the  sea, 
Who  stepped  upon  this  continent 


As  if  his  august  presence  lent 
A  glory  to  the  colony. 

You  should  have  seen  him  in  the  street 
Of  the  little  Boston  of  Winthrop's  time, 
His  rapier  dangling  at  his  feet, 
Doublet  and  hose  and  boots  complete, 
Prince  Rupert  hat  with  ostrich  plume, 
Gloves  that  exhaled  a  faint  perfume, 
Luxuriant  curls  and  air  sublime, 
And  superior  manners  now  obsolete  ! 

He  had  a  way  of  saying  things 

That  made  one  think  of  courts  and  kings, 

And  lords  and  ladies  of  high  degree  ; 

So  that  not  having  been  at  court 

Seemed  something  very  little  short 

Of  treason  or  lese-majesty, 

Such  an  accomplished  knight  was  he. 

His  dwelling  was  just  beyond  the  town, 
At  what  he  called  his  country-seat  ; 
For,  careless  of  Fortune's  smile  or  frown, 
And  weary  grown  of   the  world   and   its 

ways, 

He  wished  to  pass  the  rest  of  his  days 
In  a  private  life  and  a  calm  retreat. 

But  a  double  life  was  the  life  he  led, 
And,  while  professing  to  be  in  search 
Of  a  godly  course,  and  willing,  he  said, 
Nay,  anxious  to  join  the  Puritan  church, 
He  made  of  all  this  but  small  account, 
And  passed  his  idle  hours  instead 
With  roystering  Morton  of  Merry  Mount, 
That  pettifogger  from  Furnival's  Inn, 
Lord  of  misrule  and  riot  and  sin, 
Who  looked  on  the  wine  when  it  was  red. 

This  country-seat  was  little  more 

Than  a  cabin  of  logs  ;  but  in  front  of  the 

door 

A  modest  flower-bed  thickly  sown 
With  sweet  alyssum  and  columbine 
Made  those  who  saw  it  at  once  divine 
The  touch  of   some  other  hand   than   his 

own. 
And  first  it  was  whispered,  and  then  it  was 

known, 

That  he  in  secret  was  harboring  there 
A  little  lady  with  golden  hair, 
Whom  he  called  his  cousin,  but  whom  he 

had  wed 

In  the  Italian  manner,  as  men  said, 
And  great  was  the  scandal  everywhere. 


THE   LANDLORD'S   TALE 


285 


But  worse  than  this  was  the  vague  sur 
mise, 

Though  none  could  vouch  for  it  or  aver, 
That  the  Knight  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
Was  only  a  Papist  in  disguise  ; 
And  the  more  to  imbitter  their  bitter  lives, 
And  the  more  to  trouble  the  public  mind, 
Came  letters  from  England,  from  two  other 

wives, 

Whom  he  had  carelessly  left  behind  ; 
Both  of  them  letters  of  such  a  kind 
As  made  the  governor  hold  his  breath  ; 
The  one  imploring  him  straight  to  send 
The  husband  home,  that  he  might  amend  ; 
The  other  asking  his  instant  death, 
As  the  only  way  to  make  an  end. 

The  wary  governor  deemed  it  right, 
When  all  this  wickedness  was  revealed, 
To  send  his  warrant  signed  and  sealed, 
And  take  the  body  of  the  knight. 
Armed  with  this  mighty  instrument, 
The  marshal,  mounting  his  gallant  steed, 
Rode  forth  from  town  at   the   top  of  his 

speed, 

And  followed  by  all  his  bailiffs  bold, 
As  if  on  high  achievement  bent, 
To  storm  some  castle  or  stronghold, 
Challenge  the  warders  on  the  wall, 
And  seize  in  his  ancestral  hall 
A  robber-baron  grim  and  old. 

But  when  through  all  the  dust  and  heat 
He  came  to  Sir  Christopher's  country-seat, 
No  knight  he  found,  nor  warder  there, 
But  the  little  lady  with  golden  hair, 
Who  was  gathering  in  the  bright  sunshine 
The  sweet  alyssum  and  columbine  ; 
While  gallant  Sir  Christopher,  all  so  gay, 
Being  forewarned,  through  the  postern  gate 
Of  his  castle  wall  had  tripped  away, 
And  was  keeping  a  little  holiday 
In  the  forests,  that  bounded  his  estate. 

Then  as  a  trusty  squire  and  true 
The  marshal  searched  the  castle  through, 
Not  crediting  what  the  lady  said  ; 
Searched  from  cellar  to  garret  in  vain, 
And,  finding  no  knight,  came  out  again 
And  arrested  the  golden  damsel  instead, 
And  bore  her  in  triumph  into  the  town, 
While  from  her  eyes  the  tears  rolled  down 
On  the  sweet  alyssum  and  columbine, 
That  she   held  in  her  fingers  white  and 
fina 


The  governor's  heart  was  moved  to  see 

So  fair  a  creature  caught  within 

The  snares  of  Satan  and  of  sin, 

And  he  read  her  a  little  homily 

On  the  folly  and  wickedness  of  the  lives 

Of  women  half  cousins  and  half  wives  ; 

But,  seeing  that  naught  his  words  availed, 

He  sent  her  away  in  a  ship  that  sailed 

For  Merry  England  over  the  sea, 

To  the  other  two  wives  in  the  old  conntree, 

To  search  her  further,  since  he  had  failed 

To  come  at  the  heart  of  the  mystery. 

Meanwhile  Sir  Christopher  wandered  away 
Through  pathless  woods  for  a  month  and  a 

.  day». 

Shooting  pigeons,  and  sleeping  at  night 
With  the  noble  savage,  who  took  delight 
In  his  feathered  hat  and  his  velvet  vest, 
His  gun  and  his  rapier  and  the  rest. 
But  as  soon  as  the  noble  savage  heard 
That  a  bounty  was  offered  for  this  gay  bird, 
He  wanted  to  slay  him  out  of  hand, 
And  bring  in  his  beautiful  scalp  for  a  show, 
Like  the  glossy  head  of  a  kite  or  crow, 
Until  he  was  made  to  understand 
They  wanted  the  bird  alive,  not  dead  ; 
Then  he  followed  him  whithersoever  he  fled, 
Through  forest  and  field,  and  hunted  him 

down, 
And  brought  him  prisoner  into  the  town. 

Alas  !  it  was  a  rueful  sight, 

To  see  this  melancholy  knight 

In  such  a  dismal  and  hapless  case  ; 

His  hat  deformed  by  stain  and  dent, 

His  plumage  broken,  his  doublet  rent, 

His  beard  and  flowing  locks  forlorn, 

Matted,  dishevelled,  and  unshorn, 

His  boots  with  dust  and  mire  besprent ; 

But  dignified  in  his  disgrace, 

And  wearing  an  unblushing  face. 

And  thus  before  the  magistrate 

He  stood  to  hear  the  doom  of  fate. 

In  vain  he  strove  with  wonted  ease 

To  modify  and  extenuate 

His  evil  deeds  in  church  and  state, 

For  gone  was  now  his  power  to  please  ; 

And  his  pompous  words  had  no  more  weight 

Than  feathers  flying  in  the  breeze. 

With  suavity  equal  to  his  own 

The  governor  lent  a  patient  ear 

To  the  speech  evasive  and  high-flown, 

In  which  he  endeavored  to  make  clear 


286 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN 


That  colonial  laws  were  too  severe 
When  applied  to  a  gallant  cavalier, 
A  gentleman  born,  and  so  well  known, 
And  accustomed  to  move  in  a  higher  sphere. 

All  this  the  Puritan  governor  heard, 
And  deigned  in  answer  never  a  word  ; 
But  in  summary  manner  shipped  away, 
In  a  vessel  that  sailed  from  Salem  Bay, 
This  splendid  and  famous  cavalier, 
With  his  Rupert  hat  and  his  popery, 
To  Merry  England  over  the  sea, 
As  being  unmeet  to  inhabit  here. 

Thus  endeth  the  Rhyme  of   Sir  Christo 
pher, 

Knight  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
The  first  who  furnished  this  barren  land 
With  apples  of  Sodom  and  ropes  of  sand. 


FINALE 

THESE  are  the  tales  those  merry  guests 
Told  to  each  other,  well  or  ill  ; 
Like  summer  birds  that  lift  their  crests 
Above  the  borders  of  their  nests 
And  twitter,  and  again  are  still. 

These  are  the  tales,  or  new  or  old, 
In  idle  moments  idly  told  ; 
Flowers  of  the  field  with  petals  thin, 
Lilies  that  neither  toil  nor  spin, 
And  tufts  of  wayside  weeds  and  gorse 
Hung  in  the  parlor  of  the  inn 
Beneath  the  sign  of  the  Red  Horse. 

And  still,  reluctant  to  retire, 

The  friends  sat  talking  by  the  fire 

And    watched    the    smouldering    embers 

burn 

To  ashes,  and  flash  up  again 
Into  a  momentary  glow, 
Lingering  like  them  when  forced  to  go, 
And  going  when  they  would  remain  ; 
For  on  the  morrow  they  must  turn 
Their  faces  homeward,  and  the  pain 


Of  parting  touched  with  its  unrest 
A  tender  nerve  in  every  breast. 

But  sleep  at  last  the  victory  won  ; 
They  must  be  stirring  with  the  sun, 
And  drowsily  good  night  they  said, 
And  went  still  gossiping  to  bed, 
And  left  the  parlor  wrapped  in  glooni. 
The  only  live  thing  in  the  room 
Was  the  old  clock,  that  in  its  pace 
Kept  time  with  the  revolving  spheres 
And  constellations  in  their  flight, 
And  struck  with  its  uplifted  mace 
The  dark,  unconscious  hours  of  night, 
To  senseless  and  unlisteniug  ears. 

Uprose  the  sun  ;  and  every  guest, 
Uprisen,  was  soon  equipped  and  dressed 
For  journeying  home  and  city-ward  ; 
The  old  stage-coach  was  at  the  door, 
With  horses  harnessed,  long  before 
The  sunshine  reached  the  withered  sward 
Beneath  the  oaks,  whose  branches  hoar 
Murmured  :  "  Farewell  f orevermore." 

"  Farewell !  "  the  portly  Landlord  cried  ; 
"  Farewell  !  "  the  parting  guests  replied, 
But  little  thought  that  nevermore 
Their  feet  would  pass  that  threshold  o'er  ; 
That  nevermore  together  there 
Would  they  assemble,  free  from  care, 
To  hear  the  oaks'  mysterious  roar, 
And  breathe  the  wholesome  country  air. 

Where  are  they  now  ?  What  lands  and  skies 
Paint  pictures  in  their  friendly  eyes  ? 
What  hope  deludes,  what  promise  cheers, 
What  pleasant  voices  fill  their  ears  ? 
Two  are  beyond  the  salt  sea  waves, 
And  three  already  in  their  graves. 
Perchance  the  living  still  may  look 
Into  the  pages  of  this  book, 
And  see  the  days  of  long  ago 
Floating  and  fleeting  to  and  fro, 
As  in  the  well-remembered  brook 
They  saw  the  inverted  landscape  gleam, 
And  their  own  faces  like  a  dream 
Look  up  upon  them  from  below. 


PALINGENESIS 


287 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE 


The  poems  in  this  division  were  published  under  the  title  Flower-de-Luce  in  1867.    The  title  poem  was  written 
March  20,  1866. 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE 

BEAUTIFUL  lily,  dwelling  by  still  rivers, 

Or  solitary  mere, 

Or  where  the  sluggish  meadow-brook  de 
livers 

Its  waters  to  the  weir  ! 

Thou  laughest   at  the  mill,  the  whir  and 

worry 

Of  spindle  and  of  loom, 
And  the  great  wheel  that  toils  amid  the 

hurry 
And  rushing  of  the  flume. 

Born  in  the  purple,  born  to  joy  and  pleas- 

ance, 

Thou  dost  not  toil  nor  spin, 
But  makest  glad  and  radiant  with  thy  pres 
ence 
The  meadow  and  the  lin. 

The  wind  blows,  and  uplifts  thy  drooping 

banner, 

And  round  thee  throng  and  run 
The    rushes,  the    green    yeomen    of    thy 

manor, 
The  outlaws  of  the  sun. 

The   burnished  dragon-fly   is   thy   attend 
ant, 

And  tilts  against  the  field, 
And   down   the   listed   sunbeam  rides  re 
splendent 
With  steel-blue  mail  and  shield. 

Thou  art  the  Iris,  fair  among  the  fairest, 
Who,  armed  with  golden  rod 

And    winged    with    the     celestial     azure, 

bearest 
The  message  of  some  God. 

Thou  art  the  Muse,  who  far  from  crowded 

cities 

Hauntest  the  sylvan  streams, 
Playing  on  pipes  of  reed  the  artless  dit 
ties 
That  come  to  us  as  dreams. 


O   flower-de-luce,   bloom   on,  and   let   the 

river 

Linger  to  kiss  thy  feet ! 
0  flower  of  song,  bloom  on,  and  make  for 
ever 
The  world  more  fair  and  sweet. 


PALINGENESIS 

In  a  letter  dated  March  20,  1859,  Mr.  Longfellow  says  : 
"  For  my  own  part,  I  am  delighted  to  hear  the  birda 
again.  Spring  always  reminds  me  of  the  Palingenesis, 
or  re-creation,  of  the  old  alchemists,  who  believed  that 
form  is  indestructible  and  that  out  of  the  ashes  of  a 
rose  the  rose  itself  could  be  reconstructed,  —  if  they 
could  only  discover  the  great  secret  of  Nature.  It  is 


done 
eyes 


every  spring  beneath  our  windows  and  before  our 
;  and  is  always  so  wonderful  and  so  beautiful!" 
The  poem,  which  was  printed  in  the  Atlantic  for  July, 
1864,  appears  to  have  been  written,  or  at  any  rate  re 
vised,  just  before  publication. 

I  LAY  upon  the  headland-height,  and  lis 

tened 
To  the  incessant  sobbing  of  the  sea 

In  caverns  under  me, 
And  watched  the  waves,  that  tossed  and 

fled  and  glistened, 

Until  the  rolling  meadows  of  amethyst 
Melted  away  in  mist. 

Then    suddenly,    as    one    from    sleep,    I 

started  ; 
For  round  about  me  all  the  sunny  capes 

Seemed  peopled  with  the  shapes 
Of    those  whom    I   had    known    in    days 

departed, 

Apparelled  in  the  loveliness  which  gleams 
On  faces  seen  in  dreams. 

A  moment  only,  and  the  light  and  glory 
Faded  away,  and  the  disconsolate  shore 

Stood  lonely  as  before  ; 
And  the  wild-roses  of  the  promontory 
Around   me    shuddered  in   the  wind,  and 
shed 

Their  petals  of  pale  red. 

There  was  an  old  belief  that  in  the  embers 
Of  all  things  their  primordial  form  exists, 
And  cunning  alchemists 


288 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE 


Could  re-create  the  rose  with  all  its  mem 
bers 

From  its  own  ashes,  but  without  the  bloom, 
Without  the  lost  perfume. 

Ah  me  !  what  wonder-working,  occult  sci 
ence 
Can  from   the   ashes  in  our  hearts   once 

more 

The  rose  of  youth  restore  ? 
What  craft  of  alchemy  can  bid  defiance 
To  time  and  change,  and  for  a  single  hour 
Renew  this  phantom-flower  ? 

"  Oh,  give   me  back,"  I  cried,   "  the  van 
ished  splendors, 
The  breath  of  morn,  and  the  exultant  strife, 

When  the  swift  stream  of  life 
Bounds   o'er  its   rocky  channel,  and   sur 
renders 

The  pond,  with  all  its  lilies,  for  the  leap 
Into  the  unknown  deep  !  " 

And  the  sea  answered,  with  a  lamentation, 
Like    some   old    prophet   wailing,   and    it 

said, 

"  Alas  !  thy  youth  is  dead  ! 
It  breathes  no  more,  its  heart  has  no  pulsa 
tion  ; 

In  the  dark  places  with  the  dead  of  old 
It  lies  forever  cold  !  " 

Then  said  I,  "  From  its  consecrated  cere 
ments 
I  will  not  drag  this  sacred  dust  again, 

Only  to  give  me  pain  ; 

But,  still  remembering  all  the  lost  endear 
ments, 

Go  on   my  way,   like  one  who  looks   be 
fore, 
And  turns  to  weep  no  more." 

Into  what  land  of  harvests,  what  planta 
tions 
Bright  with  autumnal  foliage  and  the  glow 

Of  sunsets  burning  low  ; 
Beneath  what  midnight  skies,  whose  con 
stellations 

Light  up  the  spacious  avenues  between 
This  world  and  the  unseen  ! 

Amid  what  friendly  greetings  and  caresses, 
What  households,  though  not  alien,  yet  not 

mine, 
What  bowers  of  rest  divine  ; 


To  what  temptations  in  lone  wildernesses, 
What  famine  of  the  heart,  what  pain  and 

loss, 
The  bearing  of  what  cross  ! 

I  do  not  know  ;  nor  will  I  vainly  question 
Those  pages  of  the  mystic  book  which  hold 

The  story  still  untold, 
But  without  rash  conjecture  or  suggestion 
Turn  its  last  leaves  in  reverence  and  good 
heed, 

Until  "The  End  "I  read. 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  CLOUD 

BURN,  O  evening  hearth,  and  waken 
Pleasant  visions,  as  of  old  ! 

Though  the  house  by  winds  be  shaken, 
Safe  I  keep  this  room  of  gold  ! 

Ah,  no  longer  wizard  Fancy 
Builds  her  castles  in  the  air, 

Luring  me  by  necromancy 
Up  the  never-ending  stair  ! 

But,  instead,  she  builds  me  bridges 

Over  many  a  dark  ravine, 
Where  beneath  the  gusty  ridges 

Cataracts  dash  and  roar  unseen. 

And  I  cross  them,  little  heeding 
Blast  of  wind  or  torrent's  roar, 

As  I  follow  the  receding 

Footsteps  that  have  gone  before. 

Naught  avails  the  imploring  gesture, 
Naught  avails  the  cry  of  pain  ! 

When  I  touch  the  flying  vesture, 
'T  is  the  gray  robe  of  the  rain. 

Baffled  I  return,  and,  leaning 

O'er  the  parapets  of  cloud, 
Watch  the  mist  that  intervening 

Wraps  the  valley  in  its  shroud. 

And  the  sounds  of  life  ascending 
Faintly,  vaguely,  meet  the  ear, 

Murmur  of  bells  and  voices  blending 
With  the  rush  of  waters  near. 

Well  I  know  what  there  lies  hidden, 
Every  tower  and  town  and  farm, 

And  again  the  land  forbidden 
Reassumes  its  vanished  charm. 


CHRISTMAS   BELLS 


289 


Well  I  know  the  secret  places, 
And  the  nests  in  hedge  and  tree  ; 

At  what  doors  are  friendly  faces, 
In  what  hearts  are  thoughts  of  me. 

Through  the  mist  and  darkness  sinking, 
Blown  by  wind  and  beaten  by  shower, 

Down  I  fling  the  thought  I  'm  thinking, 
Down  I  toss  this  Alpine  flower. 


HAWTHORNE 

MAY  23,  1864 

The  date  is  that  of  the  burial  of  Hawthorne.  The 
poem  was  written  just  a  month  later.  Mr.  Longfellow 
wrote  to  Mr.  Fields  :  "  I  send  you  a  poem,  premising 
that  I  have  not  seen  Holmes's  article  in  the  Atlantic. 
I  hope  we  have  not  been  singing  and  saying  the  same 
things.  I  have  only  tried  to  describe  the  state  of  mind 
I  was  in  on  that  day.  Did  you  not  feel  so  likewise  ?  " 
In  sending  a  copy  of  the  lines  at  the  same  time  to  Mrs. 
Hawthorne,  he  wrote :  "I  feel  how  imperfect  and 
inadequate  they  are  ;  but  I  trust  you  will  pardon  their 
deficiencies  for  the  love  I  bear  his  memory." 

How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day 

In  the  long  week  of  rain  ! 
Though  all  its   splendor  could   not   chase 
away 

The  omnipresent  pain. 

The    lovely  town   was  white   with   apple- 
blooms, 

And  the  great  elms  overhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms 

Shot  through  with  golden  thread. 


Across    the    meadows,    by   the    gray   old 
manse, 

The  historic  river  flowed  : 
I  was  as  one  who  wanders  in  a  trance, 

Unconscious  of  his  road. 

The    faces    of     familiar     friends    seemed 

strange  ; 

Their  voices  I  could  hear, 
And  yet  the  words  they  uttered  seemed  to 

change 
Their  meaning  to  my  ear. 

For  the   one   face    I  looked   for   was  not 
there, 

The  one  low  voice  was  mute  ; 
Only  an  unseen  presence  filled  the  air, 

And  baffled  my  pursuit. 


Now  I  look  back,  and  meadow,  manse,  and 
stream 

Dimly  my  thought  defines  ; 
I  only  see  —  a  dream  within  a  dream  — 

The  hill-top  hearsed  with  pines. 

I  only  hear  above  his  place  of  rest 

Their  tender  undertone, 
The  infinite  longings  of  a  troubled  breast, 

The  voice  so  like  his  own. 

There  in  seclusion  and  remote  from  men 

The  wizard  hand  lies  cold, 
Which  at  its  topmost  speed  let  fall  the  pen, 

And  left  the  tale  half  told. 

Ah  !  who  shall   lift  that   wand   of  magic 
power, 

And  the  lost  clew  regain  ? 
The  unfinished  window  in  Aladdin's  tower 

Unfinished  must  remain  ! 


CHRISTMAS  BELLS 

I  HEARD  the  bells  on  Christmas  Day 
Their  old,  familiar  carols  play, 

And  wild  and  sweet 

The  words  repeat 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

And  thought  how,  as  the  day  had  come, 
The  belfries  of  all  Christendom 

Had  rolled  along 

The  unbroken  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

Till,  ringing,  singing  on  its  way, 

The  world  revolved  from  night  to  day, 

A  voice,  a  chime, 

A  chant  sublime 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

Then  from  each  black,  accursed  mouth 
The  cannon  thundered  in  the  South, 

And  with  the  sound 

The  carols  drowned 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

It  was  as  if  an  earthquake  rent 
The  hearth-stones  of  a  continent, 

And  made  forlorn 

The  households  born 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 


290 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE 


And  in  despair  I  bowed  my  head  ; 
"  There  is  no  peace  on  earth,"  I  said  ; 

"  For  hate  is  strong, 

And  mocks  the  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  !  " 

Then  pealed  the  bells  more  loud  and  deep 
"  God  is  not  dead  ;  nor  doth  he  sleep ! 

The  Wrong  shall  fail, 

The  Right  prevail, 
With  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! " 


THE  WIND  OVER  THE  CHIMNEY 

SEE,  the' fire  is  sinking  low, 
Dusky  red  the  embers  glow, 

While  above  them  still  I  cower, 
While  a  moment  more  I  linger, 
Though  the  clock,  with  lifted  finger, 

Points  beyond  the  midnight  hour. 

Sings  the  blackened  log  a  tune 
Learned  in  some  forgotten  June 

From  a  school-boy  at  his  play, 
When  they  both  were  young  together, 
Heart  of  youth  and  summer  weather 

Making  all  their  holiday. 

And  the  night-wind  rising,  hark  ! 
How  above  there  in  the  dark, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow, 
Ever  wilder,  fiercer,  grander, 
Like  the  trumpets  of  Iskander, 

All  the  noisy  chimneys  blow  ! 

Every  quivering  tongue  of  flame 
Seems  to  murmur  some  great  name, 

Seems  to  say  to  me,  "  Aspire  ! " 
But  the  night-wind  answers,  "  Hollow 
Are  the  visions  that  you  follow, 

Into  darkness  sinks  your  fire  !  " 

Then  the  flicker  of  the  blaze 
Gleams  on  volumes  of  old  days, 

Written  by  masters  of  the  art, 
Loud  through  whose  majestic  pages 
Rolls  the  melody  of  ages, 

Throb  the  harp-strings  of  the  heart. 

And  again  the  tongues  of  flame 
Start  exulting  and  exclaim  : 

"  These  are  prophets,  bards,  and  seers  ; 
In  the  horoscope  of  nations, 


Like  ascendant  constellations, 
They  control  the  coming  years." 

But  the  night-wind  cries  :   "  Despair  ! 
Those  who  walk  with  feet  of  air 

Leave  no  long-enduring  marks  ; 
At  God's  forges  incandescent 
Mighty  hammers  beat  incessant, 

These  are  but  the  flying  sparks. 

"  Dust  are  all  the  hands  that  wrought ; 
Books  are  sepulchres  of  thought ; 

The  dead  laurels  of  the  dead 
Rustle  for  a  moment  only, 
Like  the  withered  leaves  in  lonely 

Churchyards  at  some  passing  tread." 

Suddenly  the  flame  sinks  down  ; 
Sink  the  rumors  of  renown  ; 

And  alone  the  night-wind  drear 
Clamors  louder,  wilder,  vaguer,  — 
"  'T  is  the  brand  of  Meleager 

Dying  on  the  hearth-stone  here  ! " 

And  I  answer,  —  "  Though  it  be, 
W]iy  should  that  discomfort  me  ? 
{No  endeavor  is  in  vain  ; 
Its  reward  is  in  the  doing, 
And  the  rapture  of  pursuing 

Is  the  prize  the  vanquished  gain.]} 


THE    BELLS   OF   LYNN 

HEARD    AT    NAHANT 

O  CURFEW  of  the  setting  sun !     O  Bells  of 

Lynn  ! 
O  requiem  of  the  dying  day  !     O  Bells  of 

Lynn ! 

From  the  dark  belfries  of  yon  cloud-cathe 
dral  wafted, 

Your  sounds  aerial  seem  to  float,  O  Bells  of 
Lynn  ! 

Borne  on  the  evening  wind  across  the  crim 
son  twilight, 

O'er  land  and  sea  they  rise  and  fall,  O  Bells 
of  Lynn  ! 

The  fisherman  in  his  boat,  far  out  beyond 

the  headland, 
Listens,  and  leisurely  rows  ashore,  O  Bells 

of  Lynn ! 


TO-MORROW 


291 


Over    the    shining   sands    the    wandering 

cattle  homeward 
Follow  each  other  at  your  call,  O  Bells  of 

Lynn  ! 

The  distant  lighthouse  hears,  and  with  his 

flaming  signal 
Answers  you,  passing  the  watchword  on,  O 

Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

And  down  the  darkening  coast  run  the  tu 
multuous  surges, 

And  clap  their  hands,  and  shout  to  you,  O 
Bells  of  Lynn ! 

Till   from  the  shuddering  sea,  with  your 

wild  incantations, 
Ye  summon  up  the  spectral  moon,  O  Bells 

of  Lynn  ! 

And  startled  at  the  sight,  like  the  weird 

woman  of  Endor, 
Ye  cry  aloud,  and  then  are  still,  O  Bells  of 

Lynn  ! 


KILLED   AT   THE   FORD 

HE  is  dead,  the  beautiful  youth, 
The  heart  of  honor,  the  tongue  of  truth, 
He,  the  life  and  light  of  us  all, 
Whose  voice  was  blithe  as  a  bugle-call, 
Whom  all  eyes  followed  with  one  consent, 
The  cheer  of  whose  laugh,  and  whose  plea 
sant  word, 
Hushed  all  murmurs  of  discontent. 

Only  last  night,  as  we  rode  along, 
Down  the  dark  of  the  mountain  gap, 
To  visit  the  picket-guard  at  the  ford, 
Little  dreaming  of  any  mishap, 
He  was  humming  the  words  of  some  old 

song  : 

"  Two  red  roses  he  had  on  his  cap 
And  another  he  bore  at  the  point  of  his 

sword." 

Sudden  and  swift  a  whistling  ball 

Came  out  of  a  wood,  and  the  voice  was 

still  ; 

Something  I  heard  in  the  darkness  fall, 
And  for  a  moment  my  blood  grew  chill  ; 
I  spake  in  a  whisper,  as  he  who  speaks 
In  a  room  where  some  one  is  lying  dead  ; 
But  he  made  no  answer  to  what  I  said. 


We  lifted  him  up  to  his  saddle  again, 
And  through  the  mire  and  the  mist  and 

the  rain 

Carried  him  back  to  the  silent  camp, 
And  laid  him  as  if  asleep  on  his  bed  ; 
And  I  saw  by  the  light  of  the  surgeon's 

lamp 

Two  white  roses  upon  his  cheeks, 
And  one,  just  over  his  heart,  blood-red  ! 

And  I  saw  in  a  vision  how  far  and  fleet 
That  fatal  bullet  went  speeding  forth, 
Till  it  reached  a  town  in  the  distant  North, 
Till  it  reached  a  house  in  a  sunny  street, 
Till  it  reached  a  heart  that  ceased  to  beat 
Without  a  murmur,  without  a  cry  ; 
And  a  bell  was  tolled,  in  that  far-off  town, 
For  one    who   had   passed   from   cross  to 

crown, 
And    the    neighbors    wondered    that    she 

should  die. 


GIOTTO'S   TOWER 

How  many  lives,  made  beautiful  and  sweet 
By  self-devotion  and  by  self-restraint, 
Whose  pleasure  is  to  run  without  com 
plaint 

On  unknown  errands  of  the  Paraclete, 
Wanting  the  reverence  of  unshodden  feet, 
Fail   of    the   nimbus   which   the   artists 

paint 

Around  the  shining  forehead  of  the  saint, 
And    are    in    their  completeness  incom 
plete  ! 
In  the   old  Tuscan  town  stands  Giotto's 

tower, 
The    lily    of    Florence    blossoming    in 

stone,  — 

A  vision,  a  delight,  and  a  desire,  — 
The  builder's  perfect  and  centennial  flower. 
That  in  the  night  of  ages  bloomed  alone, 
But  wanting  still  the  glory  of  the  spire. 


TO-MORROW 

'T 19  late  at  night,  and  in  the  realm  of  sleep 
My    little    lambs    are   folded  like   the 

flocks  ; 
From  room  to  room  I  hear  the  wakeful 

clocks 
Challenge  the  passing  hour,  like  guards 

that  keep 


292 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE 


Their  solitary  watch  on  tower  and  steep  ; 

Far  off  I  hear  the  crowing  of  the  cocks, 

And  through  the  opening  door  that  time 
unlocks 

Feel   the  fresh  breathing  of  To-morrow 

creep. 

To-morrow !     the     mysterious,     unknown 
guest, 

Who  cries  to  me  :  "  Remember  Barme 
cide, 

And  tremble  to  be  happy  with  the  rest." 
And  I  make  answer  :  "  1  am  satisfied  ; 

I   dare   not   ask  ;   I  know   not   what  is 
best  ; 

God  hath  already  said  what  shall  be 
tide." 


DIVINA   COMMEDIA 

The  six  sonnets  which  follow  were  written  during  the 
progress  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  work  in  translating  the 
Divina  Commedia,  and  were  published  as  poetical  fly 
leaves  to  the  three  parts.  The  first  was  written  just 
after  he  had  put  the  first  two  cantos  of  the  Inferno 
into  the  hands  of  the  printer.  This,  with  the  second, 
prefaced  the  Inferno.  The  third  and  fourth  intro 
duced  the  Pwgatorio,  and  the  fifth  and  sixth  the  Par- 
adiso. 


OFT  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 
A  laborer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat, 
Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent 

feet 
Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 

Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er  ; 
Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat  ; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 
Become  an  undistinguishable  roar. 

So,  as  I  enter  here  from  day  to  day, 

And   leave   my  burden   at  this  minster 

gate, 
Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to 


The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 
To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 


How  strange  the  sculptures  that  adorn  these 

towers  ! 

This  crowd  of  statues,  in  whose  folded 
sleeves 


Birds  build  their  nests  ;  while  canopied 
with  leaves 

Parvis    and  portal    bloom  like  trellised 

bowers, 

And  the  vast  minster  seems  a  cross  of 
flowers  ! 

But    fiends   and     dragons    on  the   gar- 
goyled  eaves 

Watch  the  dead  Christ  between  the  liv 
ing  thieves, 

And,  underneath,  the  traitor  Judas  low 
ers  ! 
Ah  !  from  what  agonies  of  heart  and  brain, 

What  exultations  trampling  on  despair, 

What  tenderness,  what  tears,  what  hate 

of  wrong, 
What  passionate  outcry  of  a  soul  in  pain, 

Uprose  this  poem  of  the  earth  and  air, 

This  mediaeval  miracle  of  song  ! 


Ill 


I  enter,  and  I  see  thee  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  long  aisles,  O  poet  saturnine  ! 

And  strive  to  make  my  steps  keep  pace 
with  thine. 

The  air  is  filled  with  some  unknown  per 
fume  ; 
The  congregation  of  the  dead  make  room 

For   thee    to   pass  ;    the    votive    tapers 
shine  ; 

Like  rooks  that  haunt  Ravenna's  groves 
of  pine 

The  hovering   echoes  fly  from  tomb  to 

tomb. 
From  the  confessionals  I  hear  arise 

Rehearsals  of  forgotten  tragedies, 

And  lamentations  from   the  crypts    be 
low  ; 
And  then  a  voice  celestial  that  begins 

With    the   pathetic   words,    "Although 
your  sins 

As  scarlet  be,"  and  ends  with  "  as  the 


IV 


With  snow-white  veil  and  garments  as  of 

flame, 

She  stands  before  thee,  who  so  long  ago 
Filled  thy  young  heart  with  passion  and 

the  woe 

From  which  thy  song  and  all  its  splen 
dors  came  ; 


NOEL 


293 


And  while  with  stern  rebuke  she  speaks  thy 
name, 

The  ice   about   thy   heart   melts   as  the 
snow 

On  mountain  heights,  and  in  swift  over 
flow 

Comes  gushing  from  thy  lips  in  sobs  of 

shame. 
Thou  makest  full  confession  ;  and  a  gleam, 

As  of  the  dawn  on  some  dark  forest  cast, 

Seems    on    thy   lifted   forehead    to   in 
crease  ; 

Lethe      and     Euiioe  —  the     remembered 
dream 

And  the  forgotten  sorrow  —  bring  at  last 

That  perfect   pardon   which   is    perfect 
peace. 


I  lift  mine  eyes,  and  all  the  windows  blaze 

With  forms  of  Saints  and  holy  men  who 
died, 

Here  martyred  and  hereafter  glorified  ; 

And  the  great  Rose  upon  its  leaves  dis 
plays 

Christ's  Triumph,  and   the  angelic  rounde 
lays, 

With  splendor  upon  splendor  multiplied  ; 

And  Beatrice  again  at  Dante's  side 

No  more  rebukes,  but  smiles  her  words 

of  praise. 

And   then   the   organ  sounds,  and  unseen 
choirs 

Sing  the  old  Latin  hymns  of  peace  and 
love 

And  benedictions  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 
And  the  melodious  bells  among  the  spires 

O'er    all    the    house-tops   and    through 
heaven  above 

Proclaim  the  elevation  of  the  Host ! 


VI 


O  star  of  morning  and  of  liberty  ! 

O  bringer  of  the  light,  whose  splendor 

shines 

Above  the  darkness  of  the  Apennines, 
Forerunner  of  the  day  that  is  to  be  ! 

The  voices  of  the  city  and  the  sea, 

The   voices  of   the  mountains   and    the 

pines, 

Repeat  thy  song,  till  the  familiar  lines 
Are  footpaths  for  the  thought  of  Italy  ! 


Thy   flame  is  blown   abroad  from   all  the 

heights, 
Through  all  the  nations,  and  a  sound  is 

heard, 

As  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  men  devout, 
Strangers  of  Rome,  and  the  new  proselytes, 
In   their   own   language   hear  thy  won 
drous  word, 
And  many  are  amazed  and  many  doubt. 

NOEL 

ENVOYS  A  M.  AGASSIZ,  LA  VEILLE  DE 
NOEL  1864,  AVEC  UN  PANIER  DE  VINS 
DIVERS 

The  basket  of  wine  which  Mr.  Longfellow  sent  to  his 
friend  with  these  verses  was  accompanied  by  the  follow 
ing  note  :  "A  Merry  Christmas  and  Happy  New  Year 
to  all  the  house  of  Agassiz !  I  send  also  six  good 
wishes  in  the  shape  of  bottles.  Or  is  it  wine  ?  It  is 
both ;  good  wine  and  good  wishes  and  kind  memories 
of  you  on  this  Christmas  Eve." 

A  translation  of  the  verses  was  printed  by  Mr.  John 
E.  Norcross  of  Philadelphia  in  a  brochure,  1867. 

L'Acade"rnie  en  respect, 
Nonobstant  1'incorrection 
A  la  faveur  du  sujet, 

Ture-lure, 

N'y  fera  point  de  rature  ; 
Noel !  ture-lure-lure. 

GUI  BAROZAI. 

QUAND  les  astres  de  Noel 
Brillaient,  palpitaient  au  ciel, 
Six  gaillards,  et  chacun  ivre, 
Chantaient  gaiment  dans  le  givre, 

"Bons  amis, 
Aliens  done  chez  Agassiz  ! " 

Ces  illustres  Pelerins 
D'Outre-Mer  adroits  et  fins, 
Se  donnant  des  airs  de  pretre, 
A  1'envi  se  vantaient  d'etre 

"  Bons  amis 
De  Jean  Rudolphe  Agassiz  !  " 

CEil-de-Perdrix,  grand  farceur, 
Sans  reproche  et  sans  pudeur, 
Dans  son  patois  de  Bourgogne, 
Bredouillait  comme  un  ivrogne, 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  dansd  chez  Agassiz  !  " 

Verzenay  le  Champenois, 
Bon  Frangais,  point  New-Yorquois, 
Mais  des  environs  d'Avize, 
Fredonne  k  mainte  reprise, 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  chantd  chez  Agassiz  !  " 


294 


BIRDS   OF  PASSAGE 


A  cotd  inarchait  un  vieux 
Hidalgo,  mais  non  mousseux  ; 
Dans  le  temps  de  Charlemagne 
Fut  son  pere  Grand  d'Espagne  ! 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  dind  chez  Agassiz  ! " 

Derriere  eux  un  Bordelais, 
Gascon,  s'il  en  fut  jamais, 
Parf  umd  de  poe'sie 
Riait,  chantait,  plein  de  vie, 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  soupd  chez  Agassiz  !  " 

Avec  ce  beau  cadet  roux, 
Bras  dessus  et  bras  dessous, 
Mine  altiere  et  couleur  terne, 
Vint  le  Sire  de  Sauterne  ; 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  couche'  chez  Agassiz  !  " 

Mais  le  dernier  de  ces  preux, 
Etftit  un  pauvre  Chartreux, 
Qui  disait,  d'un  ton  robuste, 


"  Be'ne'dictioiis  sur  le  Juste  ! 

Bons  amis, 
Bdnissons  Pere  Agassiz  J  " 

Us  arrivent  trois  a  trois, 
Montent  1'escalier  de  bois 
Clopin-clopant  !  quel  gendarme 
Peut  permettre  ce  vacarme, 

Bons  amis, 
A  la  porte  d' Agassiz  ! 

"  Ouvrez  done,  mon  bon  Seigneur, 
Ouvrez  vite  et  n'ayez  peur  ; 
Ouvrez,  ouvrez,  car  nous  sommes 
Gens  de  bien  et  gentilshommes, 

Bons  amis 
De  la  famille  Agassiz  !  " 

Chut,  ganaches  !  taisez-vous  ! 
C'en  est  trop  de  vos  glouglous  ; 
Epargnez  aux  Philosophies 
Vos  abominables  strophes  ! 

Bons  amis, 
Respectez  mon  Agassiz ! 


BIRDS  OF   PASSAGE 


FLIGHT  THE  THIRD 


Contained  in  the  volume  entitled  Aftermath,  1873. 


FATA  MORGANA 

0  SWEET  illusions  of  Song, 
That  tempt  me  everywhere, 

In  the  lonely  fields,  and  the  throng 
Of  the  crowded  thoroughfare  ! 

1  approach,  and  ye  vanish  away, 
I  grasp  you,  and  ye  are  gone  ; 

But  ever  by  night  and  by  day, 
The  melody  soundeth  on. 

As  the  weary  traveller  sees 
In  desert  or  prairie  vast, 

Blue  lakes,  overhung  with  trees, 
That  a  pleasant  shadow  cast ; 

Fair  towns  with  turrets  high, 
And  shining  roofs  of  gold, 

That  vanish  as  he  draws  nigh, 
Like  mists  together  rolled,  — 


So  I  wander  and  wander  along, 
And  forever  before  me  gleams 

The  shining  city  of  song, 

In  the  beautiful  land  of  dreams. 

But  when  I  would  enter  the  gate 
Of  that  golden  atmosphere, 

It  is  gone,  and  I  wonder  and  wait 
For  the  vision  to  reappear. 


THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER 

EACH  heart  has  its  haunted  chamber, 
Where  the  silent  moonlight  falls  ! 

On  the  floor  are  mysterious  footsteps, 
There  are  whispers  along  the  walls  ! 

And  mine  at  times  is  haunted 

By  phantoms  of  the  Past, 
As  motionless  as  shadows 

By  the  silent  moonlight  cast. 


THE   CASTLE-BUILDER 


295 


A  form  sits  by  the  window, 

That  is  not  seen  by  day, 
For  as  soon  as  the  dawn  approaches 

It  vanishes  away. 

It  sits  there  in  the  moonlight, 

Itself  as  pale  and  still, 
And  points  with  its  airy  finger 

Across  the  window-sill. 

Without,  before  the  window, 

There  stands  a  gloomy  pine, 
Whose   boughs   wave   upward  and   down 
ward 

As  wave  these  thoughts  of  mine. 

And  underneath  its  branches 

Is  the  grave  of  a  little  child, 
Who  died  upon  life's  threshold, 

And  never  wept  nor  smiled. 

What  are  ye,  O  pallid  phantoms  ! 

That  haunt  my  troubled  brain  ? 
That  vanish  when  day  approaches, 

And  at  night  return  again  ? 

What  are  ye,  O  pallid  phantoms  ! 

But  the  statues  without  breath, 
That  stand  on  the  bridge  overarching 

The  silent  river  of  death  ? 


THE   MEETING 

AFTER  so  long  an  absence 

At  last  we  meet  again  : 
Does  the  meeting  give  us  pleasure, 

Or  does  it  give  us  pain  ? 

The  tree  of  life  has  been  shaken, 
And  but  few  of  us  linger  now, 

Like  the  Prophet's  two  or  three  berries 
In  the  top  of  the  uppermost  bough. 

We  cordially  greet  each  other 

In  the  old,  familiar  tone  ; 
And  we  think,  though  we  do  not  say  it, 

How  old  and  gray  he  is  grown  ! 

We  speak  of  a  Merry  Christmas 
And  many  a  Happy  New  Year  ; 

But  each  in  his  heart  is  thinking 
Of  those  that  are  not  here. 


We  speak  of  friends  and  their  fortunes, 
And  of  what  they  did  and  said, 

Till  the  dead  alone  seem  living, 
And  the  living  alone  seem  dead. 

And  at  last  we  hardly  distinguish 
Between  the  ghosts  and  the  guests  ; 

And  a  mist  and  shadow  of  sadness 
Steals  over  our  merriest  jests. 


VOX   POPULI 

WHEN  Mazdrvan  the  Magician 

Journeyed  westward  through  Cathay, 

Nothing  heard  he  but  the  praises 
Of  Badoura  on  his  way. 

But  the  lessening  rumor  ended 
When  he  came  to  Khaledan, 

There  the  folk  were  talking  only 
Of  Prince  Camaralzaman. 

So  it  happens  with  the  poets  : 
Every  province  hath  its  own  ; 

Camaralzaman  is  famous 
Where  Badoura  is  unknown. 


THE   CAS.TLE-BUILDER 

A  GENTLE  boy,  with  soft  and  silken  locks, 
A  dreamy  boy,  with  brown  and  tender 
eyes, 

A  castle-builder,  with  his  wooden  blocks, 
And  towers  that  touch  imaginary  skies. 

A  fearless  rider  on  his  father's  knee, 
An  eager  listener  unto  stories  told 

At  the  Round  Table  of  the  nursery, 
Of  heroes  and  adventures  manifold. 

There  will  be  other  towers  for  thee  to  build  ; 

There  will   be  other  steeds  for  thee  to 

ride  ; 
There  will  be  other  legends,  and  all  filled 

With  greater  marvels  and  more  glorified. 

Build  on,  and  make  thy  castles  high  and 
fair, 

Rising  and  reaching  upward  to  the  skies  ; 
Listen  to  voices  in  the  upper  air, 

Nor  lose  thy  simple  faith  in  mysteries. 


296 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


CHANGED 

"  November  25, 1847.  [In  Portland.]  After  church, 
walked  with  Fessendeu  to  the  '  gallows '  that  used  to 
be,  —  a  fine  hillside,  looking  down  and  over  the  cove." 
This  was  the  scene  of  Changed,  but  the  poem  was  not 
written  till  1858,  when  the  poet  was  on  a  visit  to  Port 
land. 

FROM  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
Where  of  old  the  mile-stone  stood, 

Now  a  stranger,  looking  down, 

I  behold  the  shadowy  crown 
Of  the  dark  and  haunted  wood. 

Is  it  changed,  or  am  I  changed  ? 

Ah  !  the  oaks  are  fresh  and  green, 
But  the  friends  with  whom  I  ranged 
Through  their  thickets  are  estranged 

By  the  years  that  intervene. 

Bright  as  ever  flows  the  sea, 
Bright  as  ever  shines  the  sun, 

But  alas  !  they  seem  to  me 

Not  the  sun  that  used  to  be, 
Not  the  tides  that  used  to  run. 


THE   CHALLENGE 

I  HAVE  a  vague  remembrance 
Of  a  story,  that  is  told 

In  some  ancient  Spanish  legend 
Or  chronicle  of  old. 

It  was  when  brave  King  Sanchez 
Was  before  Zamora  slain, 

And  his  great  besieging  army 
Lay  encamped  upon  the  plain. 

Don  Diego  de  Ordonez 

Sallied  forth  in  front  of  all, 

And  shouted  loud  his  challenge 
To  the  warders  on  the  wall. 

All  the  people  of  Zamora, 

Both  the  born  and  the  unborn, 

As  traitors  did  he  challenge 
With  taunting  words  of  scorn. 

The  living,  in  their  houses, 
And  in  their  graves,  the  dead  ! 


And  the  waters  of  their  rivers, 

And  their  wine,  and  oil,  and  bread  ! 

There  is  a  greater  army, 

That  besets  us  round  with  strife, 
A  starving,  numberless  army, 

At  all  the  gates  of  life. 

The  poverty-stricken  millions 

Who  challenge  our  wine  and  bread, 

And  impeach  us  all  as  traitors, 
Both  the  living  and  the  dead. 

And  whenever  I  sit  at  the  banquet, 
Where  the  feast  and  song  are  high, 

Amid  the  mirth  and  the  music 
I  can  hear  that  fearful  cry. 

And  hollow  and  haggard  faces 

Look  into  the  lighted  hall, 
And  wasted  hands  are  extended 

To  catch  the  crumbs  that  fall. 

For  within  there  is  light  and  plenty, 

And  odors  fill  the  air  ; 
But  without  there  is  cold  and  darkness, 

And  hunger  and  despair. 

And  there  in  the  camp  of  famine 

In  wind  and  cold  and  rain, 
Christ,  the  great  Lord  of  the  army, 

Lies  dead  upon  the  plain  ! 


THE  BROOK  AND  THE  WAVE 

THE  brooklet  came  from  the  mountain, 

As  sang  the  bard  of  old, 
Running  with  feet  of  silver 

Over  the  sands  of  gold  ! 

Far  away  in  the  briny  ocean 
There  rolled  a  turbulent  wave, 

Now  singing  along  the  sea-beach, 
Now  howling  along  the  cave. 

And  the  brooklet  has  found  the  billow, 
Though  they  flowed  so  far  apart, 

And  has  filled  with  its  freshness  and  sweet 
ness 
That  turbulent,  bitter  heart ! 


THE   MASQUE   OF   PANDORA 


297 


AFTERMATH 

This  poem,  placed  last  in  the  book,  gave  title  to  the 
volume  published  in  1873,  which  contained  the  third 
part  of  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn  and  the  third  flight 
of  Birds  of  Passage.  The  completion  of  the  Tales 
on  his  sixty-sixth  birthday  may  have  given  rise  to  this 
poem. 

WHEN  the  summer  fields  are  mown, 
When  the  birds  are  fledged  and  flown, 
And  the  dry  leaves  strew  the  path  ; 


With  the  falling  of  the  snow, 
With  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 
Once  again  the  fields  we  mow 
And  gather  in  the  aftermath. 

Not  the  sweet,  new  grass  with  flowers 
Is  this  harvesting  of  ours  ; 

Not  the  upland  clover  bloom  ; 
But  the  rowen  mixed  with  weeds, 
Tangled  tufts  from  marsh  and  meads, 
Where  the  poppy  drops  its  seeds 

In  the  silence  and  the  gloom. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA 


THE   MASQUE   OF   PANDORA 

The  title  poem  in  the  volume,  The  Masque  of  Pan 
dora  and  other  Poems,  published  in  1875.  It  was  adapt 
ed  for  the  stage,  and  set  to  music  by  Alfred  Cellier, 
and  was  brought  out  in  an  adaptation  by  Bolton  Howe 
at  the  Boston  Theatre  in  1881.  Mr.  Longfellow  wrote 
for  Miss  Blanche  Roosevelt,  who  was  principally  con 
cerned  in  putting  it  on  the  stage,  and  who  took  the  part 
of  Pandora,  the  following  song  and  chorus  :  — 

What  place  is  this  ?    Oh  tell  me,  I  implore  ! 

Tell  me  what  I  am  feeling,  hearing,  seeing ; 
If  this  be  life,  oh  give  me  more  and  more. 

Till  I  am  filled  with  the  delight  of  being. 

What  forms  mysterious  people  this  dark  space  ? 

What  voices  and  what  sounds  of  music  greet  me  ? 
And  who  are  these,  so  fair  in  form  and  face, 

That  with  such  gracious  welcome  come  to  meet  me  ? 

CHORUS 

Blow,  bellows,  blow !  and  keep  the  flame  from  dying, 
ils  h  " 


Till  from  the  iron  on  our  anvils  lying 

We  forge  the  thunderbolts  of  Zeus  supreme, 

Whose  smothered  lightnings  in  the  ashes 


gleam. 


THE  WORKSHOP  OF  HEPH^STUS 

HEPHAESTUS  (standing  before  the  statue  of 
Pandora). 

Not  fashioned  out  of  gold,    like   Hera's 

throne, 

Nor  forged  of  iron  like  the  thunderbolts 
Of  Zeus  omnipotent,  or  other  works 
Wrought  by  my  hands  at  Lemnos  or  Olym 
pus, 

But  moulded  in  soft  clay,  that  unresisting 
Yields  itself  to  the  touch,  this  lovely  form 
Before  me  stands,  perfect  in  every  part. 
Not  Aphrodite's  self  appeared  more  fair, 
When  first  upwaf ted  by  caressing  winds 


She  came  to  high  Olympus,  and  the  gods 
Paid  homage  to  her  beauty.    Thus  her  hair 
Was  cinctured  ;  thus  her  floating  drapery 
Was  like  a  cloud  about  her,  arid  her  face 
Was  radiant  with  the  sunshine  and  the  sea. 


THE  VOICE  OF  ZEUS. 

Is  thy  work  done,  Hephsestus  ? 


HEPHAESTUS. 


It  is  finished ! 


THE  VOICE. 

Not  finished  till  I  breathe  the  breath  of  life 
Into  her  nostrils,  and  she  moves  and  speaks. 

HEPH-aSSTUS. 

Will  she  become  immortal  like  ourselves  ? 

THE  VOICE. 

The  form  that  thou  hast  fashioned  out  of 

clay 

Is  of  the  earth  and  mortal  ;  but  the  spirit, 
The  life,  the  exhalation  of  my  breath, 
Is  of  diviner  essence  and  immortal. 
The  gods  shall  shower  on  her  their  benefac 
tions, 

She  shall  possess  all  gifts  :  the  gift  of  song, 
The  gift  of  eloquence,  the  gift  of  beauty, 
The  fascination  and  the  nameless  charm 
That  shall  lead  all  men  captive. 

HEPH^STUS. 

Wherefore?  wherefore? 

A  wind  shakes  the  house. 
I  hear  the  rushing  of  a  mighty  wind 
Through  all  the  halls  and  chambers  of  my 
house ! 


298 


THE   MASQUE   OF   PANDORA 


Her  parted  lips  inhale  it,  and  her  bosom 
Heaves  with  the  inspiration.     As  a  reed 
Beside  a  river  in  the  rippling  current 
Bends  to  and  fro,  she  bows  or  lifts  her  head. 
She  gazes  round  about  as  if  amazed  ; 
She   is   alive  ;  she  breathes,  but  yet  she 
speaks  not ! 

PANDORA  descends  from  the  pedestal 
CHORUS   OF  THE  GRACES 


In  the  workshop  of  Hephaestus 

What  is  this  I  see  ? 
Have  the  Gods  to  four  increased  us 

Who  were  only  three  ? 
Beautiful  in  form  and  feature, 

Lovely  as  the  day, 
Can  there  be  so  fair  a  creature 

Formed  of  common  clay  ? 

THALIA. 
O  sweet,  pale  face  !     O   lovely   eyes  of 

azure, 

Clear  as  the  waters  of  a  brook  that  run 
Limpid  and  laughing  in  the  summer  sun  ! 
O  golden  hair,  that  like  a  miser's  trea 
sure 

In  its  abundance  overflows  the  measure  ! 
O  graceful  form,  that  cloudlike  floatest 

on 

With  the  soft,  undulating  gait  of  one 
Who  moveth  as  if  motion  were  a  plea 
sure  ! 
By  what  name  shall  I  call  thee  ?     Nymph 

or  Muse, 

Callirrhoe  or  Urania  ?   Some  sweet  name 
Whose  every  syllable  is  a  caress 
Would    best    befit    thee  ;    but    I    cannot 

choose, 
Nor  do  I  care  to  choose  ;  for  still  the 

same, 

Nameless  or  named,  will  be   thy   love 
liness. 

EUPHROSYNE. 

Dowered  with  all  celestial  gifts, 

Skilled  in  every  art 
That  ennobles  and  uplifts 

And  delights  the  heart, 
Fair  on  earth  shall  be  thy  fame 

As  thy  face  is  fair, 
And  Pandora  be  the  name 

Thou  henceforth  shalt  bear. 


II 


OLYMPUS 

HERMES  (putting  on  his  sandals). 
Much  must  he  toil  who  serves  the  Immor 
tal  Gods, 

And  I,  who  am  their  herald,  most  of  all. 
No  rest  have  I,  nor  respite.     I  no  sooner 
Unclasp  the  winged  sandals  from  my  feet, 
Than  I  again  must  clasp  them,  and  depart 
Upon  some  foolish  errand.     But  to-day 
The  errand  is  not  foolish.     Never  yet 
With  greater  joy  did  I  obey  the  summons 
That   sends  me  earthward.     I  will  fly  so 

swiftly 

That  my  caduceus  in  the  whistling  air 
Shall   make    a  sound    like    the   Pandsean 

pipes, 

Cheating  the  shepherds  ;  for  to-day  I  go, 
Commissioned  by  high-thundering  Zeus,  to 

lead 

A  maiden  to  Prometheus,  in  his  tower, 
And  by  my  cunning  arguments  persuade 

him 

To  marry  her.     What  mischief  lies    con 
cealed 

In  this  design  I  know  not ;  but  I  know 
WTho    thinks   of    marrying    hath    already 

taken 

One  step  upon  the  road  to  penitence. 
Such     embassies    delight    me.     Forth    I 

launch 

On  the  sustaining  air,  nor  fear  to  fall 
Like  Icarus,  nor  swerve  aside  like  him 
Who  drove  amiss  Hyperion's  fiery  steeds. 
I  sink,  I  fly  !     The  yielding  element 
Folds  itself  round  about  me  like  an  arm, 
And  holds  me  as  a  mother  holds  her  child. 


Ill 

TOWER  OF  PROMETHEUS  ON  MOUNT 
CAUCASUS 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  hear  the  trumpet  of  Alectryon 
Proclaim  the   dawn.      The  stars  begin  to 

fade, 

And  all  the  heavens  are  full  of  prophecies 
And  evil  auguries.     Blood-red  last  night 
I   saw    great    Kronos    rise  ;    the  crescent 


THE   MASQUE  OF   PANDORA 


299 


Sank  through  the  mist,  as  if  it  were  the 

scythe 

His  parricidal  hand  had  flung  far  down 
The  western  steeps.    O  ye  Immortal  Gods, 
What  evil  are  ye  plotting  and  contriving  ? 

and  PANDORA  at  the  threshold. 


PANDORA. 

I  cannot  cross  the  threshold.     An  unseen 
And  icy  hand  repels  me.    These  blank  walls 
Oppress  me  with  their  weight ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Powerful  ye  are, 

But  not  omnipotent.    Ye  cannot  fight 
Against  Necessity.     The  Fates  control  you, 
As  they  do  us,  and  so  far  we  are  equals  ! 

PANDORA. 

Motionless,  passionless,  companionless, 
He  sits  there  muttering  in  his  beard.     His 

voice 
Is  like  a  river  flowing  underground  ! 


HERMES. 


Prometheus,  hail ! 


PROMETHEUS. 

Who  calls  me  ? 


HERMES. 

Dost  thou  not  know  me  ? 


It  is  I. 


PROMETHEUS. 

By  thy  winged  cap 
And  winged  heels  I  know  thee.     Thou  art 

Hermes, 
Captain  of  thieves  !     Hast  thou  again  been 

stealing 

The  heifers  of  Admetus  in  the  sweet 
Meadows  of  asphodel  ?  or  Hera's  girdle  ? 
Or  the  earth-shaking  trident  of  Poseidon  ? 

HERMES. 

And  thou,  Prometheus  ;  say,  hast  thou 
again 

Been  stealing  fire  from  Helios'  chariot- 
wheels 

To  light  thy  furnaces  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Why  coinest  thou  hither 
So  early  in  the  dawn  ? 


HERMES. 

The  Immortal  Gods 

Know  naught  of  late  or  early.      Zeus  him 
self, 
The  omnipotent  hath  sent  me. 

PROMETHEUS. 

For  what  purpose  ? 


To  bring  this  maiden  to  thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  mistrust 
The  Gods  and  all  their  gifts.     If  they  have 

sent  her 
It  is  for  no  good  purpose. 

HERMES. 

What  disaster 

Could   she   bring  on  thy  house,  who  is  a 
woman  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

The  Gods   are  not  my  friends,  nor  am  I 

theirs. 
Whatever  comes  from  them,  though  in  a 

shape 

As  beautiful  as  this,  is  evil  only. 
Who  art  thou  ? 

PANDORA. 

One  who,  though  to  thee  unknown, 
Yet  knoweth  thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

How  shouldst  thou  know  me,  woman  ? 

PANDORA. 

Who  knoweth  not  Prometheus  the  humane  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Prometheus  the  unfortunate  ;  to  whom 
Both  Gods  and  men  have  shown  themselves 

ungrateful. 
When  every  spark  was  quenched  on  every 

hearth 
Throughout   the  earth,  I  brought  to  man 

the  fire 

And  all  its  ministrations.     My  reward 
Hath  been  the  rock  and  vulture. 


At  last  relent  and  pardon. 


But  the  Gods 


THE   MASQUE   OF   PANDORA 


PROMETHEUS. 

They  relent  not ; 

They  pardon  not ;  they  are  implacable, 
Revengeful,  unforgiving ! 

HERMES. 

As  a  pledge 

Of  reconciliation  they  have  sent  to  thee 
This  divine  being,  to  be  thy  companion, 
And  bring  into  thy  melancholy  house 
The   sunshine   and   the   fragrance   of  her 
youth. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  need  them  not.     I  have  within  myself 
All  that  my  heart  desires  ;  the  ideal  beauty 
Which  the  creative  faculty  of  mind 
Fashions  and  follows  in  a  thousand  shapes 
More    lovely    than    the    real.      My    own 

thoughts 

Are  my  companions;  my  designs  and  labors 
And  aspirations  are  my  only  friends. 


Decide  not  rashly.     The  decision  made 
Can  never  be  recalled.     The  Gods  implore 

not, 

Plead  not,  solicit  not  ;  they  only  offer 
Choice    and    occasion,  which   once    being 

passed 
Return  no  more.      Dost  thou  accept  the 

gift? 

PROMETHEUS. 

No  gift  of  theirs,  in  whatsoever  shape 
It  comes  to  me,  with  whatsoever  charm 
To  fascinate  my  sense,  will  I  receive. 
Leave  me. 

PANDORA. 

Let  us  go  hence.     I  will  not  stay. 


1  We  leave  thee  to  thy  vacant  dreams,  and 

all 

The  silence  and  the  solitude  of  thought, 
The  endless  bitterness  of  unbelief, 
The  loneliness  of  existence  without  love. 

CHORUS    OP   THE   FATES. 
CLOTHO. 

How  the  Titan,  the  defiant, 
The  self-centred,  self-reliant, 
Wrapped  in  visions  and  illusions, 


Robs  himself  of  life's  best  gifts  ! 
Till  by  all  the  storm- winds  shaken, 
By  the  blast  of  fate  o'ertaken, 
Hopeless,  helpless,  and  forsaken, 
In  the  mists  of  his  confusions 
To  the  reefs  of  doom  he  drifts  ! 

LACHESIS. 

Sorely  tried  and  sorely  tempted, 
From  no  agonies  exempted, 
In  the  penance  of  his  trial, 
And  the  discipline  of  pain  ; 
Often  by  illusions  cheated, 
Often  baffled  and  defeated 
In  the  tasks  to  be  completed, 
He,  by  toil  and  self-denial, 
To  the  highest  shall  attain. 

ATROPOS. 

Tempt  no  more  the  noble  schemer  ; 
Bear  unto  some  idle  dreamer 
This  new  toy  and  fascination, 
This  new  dalliance  and  delight ! 
To  the  garden  where  reposes 
Epimetheus  crowned  with  roses, 
To  the  door  that  never  closes 
Upon  pleasure  and  temptation, 
Bring  this  vision  of  the  night  ! 


IV 


THE  AIR 

HERMES  (returning  to  Olympus). 
As  lonely  as  the  tower  that  he  inhabits, 
As  firm  and  cold  as  are  the  crags  about 

him, 
Prometheus  stands.      The  thunderbolts  of 

Zeus 

Alone  can  move  him  ;  but  the  tender  heart 
Of  Epimetheus,  burning  at  white  heat, 
Hammers  and  flames  like  all  his  brother's 

forges  ! 

Now  as  an  arrow  from  Hyperion's  bow, 
My  errand  done,  I  fly,  I  float,  I  soar 
Into  the  air,  returning  to  Olympus. 
O  joy  of  motion  !  O  delight  to  cleave 
The   infinite   realms   of   space,   the   liquid 

ether, 
Through  the  warm  sunshine  and  the  cooling 

cloud, 

Myself  as  light  as  sunbeam  or  as  cloud  ! 
With  one  touch  of  my  swift   and  winged 

feet, 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA 


301 


I  spurn  the  solid  earth,  and  leave  it  rock 
ing 

As  rocks  the  bough  from  which  a  bird  takes 
wing. 


THE   HOUSE  OF   EPIMETHEUS 

BPIMETHEUS. 

Beautiful  apparition  !  go  not  hence  ! 
Surely  thou  art  a  Goddess,  for  thy  voice 
Is  a  celestial  melody,  and  thy  form 
Self-poised  as  if  it  floated  on  the  air  ! 

PANDORA. 

No  Goddess  am  I,  nor  of  heavenly  birth, 
But  a  mere  woman  fashioned  out  of  clay 
And  mortal  as  the  rest. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thy  face  is  fair  ; 

There  is  a  wonder  in  thine  azure  eyes 
That  fascinates  me.     Thy  whole  presence 

seems 

A  soft  desire,  a  breathing  thought  of  love. 
Say,  would  thy  star  like  Merope's  grow  dim 
If  thou  shouldst  wed  beneath  thee  ? 

PANDORA. 

Ask  me  not ; 

I  cannot  answer  thee.     I  only  know 
The  Gods  have  sent  me  hither. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

I  believe, 

And  thus  believing  am  most  fortunate. 
It  was  not  Hermes  led  thee  here,  but  Eros, 
And  swifter  than  his  arrows  were  thine  eyes 
In  wounding  me.     There  was  no  moment's 

space 

Between  my  seeing  thee  and  loving  thee. 
Oh,  what  a  telltale  face  thou  hast !     Again 
I  see  the  wonder  in  thy  tender  eyes. 

PANDORA. 

They  do  but  answer  to  the  love  in  thine, 
Yet  secretly  I  wonder  thou  shouldst  love 

me. 
Thou  knowest  me  not. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Perhaps  1  know  thee  better 
Than  had   I   known   thee   longer.     Yet  it 


That  I  have  always  known  thee,  and  but 

now 
Have  found  thee.     Ah,  I  have  been  waiting 

long. 

PANDORA. 

How  beautiful  is  this  house  !  The  atmos 
phere 

Breathes  rest  and  comfort,  and  the  many 
chambers 

Seem  full  of  welcomes. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

They  not  only  seem, 

But  truly  are.     This  dwelling  and  its  mas 
ter 
Belong  to  thee. 

PANDORA. 

Here  let  me  stay  forever  ! 
There  is  a  spell  upon  me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou  thyself 

Art  the  enchantress,  and  I  feel  thy  power 
Envelop  me,  and  wrap  my  soul  and  sense 
In  an  Elysian  dream. 

PANDORA. 

Oh,  let  me  stay. 
How  beautiful  are  all  things  round  about 

me, 

Multiplied  by  the  mirrors  on  the  walls  ! 
What  treasures  hast  thou  here  !    Yon  oaken 

chest, 
Carven  with   figures    and    embossed  with 

gold, 

Is  wonderful  to  look  upon  !     What  choice 
And  precious  things  dost  thou  keep  hidden 

in  it? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

I  know  not.     'T  is  a  mystery. 


PANDORA. 


Lifted  the  lid? 


Hast  thou  never 


EPIMETHEUS. 

The  oracle  forbids. 

Safely  concealed  there  from  all  mortal  eyes 
Forever  sleeps  the  secret  of  the  Gods. 
Seek  not  to  know  what  they  have  hidden 

from  thee, 
Till  they  themselves  reveal  it. 


302 


THE   MASQUE   OF   PANDORA 


PANDORA. 


As  thou  wilt. 


EPIMETHEUS. 

Let  us  go  forth  from  this  mysterious  place. 
The   garden  walks    are    pleasant    at    this 

hour  ; 
The    nightingales    among    the    sheltering 

boughs 

Of  populous  and  many-nested  trees 
Shall  teach  me  how  to  woo  thee,  and  shall 

tell  me 

By  what  resistless  charms  or  incantations 
They  won  their  mates. 

PANDORA. 

Thou  dost  not  need  a  teacher. 
They  go  out. 

CHORUS  OF  THE  EUMENIDE8. 

What  the  Immortals 
Confide  to  thy  keeping, 
Tell  unto  no  man  ; 
Waking  or  sleeping, 
Closed  be  thy  portals 
To  friend  as  to  foeman. 

Silence  conceals  it ; 
The  word  that  is  spoken 
Betrays  and  reveals  it ; 
By  breath  or  by  token 
The  charm  may  be  broken. 

With  shafts  of  their  splendors 
The  Gods  unforgiving 
Pursue  the  offenders, 
The  dead  and  the  living  ! 
Fortune  forsakes  them, 
Nor  earth  shall  abide  them, 
Nor  Tartarus  hide  them  ; 
Swift  wrath  overtakes  them. 

With  useless  endeavor, 
Forever,  forever, 
Is  Sisyphus  rolling 
His  stone  up  the  mountain  ! 
Immersed  in  the  fountain, 
Tantalus  tastes  not 
The  water  that  wastes  not ! 
Through  ages  increasing 
The  pangs  that  afflict  him, 
With  motion  unceasing 
The  wheel  of  Ixion 
Shall  torture  its  victim  ! 


VI 
IN   THE  GARDEN 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Yon  snow-white  cloud  that  sails  sublime  in 

ether 

Is  but  the  sovereign  Zeus,  who  like  a  swan 
Flies  to  fair-ankled  Leda  ! 

PANDORA. 

Or  perchance 

Ixion's  cloud,  the  shadowy  shape  of  Hera, 
That  bore  the  Centaurs. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The  divine  and  human. 

CHORUS    OF    BIRDS. 

Gently  swaying  to  and  fro, 
Rocked  by  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
Bright  with  sunshine  from  above, 
Dark  with  shadow  from  below, 
Beak  to  beak  and  breast  to  breast 
In  the  cradle  of  their  nest, 
Lie  the  fledglings  of  our  love. 


Love  !  love  ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Hark  !  listen  !  Hear  how  sweetly  over 
head 

The  feathered  flute-players  pipe  their  songs 
of  love, 

And  Echo  answers,  love  and  only  love. 

CHORUS    OF    BIRDS. 

Every  flutter  of  the  wing, 
Every  note  of  song  we  sing, 
Every  murmur,  every  tone, 
Is  of  love  and  love  alone. 


ECHO. 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Love  alone  ! 


Who  would  not  love,  if  loving  she  might  be 
Changed  like  Callisto  to  a  star  in  heaven  ? 

PANDORA. 

Ah,  who  would  love,  if  loving  she  might  be 
Like    Semele    consumed    and     burnt    to 
ashes  ? 


THE   MASQUE   OF   PANDORA 


303 


EPIMETHEUS. 

Whence  knowest  thou  these  stories  ? 

PANDORA. 

Hermes  taught  me  ; 
He  told  me  all  the  history  of  the  Gods. 

CHORUS  OF  REEDS. 

Evermore  a  sound  shall  be 
In  the  reeds  of  Arcady, 
Evermore  a  low  lament 
Of  unrest  and  discontent, 
As  the  story  is  retold 
Of  the  nymph  so  coy  and  cold, 
Who  with  frightened  feet  outran 
The  pursuing  steps  of  Pan. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The  pipe  of  Pan  out  of  these  reeds  is 
made, 

And  when  he  plays  upon  it  to  the  shep 
herds 

They  pity  him,  so  mournful  is  the  sound. 

Be  thou  not  coy  and  cold  as  Syrinx  was. 

PANDORA. 
Nor  thou  as  Pan  be  rude  and  mannerless. 

PROMETHEUS   (without). 

Ho  !    Epimetheus  ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

'T  is  my  brother's  voice  ; 
A  sound  unwelcome  and  inopportune 
As  was  the  braying  of  Silenus'  ass, 
Once  heard  in  Cybele's  garden. 


PANDORA. 


I  would  not  be  found  here, 
see  him. 

She  escapes  among  the  trees. 

CHORUS    OF   DRYADES. 

Haste  and  hide  thee, 

Ere  too  late, 

In  these  thickets  intricate  ; 

Lest  Prometheus 

See  and  chide  thee, 

Lest  some  hurt 

Or  harm  betide  thee, 

Haste  and  hide  thee  ! 


Let  me  go. 
I  would  not 


PROMETHEUS  (entering). 

Who  was  it   fled  from  here?     I  saw  a 

shape 
Flitting  among  the  trees. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

It  was  Pandora. 

PROMETHEUS. 

O  Epimetheus  !     Is  it  then  in  vain 

That  I  have  warned  thee  ?     Let  me  now 

implore. 
Thou  harborest  in  thy  house  a  dangerous 

guest. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Whom  the  Gods  love  they  honor  with  such 


PROMETHEUS. 

Whom  the  Gods  would  destroy  they  first 
make  mad. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Shall  I  refuse  the  gifts  they  send  to  me  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Reject  all    gifts  that   come   from  higher 
powers. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Such  gifts  as  this  are  not  to  be  rejected. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Make  not  thyself  the  slave  of  any  woman. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Make  not  thyself  the  judge  of  any  man. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  judge  thee  not  ;  for  thou  art  more  than 

man  ; 

Thou  art  descended  from  Titanic  race, 
And  hast  a  Titan's  strength  and  faculties 
That  make  thee  godlike  ;  and  thou  sittest 

here 

Like  Heracles  spinning  Omphale's  flax, 
And  beaten  with  her  sandals. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

O  my  brother ! 
Thou  drivest  me  to  madness  with  thy  taunts. 


304 


THE   MASQUE  OF   PANDORA 


PROMETHEUS. 

And  me  thou  drivest  to  madness  with  thy 

follies. 

Come  with  me  to  my  tower  on  Caucasus  : 
See  there  my  forges  in  the  roaring  caverns, 
Beneficent  to  man,  and  taste  the  joy 
That  springs  from  labor.     Read  with  me 

the  stars, 
And  learn  the   virtues  that  lie  hidden  in 

plants, 
And  all  things  that  are  useful. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

O  my  brother  ! 

I  am  not  as  thou  art.     Thou  dost  inherit 
Our  father's  strength,  and  I  our  mother's 

weakness  : 

The  softness  of  the  Oceanides, 
The  yielding  nature  that  cannot  resist. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Because  thou  wilt  not. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Nay  ;  because  I  cannot. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Assert  thyself  ;  rise  up  to  thy  full  height ; 

Shake  from  thy  soul  these  dreams  effemi 
nate, 

These  passions  born  of  indolence  and  ease. 

Resolve,  and  thou  art  free.  But  breathe 
the  air 

Of  mountains,  and  their  unapproachable 
summits 

Will  lift  thee  to  the  level  of  themselves. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The  roar  of  forests  and  of  waterfalls, 
The  rushing  of  a  mighty  wind,  with  loud 
And  {indistinguishable  voices  calling, 
Are  in  my  ear  ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Oh,  listen  and  obey. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou  leadest  me  as  a  child.     I  follow  thee. 
They  go  out. 

CHORUS    OF  OREADES. 

Centuries  old  are  the  mountains; 
Their  foreheads  wrinkled  and  rifted 


Helios  crowns  by  day, 
Pallid  Selene  by  night  ; 
From  their  bosoms  uptossed 
The  snows  are  driven  and  drifted, 
Like  Tithonus'  beard 
Streaming  dishevelled  and  white. 

Thunder  and  tempest  of  wind 
Their  trumpets  blow  in  the  vastness  ; 
Phantoms  of  mist  and  rain, 
Cloud  and  the  shadow  of  cloud, 
Pass  and  repass  by  the  gates 
Of  their  inaccessible  fastness  ; 
Ever  unmoved  they  stand, 
Solemn,  eternal,  and  proud. 

VOICES  OF  THE  WATERS. 

Flooded  by  rain  and  snow 
In  their  inexhaustible  sources, 
Swollen  by  affluent  streams 
Hurrying  onward  and  hurled 
Headlong  over  the  crags, 
The  impetuous  water-courses 
Rush  and  roar  and  plunge 
Down  to  the  nethermost  world. 

Say,  have  the  solid  rocks 
Into  streams  of  silver  been  melted, 
Flowing  over  the  plains, 
Spreading  to  lakes  in  the  fields  ? 
Or  have  the  mountains,  the  giants, 
The  ice-helmed,  the  forest-belted, 
Scattered  their  arms  abroad  ; 
Flung  in  the  meadows  their  shields  ? 

VOICES  OF  THE  WINDS. 

High  on  their  turreted  cliffs 

That  bolts  of  thunder  have  shattered, 

Storm-winds  muster  and  blow 

Trumpets  of  terrible  breath  ; 

Then  from  the  gateways  rush, 

And  before  them  routed  and  scattered 

Sullen  the  cloud-rack  flies, 

Pale  with  the  pallor  of  death. 

Onward  the  hurricane  rides, 
And  flee  for  shelter  the  shepherds  ; 
White  are  the  frightened  leaves, 
Harvests  with  terror  are  white  ; 
Panic  seizes  the  herds, 
And  even  the  lions  and  leopards, 
Prowling  no  longer  for  prey, 
Crouch  in  their  caverns  with  fright. 


THE   MASQUE   OF   PANDORA 


305 


VOICES  OF  THE  FORESTS. 

Guarding  the  mountains  around 
Majestic  the  forests  are  standing, 
Bright  are  their  crested  helms, 
Dark  is  their  armor  of  leaves  ; 
Filled  with  the  breath  of  freedom 
Each  bosom  subsiding,  expanding, 
Now  like  the  ocean  sinks, 
Now  like  the  ocean  upheaves. 

Planted  firm  on  the  rock, 
With  foreheads  stern  and  defiant, 
Loud  they  shout  to  the  winds, 
Loud  to  the  tempest  they  call  ; 
Naught  but  Olympian  thunders, 
That  blasted  Titan  and  Giant, 
Them  can  uproot  and  o'erthrow, 
Shaking  the  earth  with  their  fall. 

CHORUS  OF  OREADES. 

These  are  the  Voices  Three 

Of  winds  and  forests  and  fountains, 

Voices  of  earth  and  of  air, 

Murmur  and  rushing  of  streams, 

Making  together  one  sound, 

The  mysterious  voice  of  the  mountains, 

Waking  the  sluggard  that  sleeps, 

Waking  the  dreamer  of  dreams. 

These  are  the  Voices  Three, 
That  speak  of  endless  endeavor, 
Speak  of  endurance  and  strength, 
Triumph  and  fulness  of  fame, 
Sounding  about  the  world, 
An  inspiration  forever, 
Stirring  the  hearts  of  men, 
Shaping  their  end  and  their  aim. 


VII 

THE  HOUSE  OF  EPIMETHEUS 

PANDORA. 

Left  to  myself  I  wander  as  I  will, 

And  as  my  fancy  leads  me,  through  this 

house, 

Nor  could  I  ask  a  dwelling  more  complete 
Were  I  indeed  the  Goddess  that  he  deems 

me. 

No  mansion  of  Olympus,  framed  to  be 
The  habitation  of  the  Immortal  Gods, 
Can  be  more  beautiful.     And  this  is  mine, 
And  more  than  this,  the  love  wherewith  he 

crowns  me. 


As  if  impelled  by  powers  invisible 
And  irresistible,  my  steps  return 
Unto  this  spacious  hall.     All  corridors 
And  passages  lead  hither,  and  all  doors 
But  open  into  it.     Yon  mysterious  chest 
Attracts    and    fascinates    me.     Would    I 

knew 

What  there  lies  hidden  !     But  the  oracle 
Forbids.     Ah    me  !     The    secret    then    is 


So  would  it  be  if  it  were  in  my  keeping. 
A    crowd    of     shadowy    faces    from    the 

mirrors 
That  line  these  walls  are  watching  me.     I 

dare  not 

Lift  up  the  lid.     A  hundred  times  the  act 
Would  be  repeated,  and  the  secret  seen 
By  twice  a  hundred  incorporeal  eyes. 
She  walks  to  the  other  side  of  the  hall. 
My  feet  are  weary,  wandering  to  and  fro, 
My  eyes  with  seeing  and  my  heart  with 

waiting. 

I  will  lie  here  and  rest  till  he  returns, 
Who  is  my  dawn,  my  day,  my  Helios. 
Throws  herself  upon  a  couch,  and  falls  asleep. 

ZEPHYRUS. 

Come  from  thy  caverns  dark  and  deep, 
O  son  of  Erebus  and  Night ; 
All  sense  of  hearing  and  of  sight 
Enfold  in  the  serene  delight 
And  quietude  of  sleep  ! 

Set  all  thy  silent  sentinels 
To  bar  and  guard  the  Ivory  Gate, 
And  keep  the  evil  dreams  of  fate 
And  falsehood  and  infernal  hate 
Imprisoned  in  their  cells. 

But  open  wide  the  Gate  of  Horn, 
Whence,  beautiful  as  planets,  rise 
The  dreams  of  truth,  with  starry  eyes, 
And  all  the  wondrous  prophecies 
And  visions  of  the  morn. 

CHORUS  OF  DREAMS    FROM    THE  IVORY    GATE. 

Ye  sentinels  of  sleep, 

It  is  in  vain  ye  keep 
Your  drowsy  watch  before  the  Ivory  Gate  ; 

Though  closed  the  portal  seems, 

The  airy  feet  of  dreams 
Ye  cannot  thus  in  walls  incarcerate. 

We  phantoms  are  and  dreams 
Born  by  Tartarean  streams, 


306 


THE   MASQUE   OF   PANDORA 


As  ministers  of  the  infernal  powers  ; 

O  son  of  Erebus 

And  Night,  behold  !  we  thus 
Elude  your  watchful  warders  on  the  towers  ! 

From  gloomy  Tartarus 

The  Fates  have  summoned  us 
To  whisper  in  her  ear,  who  lies  asleep, 

A  tale  to  fan  the  fire 

Of  her  insane  desire 

To  know  a  secret  that    the   Gods  would 
keep. 

This  passion,  in  their  ire, 
The  Gods  themselves  inspire, 

To  vex  mankind  with  evils  manifold, 
So  that  disease  and  pain 
O'er  the  whole  earth  may  reign, 

And  nevermore  return  the  Age  of  Gold. 

PANDORA  (waking). 

A  voice  said  in  my  sleep  :    "  Do  not  delay  : 
Do  not  delay  ;  the  golden  moments  fly  ! 
The  oracle  hath  forbidden  ;  yet  not  thee 
Doth  it  forbid,  but  Epimetheus  only  !  " 
I  am  alone.     These  faces  in  the  mirrors 
Are  but  the  shadows  and  phantoms  of  my 
self  ; 
They  cannot  help  nor  hinder.     No  one  sees 

me, 
Save   the   all-seeing   Gods,  who,   knowing 

good 

And  knowing  evil,  have  created  me 
Such  as  I  am,  and  filled  me  with  desire 
Of  knowing  good  and  evil  like  themselves. 

She  approaches  the  chest. 
I  hesitate  no  longer.     Weal  or  woe, 
Or  life  or  death,  the  moment  shall  decide. 

She  lifts  the  lid.  A.  dense  mist  rises  from  the 
chest,  and  .fills  the  room.  PANDORA  falls 
senseless  on  the  flow.  Storm  without. 

CHORUS  OF  DREAMS  FROM  THE  GATE  OF  HORN. 

Yes,  the  moment  shall  decide  ! 
It  already  hath  decided  ; 
And  the  secret  once  confided 
To  the  keeping  of  the  Titan 
Now  is  flying  far  and  wide, 
Whispered,  told  on  every  side, 
To  disquiet  and  to  frighten. 

Fever  of  the  heart  and  brain, 
Sorrow,  pestilence,  and  pain, 
Moans  of  anguish,  maniac  laughter, 
All  the  evils  that  hereafter 


Shall  afflict  and  vex  mankind, 
All  into  the  air  have  risen 
From  the  chambers  of  their  prison ; 
Only  Hope  remains  behind. 


VIII 
IN   THE  GARDEN 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The  storm  is  past,  but  it  hath  left  behind 

it 

Ruin  and  desolation.     All  the  walks 
Are  strewn  with  shattered  boughs  ;  the  birds 

are  silent  ; 
The  flowers,  downtrodden  by  the  wind,  lie 

dead  ; 

The  swollen  rivulet  sobs  with  secret  pain  ; 
The  melancholy  reeds  whisper  together 
As  if  some  dreadful  deed  had  been  com 
mitted 
They   dare   not  name,  and  all  the  air  is 

heavy 

With  an  unspoken  sorrow  !     Premonitions, 
Foreshado wings  of  some  terrible  disaster 
Oppress  my  heart.     Ye   Gods,   avert   the 
omen  ! 

PANDORA,  coming  from  the  house. 
O  Epimetheus,  I  no  longer  dare 
To  lift  mine   eyes  to  thine,  nor  hear  thy 

voice, 
Being  no  longer  worthy  of  thy  love. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 

PANDORA. 

Forgive  me  not,  but  kill  me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What  hast  thou  done  V 

PANDORA. 

I  pray  for  death,  not  pardon. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 

PANDORA. 

I  dare  not  speak  of  it. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thy  pallor  and  thy  silence  terrify  me  ! 


THE   MASQUE  OF   PANDORA 


307 


PANDORA. 

I   have   brought  wrath   and  ruin   on  thy 

house  ! 
My  heart    hath  braved    the   oracle   that 

guarded 

The  fatal  secret  from  us,  and  my  hand 
Lifted  the  lid  of  the  mysterious  chest  ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Then  all  is  lost !     I  am  indeed  undone. 

PANDORA. 

I  pray  for  punishment,  and  not  for  pardon. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Mine  is  the  fault,  not  thine.     On  me  shall 

fall 

The  vengeance  of  the  Gods,  for  I  betrayed 
Their  secret  when,  in  evil  hour,  I  said 
It  was  a  secret ;  when,  in  evil  hour, 
I  left  thee  here  alone  to  this  temptation. 
Why  did  I  leave  thee  ? 

PANDORA. 

Why  didst  thou  return  ? 
Eternal  absence  would  have  been  to  me 
The    greatest    punishment.     To    be    left 

alone 
And  face  to  face  with  my  own  crime,  had 

been 

Just  retribution.     Upon  me,  ye  Gods, 
Let  all  your  vengeance  fall ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

On  thee  and  me. 

I  do  not  love  thee  less  for  what  is  done, 
And  cannot  be  undone.     Thy  very  weak 
ness 

Hath  brought  thee  nearer  to  me,  and  hence 
forth 

My  love  will  have  a  sense  of  pity  in  it, 
Making  it  less  a  worship  than  before. 

PANDORA. 

Pity  me  not  ;  pity  is  degradation. 
Love  me  and  kill  me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Beautiful  Pandora  1 
Thou  art  a  Goddess  still ! 

PANDORA. 

I  am  a  woman  ; 
And  the  insurgent  demon  in  my  nature, 


That  made  me  brave  the  oracle,  revolts 
At  pity  and  compassion.  Let  me  die  ; 
What  else  remains  for  me  ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Youth,  hope,  and  love  : 
To  build  a  new  life  on  a  ruined  life, 
To  make  the  future  fairer  than  the  past, 
And  make   the  past    appear   a    troubled 

dream. 
Even  now  in  passing  through  the  garden 

walks 

Upon  the  ground  I  saw  a  fallen  nest 
Ruined  and  full  of  rain  ;  and  over  me 
Beheld  the  uncomplaining  birds  already 
Busy  in  building  a  new  habitation. 

PANDORA. 
Auspicious  omen  ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

May  the  Eumenides 
Put  out  their  torches  and  behold  us  not, 
And  fling  away  their  whips  of  scorpions 
And  touch  us  not. 

PANDORA. 

Me  let  them  punish. 

Only  through  punishment  of  our  evil  deeds, 
Only  through  suffering,  are  we  reconciled 
To  the  immortal  Gods  and  to  ourselves. 

CHORUS  OF  THE  EUMENIDES. 

Never  shall  souls  like  these 

Escape  the  Eumenides, 
The  daughters  dark  of  Acheron  and  Night ! 

Unquenched  our  torches  glare, 

Our  scourges  in  the  air 
Send  forth  prophetic  sounds  before  they 
smite. 

Never  by  lapse  of  time 

The  soul  defaced  by  crime 
Into  its  former  self  returns  again  ; 

For  every  guilty  deed 

Holds  in  itself  the  seed 
Of  retribution  and  undying  pain. 

Never  shall  be  the  loss 

Restored,  till  Helios 
Hath  purified  them  with  his  heavenly  fires  ; 

Then  what  was  lost  is  won, 

And  the  new  life  begun, 
Kindled  with  nobler  passions  and  desires. 


THE   HANGING  OF  THE   CRANE 


THE   HANGING   OF   THE   CRANE 


"One  morning  in  the  spring  of  1867,"  writes  Mr. 
T.  B.  Aldrich,  "  Mr.  Longfellow  came  to  the  little  home 
in  Pinckney  Street  [Boston],  where  we  had  set  up  house 
keeping  in  the  light  of  our  honeymoon.  As  we  lingered 
a  moment  at  the  dining-room  door,  Mr.  Longfellow 
turning  to  me  said,  '  Ah,  Mr.  Aldrich,  your  small  round 
table  will  not  always  be  closed.  By  and  by  you  will 
find  new  young  faces  clustering  about  it ;  as  years  go 
on,  leaf  after  leaf  will  be  added  until  the  time  comes 
when  the  young  guests  will  take  flight,  one  by  one,  to 
build  nests  of  their  own  elsewhere.  Gradually  the  long 
table  will  shrink  to  a  circle  again,  leaving  two  old  peo 
ple  sitting  there  alone  together.  This  is  the  story  of 
life,  the  sweet  and  pathetic  poem  of  the  fireside.  Make 
an  idyl  of  it.  I  give  the  idea  to  you.'  Several  mouths 


THE  lights  are  out,  and  gone  are  all  the 

guests 
That  thronging  came  with  merriment  and 


To  celebrate  the  Hanging  of  the  Crane 
In  the   new   house,  —  into   the   night   are 

gone  ; 

But  still  the  fire  upon  the  hearth  burns  on, 
And  I  alone  remain. 

O  fortunate,  O  happy  day, 
When  a  new  household  finds  its  place 
Among  the  myriad  homes  of  earth, 
Like  a  new  star  just  sprung  to  birth, 
And  rolled  on  its  harmonious  way 
Into  the  boundless  realms  of  space  ! 

So  said  the  guests  in  speech  and  song, 
As  in  the  chimney,  burning  bright, 
We  hung  the  iron  crane  to-night, 
And  merry  was  the  feast  and  long. 


And  now  I  sit  and  muse   on  what  may 

m  be, 
And  in  my  vision  see,  or  seem  to  see, 

Through  floating  vapors  interfused  with 

light, 

Shapes  indeterminate,  that  gleam  and  fade, 
As  shadows  passing  into  deeper  shade 
Sink  and  elude  the  sight. 

For  two  alone,  there  in  the  hall, 

Is  spread  the  table  round  and  small ; 

Upon  the  polished  silver  shine 

The  evening  lamps,  but,  more  divine, 

The  light  of  love  shines  over  all  j 


afterward,  I  received  a  note  from  Mr.  Longfellow  in 
which  he  expressed  a  desire  to  use  this  motif  in  case  I 
had  done  nothing  iii  the  matter.  The  theme  was  one 
peculiarly  adapted  to  his  sympathetic  handling,  and  out 
of  it  grew  The  Hanging  of  (fie  Crane."  Just  when  the 
poem  was  written  does  not  appear,  but  its  first  publica 
tion  was  in  the  New  York  Ledger,  March  28,  1874.  Mr. 
Longfellow's  old  iriend,  Mr.  Sam.  Ward,  had  heard  the 
poem,  and  offered  to  secure  it  for  Mr.  Robert  Bonner, 
the  proprietor  of  the  Ledger,  "  touched,"  as  he  wrote 

to   Mr.  Longfellow,  "by  your  kindness  to  poor , 

and  haunted  by  the  idea  of  increasing  handsomely 
your  noble  charity  fund."  Mr.  Bonner  paid  the  poet 
the  sum  of  three  thousand  dollars  lor  this  poem. 


Of  love,  that  says  not  mine  and  thine, 
But  ours,  for  ours  is  thine  and  mine. 

They  want  no  guests,  to  come  between 
Their  tender  glances  like  a  screen, 
And  tell  them  tales  of  land  and  sea, 
And  whatsoever  may  betide 
The  great,  forgotten  world  outside  ; 
They  want  no  guests  ;  they  needs  must 

be 
Each  other's  own  best  company. 


in 

The  picture  fades  ;  as  at  a  village  fair 
A  showman's  views,  dissolving  into  air, 

Again  appear  transfigured  on  the  screen, 
So  in  my  fancy  this  ;  and  now  once  more, 
In  part  transfigured,  through  the  open 

door 
Appears  the  selfsame  scene. 

Seated,  I  see  the  two  again, 
But  not  alone  ;  they  entertain 
A  little  angel  unaware, 
With  face  as  round  as  is  the  moon, 
A  royal  guest  with  flaxen  hair, 
Who,  throned  upon  his  lofty  chair, 
Drums  on  the  table  with  his  spoon, 
Then  drops  it  careless  on  the  floor, 
To  grasp  at  things  unseen  before. 

Are  these  celestial  manners  ?  these 
The  ways  that  win,  the  arts  that  please  ? 
Ah  yes  ;  consider  well  the  guest, 
And  whatsoe'er  he  does  seems  best  ; 
He  ruleth  by  the  right  divine 
Of  helplessness,  so  lately  born 
In  purple  chambers  of  the  morn, 
As  sovereign  over  thee  and  thine. 


THE   HANGING   OF   THE   CRANE 


309 


He  speaketh  not ;  and  yet  there  lies 
A  conversation  in  his  eyes  ; 
The  golden  silence  of  the  Greek, 
The  gravest  wisdom  of  the  wise, 
Not  spoken  in  language,  but  in  looks 
More  legible  than  printed  books, 
As  if  he  could  but  would  not  speak. 
And  now,  O  monarch  absolute, 
Thy  power  is  put  to  proof  ;  for,  lo  ! 
Resistless,  fathomless,  and  slow, 
The  nurse  comes  rustling  like  the  sea, 
And  pushes  back  thy  chair  and  thee, 
And  so  good  night  to  King  Canute. 


IV 

As  one  who  walking  in  a  forest  sees 

A   lovely   landscape    through    the   parted 

trees, 

Then  sees  it  not,  for  boughs  that  inter 
vene  ; 

Or  as  we  see  the  moon  sometimes  revealed 
Through   drifting   clouds,  and  then  again 

concealed, 
So  I  behold  the  scene. 

There  are  two  guests  at  table  now  ; 
The  king,  deposed  and  older  grown, 
No  longer  occupies  the  throne,  — 
The  crown  is  on  his  sister's  brow  ; 
A  Princess  from  the  Fairy  Isles, 
The  very  pattern  girl  of  girls, 
All  covered  and  embowered  in  curls, 
Rose-tinted  from  the  Isle  of  Flowers, 
And  sailing  with  soft,  silken  sails 
From  far-off  Dreamland  into  ours. 
Above  their  bowls  with  rims  of  blue 
Four  azure  eyes  of  deeper  hue 
Are  looking,  dreamy  with  delight  ; 
Limpid  as  planets  that  emerge 
Above  the  ocean's  rounded  verge, 
Soft-shining  through  the  summer  night. 
Steadfast  they  gaze,  yet  nothing  see 
Beyond  the  horizon  of  their  bowls  ; 
Nor  care  they  for  the  world  that  rolls 
With  all  its  freight  of  troubled  souls 
Into  the  days  that  are  to  be. 


Again    the  tossing  boughs   shut  out  the 

scene, 

Again  the  drifting  vapors  intervene, 
And   the  moon's   pallid  disk  is   hidden 

quite  ; 


And  now  I  see  the  table  wider  grown, 
As  round  a  pebble  into  water  thrown 
Dilates  a  ring  of  light. 

I  see  the  table  wider  grown, 

I  see  it  garlanded  with  guests, 

As  if  fair  Ariadne's  Crown 

Out  of  the  sky  had  fallen  down  ; 

Maidens  within  whose  tender  breasts 

A  thousand  restless  hopes  and  fears, 

Forth  reaching  to  the  coming  years, 

Flutter  awhile,  then  quiet  lie, 

Like  timid  birds  that  fain  would  fly, 

But  do  not  dare  to  leave  their  nests  ;  — 

And  youths,  who  in  their  strength  elate 

Challenge  the  van  and  front  of  fate, 

Eager  as  champions  to  be 

In  the  divine  knight-errantry 

Of  youth,  that  travels  sea  and  land 

Seeking  adventures,  or  pursues, 

Through  cities,  and  through  solitudes 

Frequented  by  the  lyric  Muse, 

The  phantom  with  the  beckoning  hand, 

That  still  allures  and  still  eludes. 

O  sweet  illusions  of  the  brain  ! 

O  sudden  thrills  of  fire  and  frost ! 

The  world  is  bright  while  ye  remain, 

And  dark  and  dead  when  ye  are  lost  ! 


VI 

The  meadow-brook,  that  seemeth  to  stand 

still, 

Quickens  its  current  as  it  nears  the  mill ; 
And  so  the  stream  of  Time  that  linger- 

eth 

In  level  places,  and  so  dull  appears, 
Runs  with  a  swifter  current  as  it  nears 
The  gloomy  mills  of  Death. 

And  now,  like  the  magician's  scroll, 
That  in  the  owner's  keeping  shrinks 
With  every  wish  he  speaks  or  thinks, 
Till  the  last  wish  consumes  the  whole, 
The  table  dwindles,  and  again 
I  see  the  two  alone  remain. 
The  crown  of  stars  is  broken  in  parts  ; 
Its  jewels,  brighter  than  the  day, 
Have  one  by  one  been  stolen  away 
To  shine  in  other  homes  and  hearts. 
One  is  a  wanderer  now  afar 
In  Ceylon  or  in  Zanzibar, 
Or  sunny  regions  of  Cathay  ; 
And  one  is  in  the  boisterous  camp 
Mid  clink  of  arms  and  horses'  tramp, 


MORITURI   SALUTAMUS 


And  battle's  terrible  array. 

I  see  the  patient  mother  read, 

With  aching  heart,  of  wrecks  that  float 

Disabled  on  those  seas  remote, 

Or  of  some  great  heroic  deed 

On  battle-fields,  where  thousands  bleed 

To  lift  one  hero  into  fame. 

Anxious  she  bends  her  graceful  head 

Above  these  chronicles  of  pain, 

And  trembles  with  a  secret  dread 

Lest  there  among  the  drowned  or  slain 

She  find  the  one  beloved  name. 


VII 

After  a  day  of  cloud  and  wind  and  rain 
Sometimes    the    setting    sun    breaks    out 

again, 
And,  touching  all  the  darksome  woods 

with  light, 
Smiles  on  the  fields,  until  they  laugh  and 

sing, 

Then  like  a  ruby  from  the  horizon's  ring 
Drops  down  into  the  night. 

What  see  I  now  ?  The  night  is  fair, 
The  storm  of  grief,  the  clouds  of  care, 
The  wind,  the  rain,  have  passed  away  ; 


The  lamps  are  lit,  the  fires  burn  bright, 

The  house  is  full  of  life  and  light ; 

It  is  the  Golden  Wedding  day. 

The  guests  come  thronging  in  once  more, 

Quick  footsteps  sound  along  the  floor, 

The  trooping  children  crowd  the  stair, 

And  in  and  out  and  everywhere 

Flashes  along  the  corridor 

The  sunshine  of  their  golden  hair. 

On  the  round  table  in  the  hall 

Another  Ariadne's  Crown 

Out  of  the  sky  hath  fallen  down  ; 

More  than  one  Monarch  of  the  Moon 

Is  drumming  with  his  silver  spoon  ; 

The  light  of  love  shines  over  all. 

O  fortunate,  O  happy  day  ! 
The  people  sing,  the  people  say. 
The  ancient  bridegroom  and  the  bride, 
Smiling  contented  and  serene 
Upon  the  blithe,  bewildering  scene, 
Behold,  well  pleased,  on  every  side 
Their  forms  and  features  multiplied, 
As  the  reflection  of  a  light 
Between  two  burnished  mirrors  gleams, 
Or  lamps  upon  a  bridge  at  night 
Stretch  on  and  on  before  the  sight, 
Till  the  long  vista  endless  seems. 


MORITURI    SALUTAMUS 


POEM  FOR  THE  FIFTIETH  AN 
NIVERSARY  OF  THE  CLASS  OF 
1825  IN  BOWDOIN  COLLEGE 

Tempora  labuntur,  tacitisque  senescimus  annis, 
Et  fugiunt  freno  non  remorante  dies. 

OVID,  Fastorum,  Lib.  vi. 

In  October,  1874,  Mr.  Longfellow  was  urged  to  write 
a  poem  for  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  graduation  of 
his  college  class  to  be  held  the  next  summer.  At  first 
he  said  that  he  could  not  write  the  poem,  so  averse 
was  he  from  occasional  poems,  but  a  sudden  thought 
seems  to  have  struck  him,  very  likely  upon  seeing  a 
representation  of  Gerome's  famous  picture,  and  ten 
days  later  he  notes  in  his  diary  that  he  had  finished  the 
writing.  He  not  only  wrote  the  poem,  but  what  was  a 
rare  act  with  him,  read  it  before  the  audience  gathered 
in  the  church  at  Brunswick  on  the  occasion  of  the  anni 
versary.  He  expressed  his  relief  when  he  found  that 
he  could  read  his  poem  from  the  pulpit,  and  said,  "  Let 
me  cover  myself  as  much  as  possible  ;  I  wish  it  might 
be  entirely." 

"  O  CAESAR,  we  who  are  about  to  die 
Salute  you  ! "  was  the  gladiators'  cry 


In  the  arena,  standing  face  to  face 

With  death  and  with  the  Roman  populace. 

O  ye  familiar  scenes,  — ye  groves  of  pine, 
That  once  were  mine  and  are  no  longer 

mine,  — 
Thou  river,  widening  through  the  meadows 

green 

To  the  vast  sea,  so  near  and  yet  unseen,  — 
Ye  halls,  in  whose  seclusion  and  repose 
Phantoms  of  fame,  like  exhalations,  rose 
And  vanished,  —  we  who  are  about  to  die, 
Salute  you  :    earth   and   air  and   sea  and 

sky, 

And  the  Imperial  Sun  that  scatters  down 
His   sovereign   splendors  upon  grove  and 

town. 

Ye  do  not  answer  us  !  ye  do  not  hear  ! 
We  are  forgotten  ;  and  in  your  austere 
And  calm  indifference,  ye  little  care 


MORITURI    SALUTAMUS 


Whether   we   come   or  go,   or  whence  or 

where. 

What  passing  generations  fill  these  halls, 
What  passing  voices  echo  from  these  walls, 
Ye  heed  not  ;  we  are  only  as  the  blast, 
A  moment  heard,  and  then  forever  past. 

Not  so  the  teachers  who  in  earlier  days 
Led  our  bewildered  feet  through  learning's 

maze  ; 

They  answer  us  —  alas  !  what  have  I  said  ? 
What  greetings  come  there  from  the  voice 
less  dead  ? 

What  salutation,  welcome,  or  reply  ? 
What  pressure  from  the  hands  that  lifeless 

lie? 

They  are  no  longer  here  ;  they  all  are  gone 
Into  the  laud  of  shadows,  —  all  save  one. 
Honor  and  reverence,  and  the  good  repute 
That  follows  faithful  service  as  its  fruit, 
Be  unto  him,  whom  living  we  salute. 

The  great  Italian  poet,  when  he  made 
His    dreadful    journey   to   the   realms   of 

shade, 

Met  there  the  old  instructor  of  his  youth, 
And  cried  in  tones  of  pity  and  of  ruth  : 
"  Oh,  never  from  the  memory  of  my  heart 
Your  dear,  paternal  image  shall  depart, 
Who   while   on   earth,   ere   yet   by   death 

surprised, 

Taught  me  how  mortals  are  immortalized  ; 
How  grateful  am  I  for  that  patient  care 
All  my  life .  long  my  language   shall  de 
clare." 

To-day  we  make  the  poet's  words  our  own, 
And  utter  them  in  plaintive  undertone  ; 
Nor  to  the  living  only  be  they  said, 
But  to  the  other  living  called  the  dead, 
Whose  dear,  paternal  images  appear 
Not  wrapped  in  gloom,  but  robed  in  sun 
shine  here  ; 
Whose  simple  lives,  complete  and  without 

flaw, 
Were  part  and   parcel   of  great  Nature's 

law  ; 

Who  said  not  to  their  Lord,  as  if  afraid, 
"  Here  is  thy  talent  in  a  napkin  laid," 
But  labored  in  their  sphere,  as  men  who  live 
In  the  delight  that  work  alone  can  give. 
Peace  be  to  them  ;  eternal  peace  and  rest, 
And  the  fulfilment  of  the  great  behest  : 
u  Ye  have  been  faithful  over  a  few  things, 
Over  ten  cities  shall  ye  reign  as  kings." 


And  ye  who  fill  the  places  we  once  filled, 
And  follow  in  the  furrows  that  we  tilled, 
Young  men,  whose  generous  hearts  are 

beating  high, 

We  who  are  old,  and  are  about  to  die, 
Salute  you  ;  hail  you  ;  take  your  hands  in 

ours, 
And  crown  you  with  our  welcome  as  with 

flowers  ! 

r^ 

How  beautiful  is  youth !  how  bright  it 
gleams 

With  its  illusions,  aspirations,  dreams  ! 

Book  of  Beginnings,  Story  without  End, 

Each  maid  a  heroine,  and  each  man  a  friend  ! 

Aladdin's  Lamp,  and  Fortunatus'  Purse, 

That  holds  the  treasures  of  the  universe  ! 

All  possibilities  are  in  its  hands, 

No  danger  daunts  it,  and  no  foe  with 
stands  ; 

In  its  sublime  audacity  of  faith, 

"  Be  thou  removed  ! "  it  to  the  mountain 
saith, 

And  with  ambitious  feet,  secure  and  proud, 

Ascends  the  ladder  leaning  on  the  cloud  !    j 

As  ancient  Priam  at  the  Sca3an  gate 
Sat  on  the  walls  of  Troy  in  regal  state 
With  the  old  men,  too  old  and   weak   to 

.  fight, 

Chirping   like   grasshoppers   in   their    de 
light 
To  see  the  embattled  hosts,  with  spear  and 

shield, 

Of  Trojans  and  Achaians  in  the  field  ; 
So  from  the  snowy  summits  of  our  years 
We  see  you  in  the  plain,  as  each  appears, 
And  question  of  you  ;  asking,  "  Who  is  he 
That  towers  above  the  others  ?   Which  may 

be 

Atreides,  Menelaus,  Odysseus, 
Ajax  the  great,  or  bold  Idomeneus  ?  " 

Let  him  not  boast  who  puts  his  armor  on 
As  he  who  puts  it  off,  the  battle  done. 
Study   yourselves  ;   and   most   of  all  note 

well 

Wherein  kind  Nature  meant  you  to  excel. 
Not  every  blossom  ripens  into  fruit ; 
Minerva,  the  inventress  of  the  flute, 
Flung  it  aside,  when  she  her  face  surveyed 
Distorted  in  a  fountain  as  she  played  ; 
The   unlucky   Marsyas   found   it,  and  his 

fate 
Was  one  to  make  the  bravest  hesitate. 


312 


MORITURI   SALUTAMUS 


Write  on  your  doors  the  saying  wise  and 

old, 
"Be   bold!   be   bold!"  and    everywhere, 

«  Be  bold  ; 

Be  not  too  bold  !  "     Yet  better  the  excess 
Than  the   defect  ;  better  the   more  than 

less  ; 

Better  like  Hector  in  the  field  to  die, 
Than  like  a  perfumed  Paris  turn  and  fly. 

And  now,  my  classmates  ;  ye  remaining  few 
That  number  not  the  half  of  those  we  knew, 
Ye,  against  whose  familiar  names  not  yet 
The  fatal  asterisk  of  death  is  set, 
Ye  I  salute  !     The  horologe  of  Time 
Strikes   the    half-century    with  a    solemn 

chime, 

And  summons  us  together  once  again, 
The  joy  of  meeting  not  unmixed  with  pain. 

Where  are  the  others?     Voices  from  the 

deep 
Caverns  of  darkness  answer  me  :  "  They 

sleep  ! " 

I  name  no  names  ;  instinctively  I  feel 
Each  at  some  well-remembered  grave  will 

kneel, 
And  from  the  inscription  wipe  the  weeds 

and  moss, 

For  every  heart  best  knoweth  its  own  loss. 
I  see  their  scattered  gravestones  gleaming 

white 
Through  the  pale  dusk  of  the  impending 

night  ; 

O'er  all  alike  the  impartial  sunset  throws 
Its  golden  lilies  mingled  with  the  rose  ; 
We  give  to  each  a  tender  thought,  and  pass 
Out  of  the  graveyards  with  their  tangled 

grass, 

Unto  these  scenes  frequented  by  our  feet 
When  we  were  young,  and  life  was  fresh 

and  sweet. 

What  shall  I  say  to  you  ?    What  can  I  say 
Better  than  silence  is  ?     When  I  survey 
This  throng  of  faces  turned  to  meet   my 

own, 

Friendly  and  fair,  and  yet  to  me  unknown, 
Transformed  the  very  landscape  seems  to 

be; 

It  is  the  same,  yet  not  the  same  to  me. 
So  many  memories  crowd  upon  my  brain, 
So  many  ghosts  are  in  the  wooded  plain, 
I  fain   would   steal   away,    with   noiseless 

tread, 


As  from  a  house  where  some  one  lieth  dead, 
I  cannot  go  ;  —  I  pause  ;  —  I  hesitate  ; 
My  feet  reluctant  linger  at  the  gate  ; 
As  one  who  struggles  in  a  troubled  dream 
To  speak  and  cannot,  to  myself  I  seem. 

Vanish  the  dream  !    Vanish  the  idle  fears  ! 
Vanish  the  rolling  mists  of  fifty  years  ! 
Whatever  time  or  space  may  intervene, 
I  will  not  be  a  stranger  in  this  scene. 
Here  every  doubt,  all  indecision,  ends  ; 
Hail,  my  companions,  comrades,  classmates, 
friends  ! 

fAh  me  !  the  fifty  years  since  last  we  met 
Seem  to  me  fifty  folios  bound  and  set 
By   Time,   the    great   transcriber,  on   his 

shelves, 

Wherein  are  written  the  histories  of  our 
selves. 

What  tragedies,  what  comedies,  are  there  ; 
What  joy  and  grief,  what  rapture  and  de 
spair  ! 

What  chronicles  of  triumph  and  defeat, 
Of  struggle,  and  temptation,  and  retreat  ! 
What  records  of  regrets,  and  doubts,  and 

fears  ! 

What  pages  blotted,  blistered  by  our  tears  ! 
What   lovely    landscapes   on    the   margin 

shine, 

What  sweet,  angelic  faces,  what  divine 
And  holy  images  of  love  and  trust, 
Undimmed   by   age,  unsoiled  by  damp  orj 
dust  I 

Whose  hand  shall  dare  to  open  and  ex 
plore 

These  volumes,  closed  and  clasped  forever- 
more? 

Not  mine.     With  reverential  feet  I  pass  ; 

I  hear  a  voice  that  cries,  "  Alas  !  alas  ! 

Whatever  hath  been  written  shall  remain, 

Nor  be  erased  nor  written  o'er  again  ; 

The  unwritten  only  still  belongs  to  thee  : 

Take  heed,  and  ponder  well  what  that  shall 
be." 

As  children  frightened  by  a  thunder-cloud 
Are  reassured  if  some  one  reads  aloud 
A  tale  of  wonder,  with  enchantment  fraught, 
Or    wild     adventure,    that    diverts     their 

thought, 

Let  me  endeavor  with  a  tale  to  chase 
The    gathering   shadows  of    the  time  and 


MORITURI   SALUTAMUS 


313 


And  banish  what  we  all  too  deeply  feel 
Wholly  to  say,  or  wholly  to  conceal. 

In  mediaeval  Rome,  I  know  not  where, 
There  stood  an  image  with  its  arm  in  air, 
And  on  its  lifted  finger,  shining  clear, 
A   golden    ring  with   the  device,  "Strike 

here  !  " 
Greatly  the  people  wondered,  though  none 

guessed 
The    meaning  that  these  words    but    half 

expressed, 

Until  a  learned  clerk,  who  at  noonday 
With  downcast  eyes  was  passing  on  his  way, 
Paused,  and  observed  the  spot,  and  marked 

it  well, 

Whereon  the  shadow  of  the  finger  fell  ; 
And,  coming  back  at  midnight,  delved,  and 

found 

A  secret  stairway  leading  underground. 
Down  this  he  passed  into  a  spacious  hall, 
Lit  by  a  flaming  jewel  on  the  wall ; 
And  opposite,  in  threatening  attitude, 
With  bow  and  shaft  a  brazen  statue  stood. 
Upon  its  forehead,  like  a  coronet, 
Were  these  mysterious  words   of    menace 

set: 

"  That  which  I  am,  I  am  ;  my  fatal  aim 
None  can  escape,  not   even   yon  luminous 

flame!" 

Midway  the  hall  was  a  fair  table  placed, 
With  cloth  of   gold,  and  golden  cups  en 
chased 
With  rubies,  and  the  plates  and  knives  were 

gold, 

And  gold  the  bread  and  viands  manifold. 
Around  it,  silent,  motionless,  and  sad, 
Were  seated  gallant  knights  in  armor  clad, 
And  ladies  beautiful  with  plume  and  zone, 
But    they  were  stone,  their   hearts  within 

were  stone  ; 

And  the  vast  hall  was  filled  in  every  part 
With  silent  crowds,  stony  in  face  and  heart. 

Long  at  the  scene,  bewildered  and  amazed, 
The  trembling  clerk  in  speechless  wonder 

gazed  ; 
Then  from  the  table,  by  his   greed  made 

bold, 

He  seized  a  goblet  and  a  knife  of  gold, 
And  suddenly  from  their  seats  the  guests 

npsprang, 

The  vaulted  ceiling  with  loud  clamors  rang, 
The  archer  sped  his  arrow,  at  their  call, 


Shattering  the  lambent  jewel  on  the  wall, 
And  all  was  dark  around  and  overhead  ;  — 
Stark  on  the  floor   the  luckless  clerk   lay 
dead! 

The  writer  of  this  legend  then  records 
Its  ghostly  application  in  these  words  : 
The  image  is  the  Adversary  old, 
Whose  beckoning  finger  points  to  realms  of 

gold  ; 
Our  lusts  and  passions  are  the  downward 

stair 

That  leads  the  soul  from  a  diviner  air  ; 
The    archer,    Death ;    the   flaming    jewel, 

Life  ; 

Terrestrial  goods,  the  goblet  and  the  knife  ; 
The  knights  and  ladies,  all  whose  flesh  and 

bone 

By  avarice  have  been  hardened  into  stone  ; 
The  clerk,  the  scholar  whom  the  love  of  pelf 
Tempts  from  his  books  and  from  his  nobler 

self. 

The  scholar  and  the  world  !    The  endlesa 

strife, 

The  discord  in  the  harmonies  of  life  ! 
The  love  of  learning,  the  sequestered  nooks, 
And  all  the  sweet  serenity  of  books  ; 
The  market-place,  the  eager  love  of  gain, 
Whose  aim  is  vanity,  and  whose  end  is  pain  ! 


But  why,  you  ask  me,  should  this  tale  be 

r- .  told 

ITo  men  grown  old,  or  who  are  growing  old  ? 
It  is  too  late  !     Ah,  nothing  is  too  late 
Till  the  tired  heart  shall  cease  to  palpitate. 
Cato  learned  Greek  at  eighty  ;  Sophocles 
Wrote  his  grand  (Edipus,  and  Sirnonides 
Bore  off  the  prize  of  verse  from  his  com 
peers, 

When  each  had  numbered  more  than  four 
score  years, 

And  Theophrastus,  at  fourscore  and  ten, 
Had  but  begun  his  "  Characters  of  Men." 
Chaucer,  at  Woodstock  with   the  nightin 
gales, 

At  sixty  wrote  the  Canterbury  Tales  ; 
Goethe  at  Weimar,  toiling  to  the  last, 
Completed  Faust  when  eighty  years  were 

past. 

These  are  indeed  exceptions  ;  but  they  show 
How  far  the  gulf-stream  of  our  youth  may 

flow 

Into  the  arctic  regions  of  our  lives, 
Where  little  else  than  life  itself  survives^) 


314 


A   BOOK   OF   SONNETS 


As  the  barometer  foretells  the  storm 
While  still  the  skies  are  clear,  the  weather 

warm, 

So  something  in  us,  as  old  age  draws  near, 
Betrays  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere. 
The  nimble  mercury,  ere  we  are  aware, 
Descends  the  elastic  ladder  of  the  air  ; 
The  telltale  blood  in  artery  and  vein 
Sinks  from  its  higher  levels  in  the  brain  ; 
Whatever  poet,  orator,  or  sage 
May  say  of  it,  old  age  is  still  old  age. 
It  is  the  waning,  not  the  crescent  moon  ; 
The  dusk  of  evening,  not  the  blaze  of  noon  ; 
It  is  not  strength,  but  weakness  ;  not  de 
sire, 
But  its  surcease  ;   not  the  fierce  heat  of 

fire, 

The  burning  and  consuming  element, 
But  that  of  ashes  and  of  embers  spent, 


In  which  some  living  sparks  we  still  discern, 
Enough  to  warm,  but  not  enough  to  burn. 

What  then  ?     Shall  we  sit  idly  down  and 

say 

The  night  hath  come  ;  it  is  no  longer  day  ? 
The  night  hath  not  yet  come  ;  we  are  not 

quite 

Cut  off  from  labor  by  the  failing  light ; 
Something  remains  for  us  to  do  or  dare  ; 
Even  the  oldest  tree  some  fruit  may  bear  ; 
Not  CEdipus  Coloneus,  or  Greek  Ode, 
Or  tales  of  pilgrims  that  one  morning  rode 
Out  of  the  gateway  of  the  Tabard  Inn, 
But  other  something,  would  we  but  begin ; 
For  age  is  opportunity  no  less 
Than  youth  itself,  though  in  another  dress, 
And  as  the  evening  twilight  fades  away 
The  sky  is  filled  with  stars,  invisible  by  day.) 


A  BOOK  OF  SONNETS 


THREE   FRIENDS  OF  MINE 


WHEN  I  remember  them,  those  friends  of 
mine, 

Who  are  no  longer  here,  the  noble  three, 

Who  half  my  life  were  more  than  friends 
to  me, 

And  whose  discourse  was  like  a  generous 

wine, 
I  most  of  all  remember  the  divine 

Something,  that  shone  in  them,  and  made 
us  see 

The  archetypal  man,  and  what  might  be 

The  amplitude  of  Nature's  first  design. 
In  vain  I  stretch  my  hands  to  clasp  their 
hands ; 

I  cannot  find  them.     Nothing  now  is  left 

But  a   majestic   memory.     They  mean 
while 
Wander  together  in  Elysian  lands, 

Perchance    remembering   me,   who    am 
bereft 

Of  their  dear  presence,  and,  remember 
ing,  smile. 


In  Attica  thy  birthplace  should  have  been, 
Or  the  Ionian  Isles,  or  where  the  seas 


Encircle  in  their  arms  the  Cyclades, 
So  wholly  Greek  wast  thou  in  thy  se 
rene 

And  childlike  joy  of  life,  O  Philhellene  ! 
Around  thee  would  have   swarmed  the 

Attic  bees  ; 

Homer  had  been  thy  friend,  or  Socrates, 
And    Plato   welcomed  thee   to   his   de 
mesne. 
For   thee   old    legends    breathed    historic 

breath  ; 

Thou  sawest  Poseidon  in  the  purple  sea, 
And  in  the  sunset  Jason's  fleece  of  gold  ! 
Oh,  what  hadst  thou  to  do  with  cruel  Death, 
Who  wast  so  full  of  life,  or  Death  with 

thee, 

That  thou  shouldst  die  before  thou  hadst 
grown  old ! 


Ill 

I  stand  again  on  the  familiar  shore, 

And  hear  the  waves  of   the  distracted 

sea 

Piteously  calling  and  lamenting  thee, 
And  waiting  restless  at  thy  cottage  door. 

The  rocks,  the  sea-weed  on  the  ocean  floor, 

The  willows  in  the  meadow,  and  the  free 

Wild  winds  of  the  Atlantic  welcome  me  ; 

Then   why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  and 

come  no  more  ? 


MILTON 


315 


Ah,  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  when  com 
mon  men 

Are  busy  with  their  trivial  affairs, 
Having  and  holding  ?     Why,  when  thou 

hadst  read 

Nature's  mysterious  manuscript,  and  then 
Wast  ready  to  reveal  the  truth  it  bears, 
Why  art   thou   silent?     Why   shouldst 
thou  be  dead  ? 


IV 

River,  that  stealest  with  such  silent  pace 
Around  the  City  of  the  Dead,  where  lies 
A  friend  who  bore  thy  name,  and  whom 

these  eyes 
Shall   see   no  more   in   his   accustomed 

place, 

Linger  and  fold  him  in  thy  soft  embrace, 
And  say  good  night,  for  now  the  western 

skies 

Are  red  with  sunset,  and  gray  mists  arise 
Like  damps  that  gather  on  a  dead  man's 

face. 
Good  night !  good  night !  as  we  so  oft  have 

said 

Beneath  this  roof  at  midnight,  in  the  days 
That  are  no  more,  and  shall   no  more 

return. 
Thou  hast  but  taken  thy  lamp  and  gone  to 

bed  ; 

I  stay  a  little  longer,  as  one  stays 
To  cover  up  the  embers  that  still  burn. 


The  doors  are  all  wide  open  ;  at  the  gate 
The  blossomed  lilacs  counterfeit  a  blaze, 
And  seem  to  warm  the  air  ;  a  dreamy 

haze 
Hangs  o'er  the  Brighton  meadows  like  a 

fate, 

And  on  their  margin,  with  sea-tides  elate, 
The  flooded  Charles,  as  in  the  happier 

days, 
Writes  the  last  letter  of  his  name,  and 


His  restless  steps,  as  if  compelled  to  wait. 
I  also  wait  ;  but  they  will  come  no  more, 
Those  friends  of   mine,  whose  presence 

satisfied 
The  thirst  and  hunger  of  my  heart.     Ah 

me  ! 

They  have  forgotten  the  pathway  to  my 
door! 


Something  is  gone  from  nature  since  they 

died, 
And  summer  is  not  summer,  nor  can  be. 


CHAUCER 

AN  old  man  in  a  lodge  within  a  park  ; 
The  chamber  walls  depicted  all  around 
With  portraitures  of  huntsman,   hawk, 

and  hound, 
And  the  hurt  deer.     He  listeneth  to  the 

lark, 
Whose     song    comes    with    the    sunshine 

through  the  dark 

Of  painted  glass  in  leaden  lattice  bound  ; 
He   listeneth  and    he   laugheth    at  the 

sound, 

Then  writeth  in  a  book  like  any  clerk. 
He  is  the  poet  of  the  dawn,  who  wrote 
The  Canterbury  Tales,  and  his  old  age 
Made  beautiful  with  song  ;  and  as  I  read 
I  hear  the  crowing  cock,  I  hear  the  note 
Of  lark  and  linnet,  and  from  every  page 
Rise  odors  of  ploughed  field  or  flowery 
mead. 

SHAKESPEARE 

A  VISION  as  of  crowded  city  streets, 
With  human  life  in  endless  overflow  ; 
Thunder     of    thoroughfares  ;    trumpets 

that  blow 

To  battle  ;  clamor,  in  obscure  retreats, 
Of    sailors    landed   from    their    anchored 

fleets  ; 

Tolling  of  bells  in  turrets,  and  below 
Voices  of   children,  and   bright  flowers 

that  throw 
O'er    garden-walls    their    intermingled 

sweets  ! 

This  vision  comes  to  me  when  I  unfold 
The  volume  of  the  Poet  paramount, 
Whom   all   the    Muses   loved,   not   one 

alone  ;  — 

Into  his  hands  they  put  the  lyre  of  gold, 
And,  crowned  with  sacred  laurel  at  their 

fount, 
Placed  him  as  Musagetes  on  their  throne. 


MILTON 

I  PACE  the  sounding  sea-beach  and  behold 
How  the  voluminous  billows  roll  and  run, 


A   BOOK  OF   SONNETS 


Upheaving  and  subsiding,  while  the  sun 
Shines  through  their  sleeted  emerald  far 

unrolled, 
And  the  ninth  wave,  slow  gathering   fold 

by  fold 

All  its  loose-flowing  garments  into  one, 
Plunges  upon  the  shore,  and  floods  the 

dun 
Pale  reach  of  sands,  and  changes  them  to 

gold. 

So  in  majestic  cadence  rise  and  fall 
The  mighty  undulations  of  thy  song, 
O  sightless  bard,  England's  Mseonides  ! 
And  ever  and  anon,  high  over  all 

Uplifted,    a     ninth    wave     superb    and 

strong, 
Floods   all   the  soul  with  its   melodious 

seas. 

KEATS 

THE  young  Endymion  sleeps  Endymion's 

sleep  ; 
The   shepherd-boy  whose   tale    was   left 

half  told  ! 
The   solemn  grove  uplifts  its  shield  of 

gold 
To  the  red  rising  moon,  and   loud   and 

deep 

The  nightingale  is  singing  from  the  steep  ; 
It  is  midsummer,  but  the  air  is  cold  ; 
Can  it  be  death  ?     Alas,  beside  the  fold 
A  shepherd's  pipe  lies  shattered  near  his 

sheep. 
Lo !     in   the   moonlight   gleams   a  marble 

white, 
On  which  I  read  :  "  Here  lieth  one  whose 

name 
Was  writ  in  water."     And  was  this  the 

meed 
Of   his    sweet    singing?     Rather    let  me 

write  : 
"The   smoking  flax   before  it   burst   to 

flame 
Was  quenched  by  death,  and  broken  the 

bruised  reed." 

THE   GALAXY 

TORRENT  of  light  and  river  of  the  air, 
Along  whose  bed  the  glimmering   stars 

are  seen 

Like  gold  and  silver  sands  in  some  ravine 
Where  mountain  streams  have  left  their 

channels  bare  ! 


The    Spaniard   sees  in  thee  the  pathway, 

where 

His  patron  saint  descended  in  the  sheen 
Of  his  celestial  armor,  on  serene 
And  quiet  nights,  when  all  the  heavens 

were  fair. 

Not  this  I  see,  nor  yet  the  ancient  fable 
Of  Phaeton's  wild  course,  that   scorched 

the  skies 
Where'er   the  hoofs  of  his  hot  coursers 

trod  ; 
But  the  white  drift  of  worlds  o'er  chasms 

of  sable, 
The  star-dust,  that  is  whirled  aloft  and 

flies 
From  the  invisible  chariot-wheels  of  God. 


THE   SOUND   OF   THE   SEA 

THE  sea  awoke  at  midnight  from  its  sleep, 
And  round   the  pebbly  beaches  far  and 

wide 

I  heard  the  first  wave  of  the  rising  tide 
Rush  onward  with  uninterrupted  sweep  ; 
A  voice  out  of  the  silence  of  the  deep, 
A  sound  mysteriously  multiplied 
As   of  a   cataract  from   the    mountain's 

side, 

Or  roar  of  winds  upon  a  wooded  steep. 
So  comes  to   us   at   times,  from   the   un 
known 

And  inaccessible  solitudes  of  being, 
The  rushing  of  the  sea-tides  of  the  soul ; 
And  inspirations,  that  we  deem  our  own, 
Are  some  divine  foreshadowing  and  fore 
seeing 
Of  things  beyond  our  reason  or  control.  > 


A  SUMMER   DAY  BY  THE   SEA 

THE  sun  is  set ;  and  in  his  latest  beams 
Yon  little  cloud  of  ashen  gray  and  gold, 
Slowly  upon  the  amber  air  unrolled, 
The     falling    mantle    of     the     Prophet 

seems. 
From  the  dim  headlands  many  a  light-house 

gleams, 

The  street-lamps  of  the  ocean  ;  and  be 
hold, 

O'erhead   the  banners  of  the  night  un 
fold  ; 

The   day  hath   passed  into  the  land  of 
dreams. 


SLEEP 


317 


O  summer  day  beside  the  joyous  sea  ! 
O  summer  day  so  wonderful  and  white, 
So  full  of  gladness  and  so  full  of  pain  ! 

Forever  and  forever  shalt  thou  be 

To  some  the  gravestone  of  a  dead  delight, 
To  some  the  landmark  of  a  new  domain. 


THE   TIDES 

I  SAW  the  long  line  of  the  vacant  shore, 
The  sea-weed  and  the  shells  upon  the 

sand, 
And  the  brown  rocks  left  bare  on  every 

hand, 

As  if  the  ebbing  tide  would  flow  no  more. 
Then  heard  I,  more  distinctly  than  before, 
The  ocean  breathe  and  its  great  breast 

expand, 
And  hurrying  came  on  the  defenceless 

land 
The  insurgent  waters   with  tumultuous 

roar. 

All  thought  and  feeling  and  desire,  I  said, 
Love,  laughter,  and  the  exultant  joy  of 

song 

Have   ebbed   from  me   forever !     Sud 
denly  o'er  me 

They  swept  again  from  their  deep  ocean  bed, 
And  in  a  tumult  of  delight,  and  strong 
As  youth,  and  beautiful  as  youth,  upbore 


A  SHADOW 

I  SAID  unto  myself,  if  I  were  dead, 

What    would    befall    these    children? 

What  would  be 

Their  fate,  who  now  are  looking  up  to  me 
For  help  and  furtherance  ?     Their  lives, 

I  said, 

Would  be  a  volume  wherein  I  have  read 
But  the  first  chapters,  and  no  longer  see 
To  read  the  rest  of  their  dear  history, 
So  full  of  beauty  and  so  full  of  dread. 
Be  comforted  ;  the  world  is  very  old, 
And    generations    pass,  as    they    have 

passed, 

A  troop  of  shadows  moving  with  the  sun  ; 
Thousands  of  times  has  the  old  tale  been 

told; 
The   world  belongs  to  those  who  come 

the  last, 
They  will  find  hope  and  strength  as  we 

have  done. 


A  NAMELESS  GRAVE 

A  newspaper  description  of  a  burying  ground  fa  New 
port  News,  where,  on  the  head-board  of  a  soldier  were 
the  words,  "  A  Union  Soldier  mustered  out,"  was  sent 
to  Mr.  Longfellow  in  1864.  Ten  years  passed  before 
the  poet  used  the  incident,  for  he  wrote  the  sonnet  No 
vember  30,  1874. 

"A  SOLDIER  of  the  Union  mustered  out," 
Is  the  inscription  on  an  unknown  grave 
At  Newport  News,  beside  the  salt-sea 

wave, 

Nameless  and  dateless  ;  sentinel  or  scout 
Shot  down  in  skirmish,  or  disastrous  rout 
Of  battle,  when  the  loud  artillery  drave 
Its    iron   wedges   through  the  ranks  of 

brave 

And  doomed  battalions,  storming  the  re 
doubt. 

Thou  unknown  hero  sleeping  by  the  sea 
In    thy   forgotten    grave !    with    secret 

shame 

I  feel  my  pulses  beat,  my  forehead  burn, 
When  I  remember  thou  hast  given  for 

me 
All  that  thou  hadst,  thy  life,  thy  very 

name, 
And  I  can  give  thee  nothing  in  return. 


SLEEP 

LULL  me  to  sleep,  ye  winds,  whose  fitful 
sound 

Seems    from    some   faint  ^Eolian  harp- 
string  caught ; 

Seal    up  the    hundred  wakeful  eyes  of 
thought 

As  Hermes  with  his  lyre  in  sleep  pro 
found 
The  hundred  wakeful  eyes  of  Argus  bound  ; 

For  I  am  weary,  and  am  overwrought 

With  too  much  toil,  with  too  much  care 
distraught, 

And    with    the    iron  crown  of    anguish 

crowned. 

Lay  thy    soft    hand    upon    my  brow    and 
cheek, 

0  peaceful  Sleep  !  until  from  pain  re 

leased 

1  breathe  again  uninterrupted  breath  ! 
Ah,     witli    what   subtle   meaning   did   the 

Greek 

Call  thee  the  lesser  mystery  at  the  feast 
Whereof  the  greater  mystery  is  death  ! 


A  BOOK  OF   SONNETS 


THE  OLD  BRIDGE  AT  FLORENCE 

TADDEO  GADDI  built  me.     I  am  old, 
Five  centuries  old.     I  plant  my  foot  of 

stone 

Upon  the  Arno,  as  St.  Michael's  own 
Was  planted  on  the  dragon.     Fold  by 

fold 
Beneath  me  as  it  struggles,  I  behold 

Its    glistening    scales.     Twice    hath    it 

overthrown 

My  kindred  and  companions.     Me  alone 
It  movefch  not,  but  is  by  me  controlled. 
I  can  remember  when  the  Medici 

Were  driven  from  Florence  ;  longer  still 

ago 

The  final  wars  of  Ghibelline  and  Guelf. 
Florence  adorns  me  with  her  jewelry  ; 
And  when  I  think  that  Michael  Angelo 
Hath  leaned  on  me,  I  glory  in  myself. 


IL  PONTE  VECCHIO  DI  FIRENZE 

GADDI  mi  fece  ;  il  Ponte  Vecchio  sono  ; 
Cinquecent'  anni  gia  sull'  Arno  pianto 
II  piede,  come  il  suo  Michele  Santo 
Pianto  sul  draco.     Mentre  ch'  io  ragiono 

Lo  vedo  torcere  con  flebil  suono 

Le  rilucenti  scaglie.     Ha  questi  affranto 
Due  volte  i  miei  maggior.     Me  solo  in- 

tanto 
Neppure  muove,  ed  io  non  1'  abbandono. 

Io  mi  rammento  quando  fur  cacciati 
I  Medici ;  pur  quando  Ghibellino 
E  Guelfo  fecer  pace  mi  rammento. 

Fiorenza  i  suoi  giojelli  m'  ha  prestati  ; 
E  quando  penso  ch'  Agnolo  il  divino 
Su  me  posava,  insuperbir  mi  sento. 


NATURE 

As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er, 
Leads  by  the  hand  her   little   child  to 

bed, 

Half  willing,  half  reluctant  to  be  led, 
And  leave  his  broken  playthings  on  the 

floor, 

Still  gazing  at  them  through  the  open  door, 
Nor  wholly  reassured  and  comforted 
By  promises  of  others  in  their  stead, 
Which,  though  more  splendid,  may  not 

please  him  more  ; 


So  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes  away 
Our  playthings  one  by  one,  and  by  the 

hand 

Leads  us  to  rest  so  gently,  that  we  go 
Scarce  knowing  if  we  wish  to  go  or  stay, 
Being  too  full  of  sleep  to  understand 
How    far    the  unknown  transcends  the 
what  we  know. 


IN     THE    CHURCHYARD     AT 
TARRYTOWN 

HERE  lies  the  gentle  humorist,  who  died 
In    the    bright    Indian  Summer  of  his 

fame  ! 
A    simple  stone,    with   but  a  date  and 

name, 

Marks  his  secluded  resting-place  beside 
The  river  that  he  loved  and  glorified. 
Here  in  the  autumn  of  his  days  he  came, 
But  the  dry  leaves  of  life  were  all  aflame 
With    tints    that   brightened  and  were 

multiplied. 
How  sweet  a  life  was  his  ;   how  sweet  a 

death  ! 
Living,  to   wing  with  mirth  the  weary 

hours, 
Or    with   romantic    tales   the    heart  to 

cheer  ; 

Dying,  to  leave  a  memory  like  the  breath 
Of  summers  full    of    sunshine    and  of 

showers, 
A  grief  and  gladness  in  the  atmosphere. 


ELIOT'S    OAK 

THOU  ancient  oak !  whose  myriad  leaves 

are  loud 

With  sounds  of  unintelligible  speech, 
Sounds  as  of  surges  on  a  shingly  beach, 
Or  multitudinous  murmurs  of  a  crowd  ; 
With    some    mysterious    gift  of    tongues 

endowed, 
Thou    speakest    a   different    dialect   to 

each  ; 
To  me   a  language   that   no   man    can 

teach, 
Of  a   lost    race,  long  vanished  like   a 

cloud. 

For  underneath  thy  shade,  in  days  remote, 
Seated  like  Abraham  at  eventide 
Beneath   the   oaks   of  Mamre,  the   un 
known 


PARKER   CLEAVELAND 


Apostle  of  the  Indians,  Eliot,  wrote 
His  Bible  in  a  language  that  hath  died 
And  is  forgotten,  save  by  thee  alone. 


THE   DESCENT   OF  THE    MUSES 

Mr.  Longfellow  was  one  day  visiting  Wellesley  Col 
lege,  and  was  asked  to  write  one  of  his  poems.  He 
begged  for  a  few  moments'  delay,  wrote  this  sonnet 
from  memory,  —  it  had  not  been  printed,  —  and  read  it 
to  the  ladies. 

NINE  sisters,  beautiful  in  form  and  face, 
Came  from  their  convent  on  the  shining 

heights 

Of  Pierus,  the  mountain  of  delights, 
To  dwell  among  the  people  at  its  base. 
Then   seemed   the   world  to  change.     All 

time  and  space, 
Splendor  of  cloudless  days  and   starry 

nights, 
And  men   and  manners,  and  all  sounds 

and  sights, 

Had  a  new  meaning,  a  diviner  grace. 
Proud  were  these  sisters,  but  were  not  too 

proud 
To    teach   in  schools   of  little    country 

towns 
Science  and  song,  and  all  the  arts  that 

please  ; 
So  that  while  housewives  span,  and  farmers 

ploughed, 

Their  comely  daughters,  clad  in  home 
spun  gowns, 
Learned  the  sweet  songs  of  the  Pierides. 


VENICE 

WHITE  swan  of  cities,  slumbering  in  thy 

nest 

So  wonderfully  built  among  the  reeds 
Of  the  lagoon,  that  fences  thee  and  feeds, 
As  sayeth  thy  old  historian  and  thy  guest ! 
White  water-lily,  cradled  and  caressed 
By  ocean  streams,  and  from  the  silt  and 

weeds 

Lifting  thy  golden  filaments  and  seeds, 
Thy  sun-illumined  spires,  thy  crown  and 

crest ! 
White    phantom    city,    whose    untrodden 

streets 
Are  rivers,  and  whose  pavements  are  the 

shifting 
Shadows  of  palaces  and  strips  of  sky  ; 


I  wait  to  see  thee  vanish  like  the  fleets 
Seen  in  mirage,  or  towers  of  cloud  up 
lifting 
In  air  their  unsubstantial  masonry. 


THE   POETS 

O  YE  dead  Poets,  who  are  living  still 

Immortal  in  your  verse,  though  life  be 

fled, 

And  ye,  O  living  Poets,  who  are  dead 
Though  ye  are  living,  if  neglect  can  kill, 
Tell  me  if  in  the  darkest  hours  of  ill, 
With  drops  of  anguish  falling  fast  and 

red 
From  the  sharp  crown  of  thorns  upon 

your  head, 

Ye  were  not  glad  your  errand  to  fulfil  ? 
Yes  ;  for  the  gift  and  ministry  of  Song 
Have    something    in   them   so   divinely 

sweet, 

It  can  assuage  the  bitterness  of  wrong  ; 
Not  in  the  clamor  of  the  crowded  street, 
Not   in   the   shouts  and  plaudits  of  the 

throng, 
But  in  ourselves,  are  triumph  and  defeat. 

PARKER   CLEAVELAND 

WRITTEN    ON    REVISITING    BRUNSWICK 
IN    THE    SUMMER    OF    1875 

AMONG  the  many  lives  that  I  have  known, 
None  I  remember  more  serene  and  sweet, 
More   rounded  in  itself  and  more  com 
plete, 
Than  his,  who  lies  beneath  this  funeral 

stone. 

These  pines,  that  murmur  in  low  monotone, 
These   walks    frequented   by   scholastic 

feet, 
Were   all   his   world  ;  but  in  this  calm 

retreat 
For  him  the   Teacher's   chair  became  a 

throne. 

With  fond  affection  memory  loves  to  dwell 

On  the  old  days,  when  his  example  made 

A  pastime  of  the  toil  of  tongue  and  pen  ; 

And  now,  amid  the  groves  he  loved  so  well 

That  naught  could  lure  him  from  their 

grateful  shade, 
He  sleeps,  but  wakes  elsewhere,  for  God 

hath  said,  Amen ! 


320 


A   BOOK   OF    SONNETS 


THE   HARVEST   MOON 

IT    is    the   Harvest   Moon  !      On    gilded 

vanes 
And    roofs    of    villages,    on    woodland 

crests 

And  their  aerial  neighborhoods  of  nest's 
Deserted,  on  the  curtained  window-panes 
Of  rooms  where  children  sleep,  on  country 

lanes 
And   harvest-fields,  its   mystic   splendor 

rests  ! 
Gone  are  the  birds  that  were  our  summer 

guests  ; 

With  the  last  sheaves  return  the  labor 
ing  wains  ! 
All    things    are    symbols  :     the    external 

shows 
Of   Nature    have    their    image    in    the 

mind, 
As  flowers  and  fruits  and  falling  of  the 

leaves  ; 
The  song-birds  leave  us  at  the  summer's 

close, 

Only  the  empty  nests  are  left  behind, 
And   pipings    of    the   quail  among  the 

sheaves. 


TO   THE    RIVER   RHONE 

THOU  Royal  River,  born  of  sun  and  shower 
In    chambers    purple   with    the    Alpine 

glow, 
Wrapped  in  the  spotless  ermine  of  the 

snow 

And  rocked  by  tempests  !  —  at  the  ap 
pointed  hour 
Forth,  like  a  steel-clad  horseman  from  a 

tower, 
With   clang  and   clink  of  harness  dost 

thou  go 

To  meet  thy  vassal  torrents,  that  below 
Rush    to    receive    thee    and    obey   thy 

power. 

And  now  thou  movest  in  triumphal  march, 
A  king  among  the  rivers  !  On  thy  way 
A  hundred  towns  await  and  welcome 

thee  ; 

Bridges  uplift  for  thee  the  stately  arch, 
Vineyards   encircle   thee   with   garlands 

gay, 

And   fleets   attend  thy  progress   to  the 
sea! 


THE    THREE     SILENCES    OF 
MOLINOS 

TO   JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

Written  to  be  read  at  the  dinner  given  by  the  pub 
lishers  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly  to  Mr.  Whittier  in  honor 
of  his  seventieth  birthday,  December  18,  1877. 

THREE    Silences   there   are :    the   first   of 

speech, 
The    second    of     desire,    the    third    of 

thought ; 

This   is  the  lore  a   Spanish   monk,  dis 
traught 
With  dreams  and  visions,  was  the  first  to 

teach. 
These   Silences,   commingling    each    with 

each, 
Made   up  the  perfect  Silence  that  he 

sought 
And  prayed  for,  and  wherein  at  times  he 

caught 
Mysterious  sounds  from  realms  beyond 

our  reach. 
O  thou,  whose  daily  life  anticipates 

The  life  to  come,  and  in  whose  thought 

and  word 

The  spiritual  world  preponderates, 
Hermit  of  Amesbury  !   thou  too  hast  heard 
Voices   and   melodies  from   beyond  the 

gates, 
And   speakest    only   when    thy  soul  is 

stirred  ! 


THE  TWO   RIVERS 


SLOWLY  the  hour-hand  of  the  clock  moves 

round  ; 

So  slowly  that  no  human  eye  hath  power 
To   see   it   move  !     Slowly   in   shine   or 

shower 
The   painted  ship   above   it,   homeward 

bound, 

Sails,  but  seems  motionless,  as  if  aground  ; 
Yet  both  arrive  at  last ;  and  in  his  tower 
The  slumberous  watchman  wakes  and 

strikes  the  hour, 

A  mellow,  measured,  melancholy  sound. 
Midnight  !  the  outpost  of  advancing  day  ! 
The  frontier  town  and  citadel  of  night  ! 
The  watershed  of  Time,  from  which  the 

streams 


ST.   JOHN'S,   CAMBRIDGE 


321 


Of  Yesterday   and    To-morrow  take  their 

way, 

One  to  the  land  of  promise  and  of  light, 
One    to   the   land    of   darkness    and   of 
dreams  ! 


II 


O  River  of  Yesterday,  with  current  swift 
Through   chasms   descending,  and   soon 

lost  to  sight, 

I  do  not  care  to  follow  in  their  flight 
The  faded   leaves,   that   on   thy   bosom 
drift ! 

0  River  of  To-morrow,  I  uplift 

Mine  eyes,  and  thee  I  follow,  as  the  night 
Wanes   into   morning,  and  the  dawning 

light 
Broadens,  and  all  the  shadows  fade  and 

shift ! 

1  follow,  follow,  where  thy  waters  run 
Through  unfrequented,  unfamiliar  fields, 
Fragrant  with  flowers  and  musical  with 

song  ; 

Still  follow,  follow  ;  sure  to  meet  the  sun, 
And  confident,  that     what    the    future 

yields 
Will    be   the   right,   unless    myself    be 

wrong. 


ill 


Yet  not  in  vain,  O  River  of  Yesterday, 
Through  chasms  of  darkness  to  the  deep 

descending, 
I  heard  thee   sobbing  in   the  rain,  and 

blending 

Thy  voice  with  other  voices  far  away. 
I  called  to  thee,  and  yet  thou  wouldst  not 

stay, 

But  turbulent,  and  with  thyself  contend 
ing* 
And  torrent-like   thy   force   on   pebbles 

spending, 

Thou  wouldst  not  listen  to  a  poet's  lay. 
Thoughts,  like  a  loud  and  sudden  rush  of 

wings, 

Regrets  and  recollections  of  things  past, 
With  hints  and  prophecies  of  things  to  be, 
And    inspirations,    which,    could    they   be 

things, 
And  stay   with  us,   and  we   could   hold 

them  fast, 
Were  our  good  angels,  —  these  I  owe  to 

thee. 


IV 

And  thou,  O  River  of  To-morrow,  flowing 
Between  thy  narrow  adamantine  walls, 
But  beautiful,  and  white  with  waterfalls, 
And  wreaths  of  mist,  like  hands  the  path 
way  showing  ; 

I  hear  the  trumpets  of  the  morning  blowing, 
I  hear  thy  mighty  voice,  that  calls  and 

calls, 

And  see,  as  Ossian  saw  in  Morven's  halls, 
Mysterious  phantoms,  coming,  beckoning, 

going  ! 
It  is  the  mystery  of  the  unknown 

That  fascinates  us  ;  we  are  children  still, 
Wayward  and  wistful  ;  with  one  hand  we 

cling 

To  the  familiar  things  we  call  our  own, 
And  with  the  other,  resolute  of  will, 
Grope  in  the  dark  for  what  the  day  will 
bring. 

BOSTON 

ST.  BOTOLPH'S  Town  !     Hither  across  the 

plains 

And  fens  of  Lincolnshire,  in  garb  austere, 
There  came  a  Saxon  monk,  and  founded 

here 

A  Priory,  pillaged  by  marauding  Danes, 
So  that  thereof  no  vestige  now  remains  ; 
Only  a  name,  that,  spoken  loud  and  clear, 
And  echoed  in  another  hemisphere, 
Survives  the  sculptured  walls  and  painted 

panes. 
St.  Botolph's  Town  !     Far  over  leagues  of 

land 
And  leagues  of  sea  looks  forth  its  noble 

tower, 
And  far  around   the   chiming  bells  are 

heard  ; 

So  may  that  sacred  name  forever  stand 
A  landmark,  and  a  symbol  of  the  power, 
That  lies  concentred  in  a  single  word. 


•      ST.  JOHN'S,  CAMBRIDGE 

The  memorial  chapel  of  St.  John's,  erected  by  Robert 
Means  Mason  in  connection  with  the  Episcopal  Theolo 
gical  School,  stands  close  by  the  home  of  Mr.  Longfellow. 

I  STAND  beneath  the  tree,  whose  branches 

shade 

Thy   western    window,    Chapel    of    St. 
John  ! 


322 


A   BOOK   OF   SONNETS 


And  hear  its  leaves  repeat  their  benison 
On  him,  whose  hand  thy  stones  memorial 

laid  ; 

Then  I  remember  one  of  whom  was  said 
In   the    world's  darkest   hour,  "  Behold 

thy  son  !  " 

And  see  him  living  still,  and  wandering  on 
And  waiting  for  the  advent  long  delayed. 
Not  only  tongues  of  the  apostles  teach 
Lessons  of  love  and  light,  but  these  ex 
panding 
And   sheltering  boughs    with   all   their 

leaves  implore, 

And  say  in  language  clear  as  human  speech, 
"  The  peace  of  God,  that  passeth  under 
standing, 
Be  and  abide  with  you  forevermore  !  " 


MOODS 

OH  that  a  Song  would  sing  itself  to  me 
Out  of  the  heart  of  Nature,  or  the  heart 
Of  man,  the  child  of  Nature,  not  of  Art, 
Fresh  as  the  morning,  salt  as  the  salt  sea, 
With  just  enough  of  bitterness  to  be 

A  medicine  to  this  sluggish  mood,  and 

start 

The  life-blood  in  my  veins,  and  so  impart 
Healing  and  help  in  this  dull  lethargy  ! 
Alas  !  not  always  doth  the  breath  of  song 
Breathe  on  us.     It  is  like  the  wind  that 

bloweth 

At  its  own  will,  not  ours,  nor  tarrieth  long ; 
We  hear  the  sound    thereof,  but  no  man 

knoweth 
From  whence  it  comes,  so  sudden    and 

swift  and  strong, 

Nor   whither   in  its  wayward   course  it 
goeth. 


WOODSTOCK   PARK 

HERE  in  a  little  rustic  hermitage 

Alfred  the  Saxon  King,  Alfred  the  Great, 
Postponed    the   cares   of    king-craft    to 

translate 

The  Consolations  of  the  Roman  sage. 
Here  Geoffrey  Chaucer  in  his  ripe  old  age 
Wrote  the  unrivalled  Tales,  which  soon 

or  late 

The  venturous  hand  that  strives  to  imitate 
Vanquished  must  fall  on  the  unfinished 
page. 


Two  kings  were  they,  who  ruled  by  right 

divine, 
And  both  supreme  ;  one  in  the  realm  of 

Truth, 

One  in  the  realm  of  Fiction  and  of  Song. 
What  prince  hereditary  of  their  line, 

Uprising   in   the   strength   and  flush   of 

youth, 
Their  glory  shall  inherit  and  prolong  ? 


THE   FOUR   PRINCESSES   AT 
WILNA 

A   PHOTOGRAPH 

SWEET  faces,  that  from  pictured  casements 

lean 

As  from  a  castle  window,  looking  down 
On  some  gay  pageant  passing  through  a 

town, 
Yourselves    the    fairest   figures    in    the 

scene  ; 

With  what  a  gentle  grace,  with  what  serene 
Unconsciousness     ye     wear     the    triple 

crown 

Of  youth   and  beauty  and  the  fair  re 
nown 
Of  a  great  name,  that  ne'er  hath  tarnished 

been  ! 

From  your  soft  eyes,  so  innocent  and  sweet, 

Four  spirits,  sweet  and  innocent  as  they, 

Gaze  on  the  world  below,  the  sky  above  ; 

Hark  !  there  is  some  one  singing  in  the 

street  ; 
"  Faith,  Hope,  and  Love  !  these  three," 

he  seems  to  say  ; 
"  These  three  ;  and  greatest  of  the  three 

is  Love." 


HOLIDAYS 

THE  holiest  of  all  holidays  are  those 
Kept  by  ourselves  in  silence  and  apart ; 
The  secret  anniversaries  of  the  heart, 
When    the  full    river   of    feeling   over 
flows  ;  — 

The  happy  days  unclouded  to  their  close  ; 
The  sudden   joys  that  out  of   darkness 

start 
As  flames  from  ashes  ;  swift  desires  that 

dart 

Like  swallows  singing  down  each  wind 
that  blows  I 


THE   CROSS   OF   SNOW 


323 


White  as  the  gleam  of  a  receding  sail, 
White  as  a  cloud  that  floats  and  fades  in 

air, 

White  as  the  whitest  lily  on  a  stream, 
These  tender  memories  are  ;  —  a  fairy  tale 
Of  some   enchanted  land  we   know  not 

where, 
But  lovely  as  a  landscape  in  a  dream. 


WAPENTAKE 


TO   ALFRED    TENNYSON 

POET  !  I  come  to  touch  thy  lance  with  mine  ; 
Not  as  a  knight,  who  on  the  listed  field 
Of  tourney  touched  his  adversary's  shield 
In  token  of  defiance,  but  in  sign 

Of  homage  to  the  mastery,  which  is  thine, 
In  English  song  ;   nor  will  I  keep  con 
cealed, 

And  voiceless  as  a  rivulet  frost-congealed, 
My  admiration  for  thy  verse  divine. 

Not  of  the  howling  dervishes  of  song, 
Who  craze  the  brain  with  their  delirious 

dance, 
Art  thou,  O  sweet  historian  of  the  heart ! 

Therefore   to   thee  the   laurel  -  leaves   be 
long, 

To  thee  our  love  and  our  allegiance, 
For  thy  allegiance  to  the  poet's  ark 


THE   BROKEN    OAR 

"  November  13, 18G4.  Stay  at  home  and  ponder  upon 
Dante.  I  am  frequently  tempted  to  write  upon  my 
work  the  inscription  found  upon  an  oar  cast  on  the 
coast  of  Iceland, — 

Oft  war  ek  dasa  durek  Sro  thick. 

Oft  was  I  weary  when  I  tugged  at  thee." 

ONCE  upon  Iceland's  solitary  strand 
A  poet  wandered  with  his  book  and  pen, 


Seeking   some   final   word,   some   sweet 

Amen> 
Wherewith   to   close  the  volume  in   his 

hand. 
The  billows  rolled  and  plunged  upon  the 

sand. 
The  circling  sea-gulls  swept  beyond  his 

ken, 
And  from  the  parting  cloud-rack  now  and 

then 

Flashed  the  red  sunset  over  sea  and  land, 
Then  by  the  billows  at  his  feet  was  tossed 
A  broken   oar  ;  and   carved   thereon  he 

read  : 
"Oft   was    I   weary,   when   I    toiled   at 

thee;" 

And  like  a  man,  who  findeth  what  was  lost, 
He  wrote  the  words,  then  lifted  up  his 

head, 
And  flung  his  useless  pen  into  the  sea. 


THE   CROSS   OF   SNOW 

IN  the  long,  sleepless  watches  of  the  night, 
A   gentle  face  —  the   face   of   one   long 

dead  — 
Looks  at  me  from  the  wall,  where  round 

its  head 

The  night-lamp  casts  a  halo  of  pale  light. 
Here  in  this  room  she  died  ;  and  soul  more 

white 

Never  through  martyrdom  of  fire  was  led 
To  its  repose  ;  nor  can  in  books  be  read 
The  legend  of  a  life  more  benedight. 
There  is  a  mountain  in  the  distant  West 
That,  sun-defying,  in  its  deep  ravines 
Displays  a  cross  of  snow  upon  its  side. 
Such  is  the  cross  I  wear  upon  my  breast 
These   eighteen   years,  through   all   the 

changing  scenes 

And  seasons,  changeless   since  the  day 
she  died. 


324 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 
FLIGHT  THE    FOURTH 


The  first  draft  of  the  first  poem  was  made  March  30, 
1874.    It  did  not  satisfy  the  poet,  for  he  wrote,  April  2 : 

CHARLES    SUMNER 

GARLANDS  upon  his  grave 
And  flowers  upon  his  hearse, 
And  to  the  tender  heart  and  brave 
The  tribute  of  this  verse. 

His  was  the  troubled  life, 
The  conflict  and  the  pain, 
The  grief,  the  bitterness  of  strife, 
The  honor  without  stain. 

Like  Winkelried,  he  took 
Into  his  manly  breast 
The  sheaf  of  hostile  spears,  and  broke 
A  path  for  the  oppressed. 

Then  from  the  fatal  field 
Upon  a  nation's  heart 
Borne  like  a  warrior  on  his  shield  1  — 
So  should  the  brave  depart. 

Death  takes  us  by  surprise, 
And  stays  our  hurrying  feet ; 
The  great  design  unfinished  lies, 
Our  lives  are  incomplete. 

But  in  the  dark  unknown 
Perfect  their  circles  seem, 
Even  as  a  bridge's  arch  of  stone 
Is  rounded  in  the  stream. 

Alike  are  life  and  death, 
When  life  in  death  survives, 
And  the  uninterrupted  breath 
Inspires  a  thousand  lives. 


Were  a  star  quenched  on  high, 
For  ages  would  its  light, 
Still     travelling     downward    from 

.  sky, 
Shine  on  our  mortal  sight. 

f  So  when  a  great  man  dies, 
For  years  beyond  our  ken, 
The  light  he  leaves  behind  him  lies 
Upon  the  paths  of  men. 


the 


"  I  have  been  trying  to  write  something  about  Sumner, 
but  to  little  purpose.    I  cannot  collect  my  faculties." 

TRAVELS    BY  THE   FIRESIDE 

Written  October  7,  1874,  as  introduction  to  the  series 
of  volumes,  Poems  of  Places,  edited  by  Mr.  Longfellow. 

THE  ceaseless  rain  is  falling  fast, 

And  yonder  gilded  vane, 
Immovable  for  three  days  past, 

Points  to  the  misty  main. 

It  drives  me  in  upon  myself 

And  to  the  fireside  gleams, 
To  pleasant  books  that  crowd  my  shelf, 

And  still  more  pleasant  dreams. 

I  read  whatever  bards  have  sung 

Of  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  the  bright  days  when  I  was  young 

Come  thronging  back  to  me. 

In  fancy  I  can  hear  again 

The  Alpine  torrent's  roar, 
The  mule-bells  on  the  hills  of  Spain, 

The  sea  at  Elsinore. 

I  see  the  convent's  gleaming  wall 
Rise  from  its  groves  of  pine, 

And  towers  of  old  cathedrals  tall, 
And  castles  by  the  Rhine. 

I  journey  on  by  park  and  spire, 

Beneath  centennial  trees, 
Through  fields  with  poppies  all  on  fire, 

And  gleams  of  distant  seas. 

I  fear  no  more  the  dust  and  heat, 

No  more  I  feel  fatigue, 
While  journeying  with  another's  feefc 

O'er  many  a  lengthening  league. 

Let  others  traverse  sea  and  land, 
And  toil  through  various  climes, 

I  turn  the  world  round  with  my  hand 
Reading  these  poets'  rhymes. 

From  them  I  learn  whatever  lies 
Beneath  each  changing  zone, 

And  see,  when  looking  with  their  eyes, 
Better  than  with  mine  own. 


MONTE   GASSING 


325 


CADENABBIA 

LAKE   OF   COMO 

No  sound  of  wheels  or  hoof-beat  breaks 
The  silence  of  the  summer  day, 

As  by  the  loveliest  of  all  lakes 
I  while  the  idle  hours  away. 

I  pace  the  leafy  colonnade, 

Where  level  branches  of  the  plane 

Above  me  weave  a  roof  of  shade 
Impervious  to  the  sun  and  rain. 

At  times  a  sudden  rush  of  air 
Flutters  the  lazy  leaves  o'erhead, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine  toss  and  flare 
Like  torches  down  the  path  I  tread. 

By  Somariva's  garden  gate 

I  make  the  marble  stairs  my  seat, 

And  hear  the  water,  as  I  wait, 

Lapping  the  steps  beneath  my  feet. 

The  undulation  sinks  and  swells 

Along  the  stony  parapets, 
And  far  away  the  floating  bells 

Tinkle  upon  the  fisher's  nets. 

Silent  and  slow,  by  tower  and  town 
The  freighted  barges  come  and  go, 

Their  pendent  shadows  gliding  down 
By  town  and  tower  submerged  below. 

The  hills  sweep  upward  from  the  shore, 
With  villas  scattered  one  by  one 

Upon  their  wooded  spurs,  and  lower 
Bellaggio  blazing  in  the  sun. 

And  dimly  seen,  a  tangled  mass 

Of  walls  and  woods,  of  light  and  shade, 

Stands,  beckoning  up  the  Stelvio  Pass, 
Vareima  with  its  white  cascade. 

I  ask  myself,  Is  this  a  dream  ? 

Will  it  all  vanish  into  air  ? 
Is  there  a  land  of  such  supreme 

And  perfect  beauty  anywhere  ? 

Sweet  vision  !     Do  not  fade  away  : 
Linger,  until  my  heart  shall  take 

Into  itself  the  summer  day, 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  lake  ; 


Linger,  until  upon  my  brain 

Is  stamped  an  image  of  the  scene  ; 

Then  fade  into  the  air  again, 

And  be  as  if  thou  hadst  not  been. 


MONTE   CASSINO 


TERRA  DI    LAVORO 

BEAUTIFUL  valley !  through  whose  ver 
dant  meads 

Unheard  the  Garigliano  glides  along  ;  — 
The  Liris,  nurse  of  rushes  and  of  reeds, 

The  river  taciturn  of  classic  song. 

The  Land  of  Labor  and  the  Land  of  Rest, 
Where  mediaeval  towns  are  white  on  all 

The  hillsides,  and  where  every  mountain's 

crest 
Is  an  Etrurian  or  a  Roman  wall. 

There  is  Alagna,  where  Pope  Boniface 
Was  dragged  with  contumely  from  his 
throne  ; 

Sciarra  Colonna,  was  that  day's  disgrace 
The  Pontiff's  only,  or  in  part  thine  own  ? 

There  is  Ceprano,  where  a  renegade 

Was     each    Apulian,    as    great    Dante 

saith, 

When    Manfred    by  his  men-at-arms  be 
trayed 
Spurred  on  to  Benevento  and  to  death. 

There  is  Aquinum,  the  old  Volscian  town, 
Where    Juvenal  was  born,  whose  lurid 

light 
Still    hovers  o'er    his  birthplace   like  the 

crown 
Of  splendor  seen  o'er  cities  in  the  night. 

Doubled  the  splendor  is,  that  in  its  streets 
The    Angelic    Doctor   as    a    school-boy 

played, 
And  dreamed  perhaps  the  dreams,  that  he 

repeats 
In  ponderous  folios  for  scholastics  made. 

And  there,  uplifted,  like  a  passing  cloud 
That    pauses    on    a    mountain    summit 
high, 

Monte  Cassino's  convent  rears  its  proud 
And  venerable  walls  against  the  sky. 


326 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


Well  I  remember  how  on  foot  I  climbed 

The  stony  pathway  leading  to  its  gate  ; 
Above,     the     convent    bells    for    vespers 

chimed, 

Below,   the  darkening  town  grew  deso 
late. 

Well  I  remember  the  low  arch  and  dark, 
The  courtyard  with  its  well,  the  terrace 

wide, 
From  which,  far  down,  the  valley  like  a 

park, 

Veiled  in  the  evening  mists,  was  dim  de 
scried, 

The  day  was  dying,  and  with  feeble  hands 
Caressed  the  mountain-tops  ;  the   vales 

between 

Darkened  ;  the  river  in  the  meadow-lands 
Sheathed  itself  as  a  sword,  and  was  not 
seen. 

The  silence  of  the  place  was  like  a  sleep, 
So  full  of  rest  it  seemed  ;  each  passing 
tread 

Was  a  reverberation  from  the  deep 
Recesses  of  the  ages  that  are  dead. 

For,  more  than  thirteen  centuries  ago, 
Benedict  fleeing  from  the  gates  of  Rome, 

A  youth  disgusted  with  its  vice  and  woe, 
Sought    in    these   mountain  solitudes  a 
home. 

He  founded  here  his  Convent  and  his  Rule 
Of  prayer  and  work,  and  counted  work 
as  prayer  ; 

The  pen  became  a  clarion,  and  his  school 
Flamed   like   a  beacon  in  the  midnight 


What  though   Boccaccio,   in  his    reckless 
way, 

Mocking  the  lazy  brotherhood,  deplores 
The  illuminated  manuscripts,  that  lay 

Torn  and  neglected  on  the  dusty  floors  ? 

Boccaccio  was  a  novelist,  a  child 
Of  fancy  and  of  fiction  at  the  best  ! 

This  the  urbane  librarian  said,  and  smiled 
Incredulous,  as  at  some  idle  jest. 

Upon  such  themes  as  these,  with  one  young 

friar 
I  sat  conversing  late  into  the  night, 


Till  in  its  cavernous  chimney  the  wood-fire 
Had    burnt   its    heart  out   like    an    an 
chorite. 

And  then  translated,  in  my  convent  cell, 
Myself  yet  not  myself,  in  dreams  I  lay, 

And,  as  a  monk  who  hears  the  matin  bell, 
Started   from   sleep  ;  —  already  it   was 
day. 

From  the  high  window  I  beheld  the  scene 
On   which   Saint    Benedict    so   oft  had 

gazed, — 

The  mountains  and  the  valley  in  the  sheen 
Of   the  bright  sun,  —  and  stood  as   one 
amazed. 

Gray  mists  were  rolling,  rising,  vanishing  ; 

The  woodlands  glistened  with  their  jew 
elled  crowns  ; 
Far  off  the  mellow  bells  began  to  ring 

For  matins  in  the  half -awakened  towns. 

The  conflict  of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
The  ideal  and  the  actual  in  our  life, 

As  on  a  field  of  battle  held  me  fast, 

Where  this  world   and  the   next  world 
were  at  strife. 

For,  as  the  valley  from  its  sleep  awoke, 
I  saw  the  iron  horses  of  the  steam 

Toss  to  the  morning  air  their  plumes  of 

smoke, 
And  woke,  as  one  awaketh  from  a  dream. 


AMALFI 

SWEET  the  memory  is  to  me 

Of  a  land  beyond  the  sea, 

Where  the  waves  and  mountains  meet, 

Where  amid  her  mulberry-trees 

Sits  Amalfi  in  the  heat, 

Bathing  ever  her  white  feet 

In  the  tideless  summer  seas. 

In  the  middle  of  the  town, 

From  its  fountains  in  the  hills, 

Tumbling  through  the  narrow  gorge, 

The  Canneto  rushes  down, 

Turns  the  great  wheels  of  the  mills, 

Lifts  the  hammers  of  the  forge. 

'T  is  a  stairway,  not  a  street, 
That  ascends  the  deep  ravine, 


THE    SERMON   OF    ST.    FRANCIS 


327 


Where  the  torrent  leaps  between 
Rocky  walls  that  almost  meet. 
Toiling  up  from  stair  to  stair 
Peasant  girls  their  burdens  bear  ; 
Sunburnt  daughters  of  the  soil, 
Stately  figures  tall  and  straight, 
What  inexorable  fate 
Dooms  them  to  this  life  of  toil  ? 

Lord  of  vineyards  and  of  lands, 
Far  above  the  convent  stands. 
On  its  terraced  walk  aloof 
Leans  a  monk  with  folded  hands. 
Placid,  satisfied,  serene, 
Looking  down  upon  the  scene 
Over  wall  and  red-tiled  roof  ; 
Wondering  unto  what  good  end 
All  this  toil  and  traffic  tend, 
And  why  all  men  cannot  be 
Free  from  care  and  free  from  pain, 
And  the  sordid  love  of  gain, 
And  as  indolent  as  he. 

Where  are  now  the  freighted  barks 
From  the  marts  of  east  and  west  ? 
Where  the  knights  in  iron  sarks 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land, 
Glove  of  steel  upon  the  hand, 
Cross  of  crimson  on  the  breast  ? 
Where  the  pomp  of  camp  and  court  ? 
Where  the  pilgrims  with  their  prayers  ? 
Where  the  merchants  with  their  wares, 
And  their  gallant  brigantines 
Sailing  safely  into  port 
Chased  by  corsair  Algerines  ? 

Vanished  like  a  fleet  of  cloud, 
Like  a  passing  trumpet-blast, 
Are  those  splendors  of  the  past, 
And  the  commerce  and  the  crowd ! 
Fathoms  deep  beneath  the  seas 
Lie  the  ancient  wharves  and  quays, 
Swallowed  by  the  engulfing  waves  ; 
Silent  streets  and  vacant  hails, 
Ruined  roofs  and  towers  and  walls  ; 
Hidden  from  all  mortal  eyes 
Deep  the  sunken  city  lies  : 
Even  cities  have  their  graves  ! 

This  is  an  enchanted  land  ! 
Round  the  headlands  far  away 
Sweeps  the  blue  Salernian  bay 
With  its  sickle  of  white  sand  : 
Further  still  and  furthermost 
On  the  dim  discovered  coast 


Psestum  with  its  ruins  lies, 
And  its  roses  all  in  bloom 
Seem  to  tinge  the  fatal  skies 
Of  that  lonely  land  of  doom. 

On  his  terrace,  high  in  air, 
Nothing  doth  the  good  monk  care 
For  such  worldly  themes  as  these. 
From  the  garden  just  below 
Little  puft's  of  perfume  blow, 
And  a  sound  is  in  his  ears 
Of  the  murmur  of  the  bees 
In  the  shining  chestnut  trees  ; 
Nothing  else  he  heeds  or  hears. 
All  the  landscape  seems  to  swoon 
In  the  happy  afternoon  ; 
Slowly  o'er  his  senses  creep 
The  encroaching  waves  of  sleep, 
And  he  sinks  as  sank  the  town, 
Unresisting,  fathoms  down, 
Into  caverns  cool  and  deep  ! 

Walled  about  with  drifts  of  snow, 
Hearing  the  fierce  north-wind  blow, 
Seeing  all  the  landscape  white 
And  the  river  cased  in  ice, 
Comes  this  memory  of  delight, 
Comes  this  vision  unto  me 
Of  a  long-lost  Paradise 
In  the  land  beyond  the  sea. 


THE   SERMON    OF    ST.   FRANCIS 

UP  soared  the  lark  into  the  air, 
A  shaft  of  song,  a  winged  prayer, 
As  if  a  soul  released  from  pain 
Were  flying  back  to  heaven  again. 

St.  Francis  heard  :  it  was  to  him 
An  emblem  of  the  Seraphim  ; 
The  upward  motion  of  the  fire, 
The  light,  the  heat,  the  heart's  desire. 

Around  Assisi's  convent  gate 

The  birds,  God's  poor  who  cannot  wait, 

From    moor     and    mere     and     darksome 

wood 
Come  flocking  for  their  dole  of  food. 

"O  brother  birds,"  St.  Francis  said, 
"  Ye  come  to  me  and  ask  for  bread, 
But  not  with  bread  alone  to-day 
Shall  ye  be  fed  and  sent  away. 


328 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


"  Ye  shall  be  fed,  ye  happy  birds, 

With  manna  of  celestial  words  ; 

Not  mine,  though  mine  they  seem  to  be, 

Not  mine,  though  they  be  spoken  through  me. 

"  Oh,  doubly  are  ye  bound  to  praise 
The  great  Creator  in  your  lays  ; 
He  giveth  you  your  plumes  of  down, 
Your  crimson  hoods,  your  cloaks  of  brown. 

"  He  giveth  you  your  wings  to  fly 
And  breathe  a  purer  air  on  high, 
And  careth  for  you  everywhere, 
Who  for  yourselves  so  little  care  !  " 

With  flutter  of  swift  wings  and  songs 
Together  rose  the  feathered  throngs, 
And  singing  scattered  far  apart  ; 
Deep  peace  was  in  St.  Francis'  heart. 

He  knew  not  if  the  brotherhood 
His  homily  had  understood  ; 
He  only  knew  that  to  one  ear 
The  meaning  of  his  words  was  clear. 


BELISARIUS 

I  AM  poor  and  old  and  blind  ; 
The  sun  burns  me,  and  the  wind 

Blows  through  the  city  gate, 
And  covers  me  with  dust 
From  the  wheels  of  the  august 

Justinian  the  Great. 

It  was  for  him  I  chased 

The  Persians  o'er  wild  and  waste, 

As  General  of  the  East ; 
Night  after  night  I  lay 
In  their  camps  of  yesterday  ; 

Their  forage  was  my  feast. 

For  him,  with  sails  of  red, 
And  torches  at  mast-head, 

Piloting  the  great  fleet, 
I  swept  the  Afric  coasts 
And  scattered  the  Vandal  hosts, 

Like  dust  in  a  windy  street. 

For  him  I  won  again 

The  Ausonian  realm  and  reign, 

Rome  and  Parthenope  ; 
And  all  the  land  was  mine 
From  the  summits  of  Apennine 

To  the  shores  of  either  sea. 


For  him,  in  my  feeble  age, 
I  dared  the  battle's  rage, 

To  save  Byzantium's  state, 
When  the  tents  of  Zabergan 
Like  snow-drifts  overran 

The  road  to  the  Golden  Gate. 

And  for  this,  for  this,  behold  1 
Infirm  and  blind  and  old, 

With  gray,  uncovered  head, 
Beneath  the  very  arch 
Of  my  triumphal  march, 

I  stand  and  beg  my  bread  1 

Methinks  I  still  can  hear, 
Sounding  distinct  and  near, 

The  Vandal  monarch's  cry, 
As,  captive  and  disgraced, 
With  majestic  step  he  paced, — 

"  All,  all  is  Vanity  ! " 

Ah  !  vainest  of  all  things 
Is  the  gratitude  of  kings  ; 

The  plaudits  of  the  crowd 
Are  but  the  clatter  of  feet 
At  midnight  in  the  street, 

Hollow  and  restless  and  loud. 

But  the  bitterest  disgrace 
Is  to  see  forever  the  face 
Of  the  Monk  of  Ephesus  ! 
The  unconquerable  will 
This,  too,  can  bear  ;  —  I  still 
Am  Belisarius  ! 


SONGO  RIVER 

Songo  River  is  a  winding  stream  which  connects  Lake 
Sebago  with  Long  Lake  in  Cumberland  County,  Maine. 
Among  the  early  literary  plans  of  Mr.  Longfellow  was 
one  for  a  prose  tale,  the  scene  of  which  wnstobelaid 
near  Lake  Sebago.  This  poem  was  written  September 
18,  1875,  after  a  visit  to  the  river  in  the  summer  then 
closing. 

NOWHERE  such  a  devious  stream, 

Save  in  fancy  or  in  dream, 

Winding     slow     through     bush    and 

brake, 
Links  together  lake  and  lake. 

Walled  with  woods  or  sandy  shelf, 
Ever  doubling  on  itself 
Flows  the  stream,  so  still  and  slow 
That  it  hardly  seems  to  flow. 


KfiRAMOS 


329 


Never  errant  knight  of  old, 
Lost  in  woodland  or  on  wold, 
Such  a  winding  path  pursued. 
Through  the  sylvan  solitude. 

Never  school-boy,  in  his  quest 
.After  hazel-nut  or  nest, 
Through  the  forest  in  and  out 
Wandered  loitering  thus  about. 

In  the  mirror  of  its  tide 
Tangled  thickets  on  each  side 
Hang  inverted,  and  between 
Floating  cloud  or  sky  serene. 

Swift  or  swallow  on  the  wing 
Seems  the  only  living  thing, 
Or  the  loon,  that  laughs  and  flies 
Down  to  those  reflected  skies. 

Silent  stream  !  thy  Indian  Eame 
Unfamiliar  is  to  fame  ; 


For  thou  hidest  here  alone, 
Well  content  to  be  unknown. 

But  thy  tranquil  waters  teach 
Wisdom  deep  as  human  speech, 
Moving  without  haste  or  noise 
In  unbroken  equipoise. 

Though  thou  turnest  no  busy  mill, 
And  art  ever  calm  and  still, 
Even  thy  silence  seems  to  say 
To  the  traveller  on  his  way  :  — 

'  Traveller,  hurrying  from  the  heat 
Of  the  city,  stay  thy  feet ! 
Rest  awhile,  nor  longer  waste 
Life  with  inconsiderate  haste  ! 

;  Be  not  like  a  stream  that  brawls 
Loud  with  shallow  waterfalls, 
But  in  quiet  self-control 
Link  together  soul  and  soul." 


KERAMOS 


Turn,  turn,  my  wheel  /      Turn  round  and 

round 
Without  a  pause,  without  a  sound  : 

So  spins  the  flying  world  away  ! 
This  clay,  well  mixed  with  marl  and  sand, 
Follows  the  motion  of  my  hand  ; 
For  some  must  follow,  and  some  command, 

Though  all  are  made  of  clay  I 

Thus  sang  the  Potter  at  his  task 

Beneath  the  blossoming  hawthorn-tree, 

While  o'er  his  features,  like  a  mask, 

The  quilted  sunshine  and  leaf-shade 

Moved,  as  the  boughs  above  him  swayed, 

And  clothed  him,  till  he  seemed  to  be 

A.  figure  woven  in  tapestry, 

So  sumptuously  was  he  arrayed 

In  that  magnificent  attire 

Of  sable  tissue  flaked  with  fire. 

Like  a  magician  he  appeared, 

A  conjurer  without  book  or  beard  ; 

And  wkile  he  plied  his  magic  art  — 

For  it  was  magical  to  me  — 

I  stood  in  silence  and  apart, 

And  wondered  more  and  more  to  see 

That  shapeless,  lifeless  mass  of  clay 

Rise  up  to  meet  the  master's  hand, 

And  now  contract  and  now  expand, 

And  even  his  slightest  touch  obey  ; 


While  ever  in  a  thoughtful  mood 
He  sang  his  ditty,  and  at  times 
Whistled  a  tune  between  the  rhymes, 
As  a  melodious  interlude. 

Turn ,  turn,  my  wheel  I   A II  things  must  change 
To  something  new,  to  something  strange  j 

Nothing  that  is  can  pause  or  stay  j 
The  moon  will  ivax,  the  moon  will  wane, 
The  mist  and  cloud  ivill  turn  to  rain, 
The  rain  to  mist  and  cloud  again, 

To-morrow  be  to-day. 

Thus  still  the  Potter  sang,  and  still, 
By  some  unconscious  act  of  will, 
The  melody  and  even  the  words 
Were  intermingled  with  my  thought, 
As  bits  of  colored  thread  are  caught 
And  woven  into  nests  of  birds. 
And  thus  to  regions  far  remote, 
Beyond  the  ocean's  vast  expanse, 
This  wizard  in  the  motley  coat 
Transported  me  on  wings  of  song, 
And  by  the  northern  shores  of  France 
Bore  me  with  restless  speed  along. 

What  land  is  this  that  seems  to  be 

A  mingling  of  the  land  and  sea  ? 

This  land  of  sluices,  dikes,  and  dunes  ? 


330 


K£RAMOS 


This  water-net,  that  tessellates 

The  landscape  ?  this  unending  maze 

Of  gardens,  through  whose  latticed  gates 

The  imprisoned  pinks  and  tulips  gaze  ; 

Where  in  long  summer  afternoons 

The  sunshine,  softened  by  the  haze, 

Comes  streaming  down  as  through  a  screen  ; 

Where  over  fields  and  pastures  green 

The  painted  ships  float  high  in  air, 

And  over  all  and  everywhere 

The  sails  of  windmMls  sink  and  soar 

Like  wings  of  sea-gulls  on  the  shore  ? 

What  land  is  this  ?     Yon  pretty  town 
Is  Delft,  with  all  its  wares  displayed  ; 
The  pride,  the  market-place,  the  crown 
And  centre  of  the  Potter's  trade. 
See  !  every  house  and  room  is  bright 
With  glimmers  of  reflected  light 
From  plates  that  on  the  dresser  shine  ; 
Flagons  to  foam  with  Flemish  beer, 
Or  sparkle  with  the  Rhenish  wine, 
And  pilgrim  flasks  with  fleurs-de-lis, 
And  ships  upon  a  rolling  sea, 
And  tankards  pewter  topped,  and  queer 
With  comic  mask  and  musketeer  ! 
Each  hospitable  chimney  smiles 
A  welcome  from  its  painted  tiles  ; 
The  parlor  walls,  the  chamber  floors, 
The  stairways  and  the  corridors, 
The  borders  of  the  garden  walks, 
Are  beautiful  with  fadeless  flowers, 
That  never  droop  in  winds  or  showers, 
And  never  wither  on  their  stalks. 

Turn,  turn,  my  wheel !     All  life  is  brief j 
What  now  is  bud  ivill  soon  be  leaf, 

What  now  is  leaf  will  soon  decay  ; 
The  wind  blows  east,  the  wind  bloivs  west  • 
The  blue  eggs  in  the  robin's  nest 
Will  soon  have  wings  find  beak  and  breast, 

And  flutter  and  fly  away. 

Now  southward  through  the  air  I  glide, 
The  song  my  only  pursuivant, 
And  see  across  the  landscape  wide 
The  blue  Charente,  upon  whose  tide 
The  belfries  and  the  spires  of  Saintes 
Ripple  and  rock  from  side  to  side, 
As,  when  an  earthquake  rends  its  walls, 
A  crumbling  city  reels  and  falls. 

Who  is  it  in  the  suburbs  here, 
This  Potter,  working  with  such  cheer, 
In  this  mean  house,  this  mean  attire, 
His  manly  features  bronzed  with  fire, 


Whose  figulines  and  rustic  wares 
Scarce  find  him  bread  from  day  to  day  ? 
This  madman,  as  the  people  say, 
Who  breaks  his  tables  and  his  chairs 
To  feed  his  furnace  fires,  nor  cares 
Who  goes  unfed  if  they  are  fed, 
Nor  who  may  live  if  they  are  dead  ? 
This  alchemist  with  hollow  cheeks 
And  sunken,  searching  eyes,  who  seeks, 
By  mingled  earths  and  ores  combined 
With  potency  of  fire,  to  find 
Some  new  enamel,  hard  and  bright, 
His  dream,  his  passion,  his  delight  ? 

0  Palissy  !  within  thy  breast 
Burned  the  hot  fever  of  unrest ; 
Thine  was  the  prophet's  vision,  thine 
The  exultation,  the  divine 
Insanity  of  noble  minds, 

That  never  falters  nor  abates, 
But  labors  and  endures  and  waits, 
Till  all  that  it  foresees  it  finds, 
Or  what  it  cannot  find  creates  ! 

Turn,  turn,  my  ivheel  !     This  earthen  Jar 
A  touch  can  make,  a  touch  can  mar  ; 

And  shall  it  to  the  Potter  say, 
What  makest  thou  ?     Thou  hast  no  hand  ? 
As  men  who  think  to  understand 
A  world  by  their  Creator  planned, 

Who  iviser  is  than  they. 

Still  guided  by  the  dreamy  song, 

As  in  a  trance  I  float  along 

Above  the  Pyrenean  chain, 

Above  the  fields  and  farms  of  Spain, 

Above  the  bright  Majorcan  isle 

That  lends  its  softened  name-to  art,  — 

A  spot,  a  dot  upon  the  chart, 

Whose  little  towns,  red-roofed  with  tile, 

Are  ruby-lustred  with  the  light 

Of  blazing  furnaces  by  night, 

And  crowned  by  day  with  wreaths  of  smoke. 

Then  eastward,  wafted  in  my  flight 

On  my  enchanter's  magic  cloak, 

1  sail  across  the  Tyrrhene  Sea 
Into  the  land  of  Italy, 

And  o'er  the  windy  Apennines, 
Mantled  and  musical  with  pines. 

The  palaces,  the  princely  halls, 
The  doors  of  houses  and  the  walls 
Of  churches  and  of  belfry  towers, 
Cloister  and  castle,  street  and  mart, 
Are  garlanded  and  gay  with  flowers 
That  blossom  in  the  fields  of  art. 


KERAMOS 


Here  Gubbio's  workshops  gleam  and  glow 
With  brilliant,  iridescent  dyes, 
The  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  snow, 
The  cobalt  blue  of  summer  skies  ; 
And  vase  and  scutcheon,  cup  and  plate, 
In  perfect  finish  emulate 
Faenza,  Florence,  Pesaro. 

Forth  from  Urbino's  gate  there  came 

A  youth  with  the  angelic  name 

Of  Raphael,  in  form  and  face 

Himself  angelic,  and  divine 

In  arts  of  color  and  design. 

From  him  Francesco  Xanto  caught 

Something  of  his  transcendent  grace, 

And  into  fictile  fabrics  wrought 

Suggestions  of  the  master's  thought. 

Nor  less  Maestro  Giorgio  shines 

With  madre-perl  and  golden  lines 

Of  arabesques,  and  interweaves 

His  birds  and  fruits  and  flowers  and  leaves 

About  some  landscape,  shaded  brown, 

With  olive  tints  on  rock  and  town. 


Behold  this  cup  within  whose  bowl, 
Upon  a  ground  of  deepest  blue 
With  yellow-lustred  stars  o'erlaid, 
Colors  of  every  tint  and  hue 
Mingle  in  one  harmonious  whole  ! 
With  large  blue  eyes  and  steadfast  gaze, 
Her  yellow  hair  in  net  and  braid, 
Necklace  and  ear-rings  all  ablaze 
With  golden  lustre  o'er  the  glaze, 
A  woman's  portrait  ;  on  the  scroll, 
Cana,  the  Beautiful  !     A  name 
Forgotten  save  for  such  brief  fame 
As  this  memorial  can  bestow,  — 
A  gift  some  lover  long  ago 
Gave  with  his  heart  to  this  fair  dame. 

A  nobler  title  to  renown 
Is  thine,  O  pleasant  Tuscan  town, 
Seated  beside  the  Arno's  stream  ; 
For  Luca  della  Robbia  there 
Created  forms  so  wondrous  fair, 
They  made  thy  sovereignty  supreme. 
These  choristers  with  lips  of  stone, 
Whose  music  is  not  heard,  but  seen, 
Still  chant,  as  from  their  organ-screen, 
Their  Maker's  praise  ;  nor  these  alone, 
But  the  more  fragile  forms  of  clay, 
Hardly  less  beautiful  than  they, 
These  saints  and  angels  that  adorn 
The  walls  of  hospitals,  and  tell 
The  story  of  good  deeds  so  well 


That  poverty  seems  less  forlorn, 
And  life  more  like  a  holiday. 

Here  in  this  old  neglected  church, 
That  long  eludes  the  traveller's  search, 
Lies  the  dead  bishop  on  his  tomb  ; 
Earth  upon  earth  he  slumbering  lies, 
Life-like  and  death-like  in  the  gloom  ; 
Garlands  of  fruit  and  flowers  in  bloom. 
And  foliage  deck  his  resting-place  ; 
A  shadow  in  the  sightless  eyes, 
A  pallor  on  the  patient  face, 
Made  perfect  by  the  furnace  heat ; 
All  earthly  passions  and  desires 
Burnt  out  by  purgatorial  fires  ; 
Seeming  to  say,  "  Our  years  are  fleet, 
And  to  the  weary  death  is  sweet." 

But  the  most  wonderful  of  all 

The  ornaments  on  tomb  or  wall 

That  grace  the  fair  Ausonian  shores 

Are  those  the  faithful  earth  restores, 

Near  some  Apulian  town  concealed, 

In  vineyard  or  in  harvest  field,  — 

Vases  and  urns  and  bas-reliefs, 

Memorials  of  forgotten  griefs, 

Or  records  of  heroic  deeds 

Of  demigods  and  mighty  chiefs  : 

Figures  that  almost  move  and  speak, 

And,  buried  amid  mould  and  weeds, 

Still  in  their  attitudes  attest 

The  presence  of  the  graceful  Greek,  — 

Achilles  in  his  armor  dressed, 

Alcides  with  fhe  Cretan  bull, 

And  Aphrodite  with  her  boy, 

Or  lovely  Helena  of  Troy, 

Still  living  and  still  beautiful. 

Turn,  turn,  my  wheel!    'Tis  nature's  plan 
The  child  should  grow  into  the  man, 

The  man  grow  wrinkled,  old,  and  gray  • 
In  youth  the  heart  exults  and  sings, 
The  pulses  leap,  the  feet  have  wings; 
In  age  the  cricket  chirps,  and  brings 

The  harvest-home  of  day. 

And  now  the  winds  that  southward  blow, 
And  cool  the  hot  Sicilian  isle, 
Bear  me  away.     I  see  below 
The  long  line  of  the  Libyan  Nile, 
Flooding  and  feeding  the  parched  lands 
With  annual  ebb  and  overflow, 
A  fallen  palm  whose  branches  lie 
Beneath  the  Abyssinian  sky, 
Whose  roots  are  in  Egyptian  sands. 


332 


K£RAMOS 


On  either  bank  huge  water-wheels, 
Belted  with  jars  and  dripping  weeds, 
Send  forth  their  melancholy  moans, 
As  if,  in  their  gray  mantles  hid, 
Dead  anchorites  of  the  Thebaid 
Knelt  on  the  shore  and  told  their  beads, 
Beating  their  breasts  with  loud  appeals 
And  penitential  tears  and  groans. 

This  city,  walled  and  thickly  set 
With  glittering  mosque  and  minaret, 
Is  Cairo,  in  whose  gay  bazaars 
The  dreaming  traveller  first  inhales 
The  perfume  of  Arabian  gales, 
And  sees  the  fabulous  earthen  jars, 
Huge  as  were  those  wherein  the  maid 
Morgiana  found  the  Forty  Thieves 
Concealed  in  midnight  ambuscade  ; 
And  seeing,  more  than  half  believes 
The  fascinating  tales  that  run 
Through  all  the  Thousand  Nights  and  One, 
Told  by  the  fair  Scheherezade. 

More  strange  and  wonderful  than  these 

Are  the  Egyptian  deities, 

Ammou,  and  Emeth,  and  the  grand 

Osiris,  holding  in  his  hand 

The  lotus  ;  Isis,  crowned  and  veiled  ; 

The  sacred  Ibis,  and  the  Sphinx  ; 

Bracelets  with  blue  enamelled  links  ; 

The  Scarabee  in  emerald  mailed, 

Or  spreading  wide  his  funeral  wings  ; 

Lamps    that    perchance  their  night-watch 

kept 

O'er  Cleopatra  while  she  slept,  — 
All  plundered  from  the  tombs  of  kings. 

Turn,  turn,  my  wheel  I     The  human  race, 
Of  every  tongue,  of  every  place, 

Caucasian,  Coptic,  or  Malay,    -. 
All  that  inhabit  this  great  earth, 
Whatever  be  their  rank  or  worth, 
Are  kindred  and  allied  by  birth, 

And  made  of  the  same  clay. 

O'er  desert  sands,  o'er  gulf  and  bay, 
O'er  Ganges  and  o'er  Himalay, 
Bird-like  I  fly,  and  flying  sing, 
To  flowery  kingdoms  of  Cathay, 
And  bird-like  poise  on  balanced  wing 
Above  the  town  of  King-te-tching, 
A  burning  town,  or  seeming  so,  — 
Three  thousand  furnaces  that  glow 
Incessantly,  and  fill  the  air 
With  smoke  uprising,  gyre  on  gyre, 


And  painted  by  the  lurid  glare, 
Of  jets  and  flashes  of  red  fire. 

As  leaves  that  in  the  autumn  fall, 
Spotted  and  veined  with  various  hues, 
Are  swept  along  the  avenues, 
And  lie  in  heaps  by  hedge  and  wall, 
So  from  this  grove  of  chimneys  whirled 
To  all  the  markets  of  the  world, 
These  porcelain  leaves  are  wafted  on, 
Light  yellow  leaves  with  spots  and  stains 
Of  violet  and  of  crimson  dye, 
Or  tender  azure  of  a  sky 
Just  washed  by  gentle  April  rains, 
And  beautiful  with  celadon. 

Nor  less  the  coarser  household  wares, 
The  willow  pattern,  that  we  knew 
In  childhood,  with  its  bridge  of  blue 
Leading  to  unknown  thoroughfares  ; 
The  solitary  man  who  stares 
At  the  white  river  flowing  through 
Its  arches,  the  fantastic  trees 
And  wild  perspective  of  the  view  ; 
And  intermingled  among  these 
The  tiles  that  in  our  nurseries 
Filled  us  with  wonder  and  delight, 
Or  haunted  us  in  dreams  at  night. 

And  yonder  by  Nankin,  behold  ! 
The  Tower  of  Porcelain,  strange  and  old, 
Uplifting  to  the  astonished  skies 
Its  ninefold  painted  balconies, 
With  balustrades  of  twining  leaves, 
And  roofs  of  tile,  beneath  whose  eaves 
Hang  porcelain  bells  that  all  the  time 
Ring  with  a  soft,  melodious  chime  ; 
While  the  whole  fabric  is  ablaze 
With  varied  tints,  all  fused  in  one 
Great  mass  of  color,  like  a  maze 
Of  flowers  illumined  by  the  sun. 

Turn,  turn,  my  wheel  I     What  is  begun 
At  daybreak  must  at  dark  be  done, 

To-morrow  will  be  another  day  ; 
To-morrow  the  hot  furnace  flame 
Will  search  the  heart  and  try  the  frame. 
And  stamp  with  honor  or  with  shame 

These  vtssels  made  of  clay. 

Cradled  and  rocked  in  Eastern  seas, 
The  islands  of  the  Japanese 
Beneath  me  lie  ;  o'er  lake  and  plain 
The  stork,  the  heron,  and  the  crane 
Through  the  clear  realms  of  azure  drift, 


THE   HERONS   OF   ELMWOOD 


333 


And  on  the  hillside  I  can  see 

The  villages  of  Imari, 

Whose   thronged   and   flaming  workshops 

lift 

Their  twisted  columns  of  smoke  on  high, 
Cloud  cloisters  that  in  ruins  lie, 
With  sunshine  streaming  through  each  rift, 
And  broken  arches  of  blue  sky. 

All  the  bright  flowers  that  fill  the  land, 

Ripple  of  waves  on  rock  or  sand, 

The  snow  on  Fusiyama's  cone, 

The  midnight  heaven  so  thickly  sown 

With  constellations  of  bright  stars, 

The  leaves  that  rustle,  the  reeds  that  make 

A  whisper  by  each  stream  and  lake, 

The  saffron  dawn,  the  sunset  red, 

Are  painted  on  these  lovely  jars  ; 

Again  the  skylark  sings,  again 

The  stork,  the  heron,  and  the  crane 

Float  through  the  azure  overhead, 

The  counterfeit  and  counterpart 

Of  Nature  reproduced  in  Art. 

Art  is  the  child  of  Nature  ;  yes, 
Her  darling  child,  in  whom  we  trace 
The  features  of  the  mother's  face, 
Her  aspect  and  her  attitude  ; 
All  her  majestic  loveliness 
Chastened  and  softened  and  subdued 
Into  a  more  attractive  grace, 
And  with  a  human  sense  imbued. 


He  is  the  greatest  artist,  then, 

Whether  of  pencil  or  of  pen, 

Who  follows  Nature.     Never  man, 

As  artist  or  as  artisan, 

Pursuing  his  own  fantasies, 

Can  touch  the  human  heart,  or  please, 

Or  satisfy  our  nobler  needs, 

As  he  who  sets  his  willing  feet 

In  Nature's  footprints,  light  and  fleet, 

And  follows  fearless  where  she  leads. 

Thus  mused  I  on  that  morn  in  May, 
Wrapped  in  my  visions  like  the  Seer, 
Whose  eyes  behold  not  what  is  near, 
But  only  what  is  far  away, 
When,  suddenly  sounding  peal  on  peal, 
The    church  -  bell    from   the   neighboring 

town 

Proclaimed  the  welcome  hour  of  noon. 
The  Potter  heard,  and  stopped  his  wheel, 
His  apron  on  the  grass  threw  down, 
Whistled  his  quiet  little  tune, 
Not  overloud  nor  overlong, 
And  ended  thus  his  simple  song  : 

Stop,  stop,  my  wheel !     Too  soon,  too  soon 
The  noon  will  be  the  afternoon, 

Too  soon  to-day  be  yesterday  ; 
Behind  us  in  our  path  we  cast 
The  broken  potsherds  of  the  past, 
And  all  are  ground  to  dust  at 

And  trodden  into  clay! 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


FLIGHT   THE   FIFTH 


Collected  in  the  volume  entitled  Keramos  and  other  Poems,  1878.    Elmwood,  in  the  first  poem,  \vas  the  home 
of  James  Russell  Lowell. 

Call  to  him,  herons,  as  slowly  you  pass 
To  your  roosts  in  the  haunts  of  the  exiled 

thrushes, 

Sing  him  the  song  of  the  green  morass, 
And  the  tides  that  water  the  reeds  and 
rushes. 

Sing  him  the  mystical  Song  of  the  Hern, 
And  the  secret  that  baffles  our   utmost 

seeking  ; 

For    only    a    sound    of    lament    we    dis 
cern, 

And  cannot  interpret  the  words  you  are 
:ing. 


THE   HERONS    OF   ELMWOOD 

WARM  and  still  is  the  summer  night, 
As  here  by  tl  e  river's  brink  I  wander  ; 

White  overhead  are  the  stars,  and  white 
The   glimmering   lamps   on  the  hillside 
yonder. 

Silent  are  all  the  sounds  of  day  ; 

Nothing  I  hear  but  the  chirp  of  crickets, 
And  the  cry  of  the  herons  winging  their  way 

O'er  the  poet's  house  in  the  Elmwood 
thickets. 


334 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


Sing  of  the  air,  and  the  wild  delight 

Of  wings  that  uplift  and  winds  that  up 
hold  you, 

The  joy  of  freedom,  the  rapture  of  flight 
Through  the  drift  of  the  floating  mists 
that  infold  you  ; 

Of  the  landscape  lying  so  far  below, 

With   its  towns  and   rivers   and  desert 

places  ; 
And  the  splendor  of  light  above,  and  the 

glow 
Of  the  limitless,  blue,  ethereal  spaces. 

Ask  him  if  songs  of  the  Troubadours, 
Or  of  Minnesingers  in  old  black-letter, 

Sound  in  his  ears  more  sweet  than  yours, 
And  if  yours  are  not  sweeter  and  wilder 
and  better. 

Sing  to  him,  say  to  him,  here  at  his  gate, 
Where  the  boughs  of  the  stately  elms  are 

meeting, 
Some  one  hath  lingered  to  meditate, 

And  send  him  unseen  this  friendly  greet 
ing  ; 

That  many  another  hath  done  the  same, 
Though  not  by  a  sound  was  the  silence 

broken  ; 

The  surest  pledge  of  a  deathless  name 
Is   the   silent  homage   of  thoughts   un 
spoken. 


A   DUTCH    PICTURE 

SIMON  DANZ  has  come  home  again, 

From  cruising  about  with  his  buccaneers  ; 

He  has  singed   the  beard  of  the  King  of 
Spain, 

And  carried  away  the  Dean  of  Jaen 
And  sold  him  in  Algiers. 

In  his  house  by  the  Maese,  with  its  roof  of 
tiles, 

And  weathercocks  flying  aloft  in  air, 
There  are  silver  tankards  of  antique  styles, 
Plunder  of  convent  and  castle,  and  piles 

Of  carpets  rich  and  rare. 

In  his  tulip-garden  there  by  the  town, 
Overlooking  the  sluggish  stream, 


With  his  Moorish  cap  and  dressing-gown, 
The  old  sea-captain,  hale  and  brown, 
Walks  in  a  waking  dream. 

A  smile  in  his  gray  mustachio  lurks 

Whenever  he  thinks  of  the  King  of  Spain, 
And  the  listed  tulips  look  like  Turks, 
And  the  silent  gardener  as  he  works 
Is  changed  to  the  Dean  of  Jaen. 

The  windmills  on  the  outermost 

Verge  of  the  landscape  in  the  haze, 
To  him  are  towers  on  the  Spanish  coast, 
With  whiskered  sentinels  at  their  post, 
Though  this  is  the  river  Maese. 

But  when  the  winter  rains  begin, 

He  sits  and  smokes  by  the  blazing  brands, 

And  old  seafaring  men  come  in, 

Goat-bearded,  gray,  and  with  double  chin, 
And  rings  upon  their  hands. 

They  sit  there  in  the  shadow  and  shine 
Of  the  flickering  fire  of  the  winter  night ; 

Figures  in  color  and  design 

Like  those  by  Rembrandt  of  the  Rhine', 
Half  darkness  and  half  light. 

And  they  talk  of  ventures  lost  or  won, 
And  their  talk  is  ever  and  ever  the 

same, 

While  they  drink  the  red  wine  of  Tarragon, 
From  the  cellars  of  some  Spanish  Don, 
Or  convent  set  on  flame. 

Restless  at  times  with  heavy  strides 

He  paces  his  parlor  to  and  fro  ; 
He  is  like  a  ship  that  at  anchor  rides, 
And   swings   with   the   rising  and  falling 

tides, 
And  tugs  at  her  anchor-tow. 

Voices  mysterious  far  and  near, 

Sound  of  the  wind  and  sound  of  the  sea, 
Are  calling  and  whispering  in  his  ear, 
"  Simon  Danz  !     Why  stayest  thou  here  ? 

Come  forth  and  follow  me  !  " 

So  he  thinks  he  shall  take  to  the  sea  again 

For  one  more  cruise  with  his  buccaneers. 
To  singe  the  beard  of  the  King  of  Spain, 
And  capture  another  Dean  of  Jaen 
And  sell  him  in  Algiers. 


CASTLES   IN   SPAIN 


335 


CASTLES  IN  SPAIN 

How  much  of  my  young  heart,  O  Spain, 
Went  out  to  thee  in  days  of  yore  ! 

What  dreams  romantic  filled  my  brain, 

And  summoned  back  to  life  again 

The  Paladins  of  Charlemagne, 
The  Cid  Campeador  ! 

And  shapes  more  shadowy  than  these, 

In  the  dim  twilight  half  revealed  ; 
Phoenician  galleys  on  the  seas, 
The  Roman  camps  like  hives  of  bees, 
The  Goth  uplifting  from  his  knees 
Pelayo  on  his  shield. 

It  was  these  memories  perchance, 

From  annals  of  remotest  eld, 
That  lent  the  colors  of  romance 
To  every  trivial  circumstance, 
And  changed  the  form  and  countenance 

Of  all  that  I  beheld. 

Old  towns,  whose  history  lies  hid 
In  monkish  chronicle  or  rhyme,  — 

Burgos,  the  birthplace  of  the  Cid, 

Zamora  and  Valladolid, 

Toledo,  built  and  walled  amid 
The  wars  of  Wamba's  time  ; 

The  long,  straight  line  of  the  highway, 
The  distant  town  that  seems  so  near, 
The  peasants  in  the  fields,  that  stay 
Their  toil  to  cross  themselves  and  pray, 
When  from  the  belfry  at  midday 
The  Angelus  they  hear  ; 

White  crosses  in  the  mountain  pass, 

Mules  gay  with  tassels,  the  loud  din 
Of  muleteers,  the  tethered  ass 
That  crops  the  dusty  wayside  grass, 
And  cavaliers  with  spurs  of  brass 
Alighting  at  the  inn  ; 

White  hamlets  hidden  in  fields  of  wheat, 

White  cities  slumbering  by  the  sea, 
White  sunshine  flooding  square  and  street, 
Dark  mountain  ranges,  at  whose  feet 
The  river  beds  are  dry  with  heat,  — 
All  was  a  dream  to  me. 

Yet  something  sombre  and  severe 

O'er  the  enchanted  landscape  reigned  ; 
A  terror  in  the  atmosphere 


As  if  King  Philip  listened  near, 
Or  Torquemada,  the  austere, 
His  ghostly  sway  maintained. 

The  softer  Andalusian  skies 

Dispelled  the  sadness  and  the  gloom  ; 
There  Cadiz  by  the  seaside  lies, 
And  Seville's  orange-orchards  rise, 
Making  the  land  a  paradise 

Of  beauty  and  of  bloom. 

There  Cordova  is  hidden  among 

The  palm,  the  olive,  and  the  vine  ; 
Gem  of  the  South,  by  poets  sung, 
And  in  whose  mosque  Almanzor  hung 
As  lamps  the  bells  that  once  had  rung 
At  Compostella's  shrine. 

But  over  all  the  rest  supreme, 
The  star  of  stars,  the  cynosure, 

The  artist's  and  the  poet's  theme, 

The  young  man's  vision,   the    old   man's 
dream,  — 

Granada  by  its  winding  stream, 
The  city  of  the  Moor  ! 

And  there  the  Alhambra  still  recalls 

Aladdin's  palace  of  delight  : 
Allah  il  Allah  !  through  its  halls 
Whispers  the  fountain  as  it  falls, 
The  Darro  darts  beneath  its  walls, 

The  hills  with  snow  are  white. 

Ah  yes,  the  hills  are  white  with  snow, 
And   cold    with    blasts    that    bite    and 
freeze  ; 

But  in  the  happy  vale  below 

The  orange  and  pomegranate  grow, 

And  wafts  of  air  toss  to  and  fro 
The  blossoming  almond  trees. 

The  Vega  cleft  by  the  Xenil, 

The  fascination  and  allure 
Of  the  sweet  landscape  chains  the  will ; 
The  traveller  lingers  on  the  hill, 
His  parted  lips  are  breathing  still 

The  last  sigh  of  the  Moor. 

How  like  a  ruin  overgrown 

With    flowers    that    hide    the    rents    of 

time, 

Stands  now  the  Past  that  I  have  known  ; 
Castles  in  Spain,  not  built  of  stone 
But  of  white  summer  clouds,  and  blown 

Into  this  little  mist  of  rhyme  ! 


336 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


VITTORIA   COLONNA 

Vittoria  Colonna,  on  the  death  of  her  husband,  the 
Marchese  di  Pescara,  letired  to  her  castle  at  Ischia 
(Inarime'),  and  there  wrote  the  Ode  upon  his  death 
which  gained  her  the  title  of  Divine.  H.  W.  L. 

ONCE  more,  once  more,  Inarime*, 
I  see  thy  purple  halls  !  —  once  more 

I  hear  the  billows  of  the  bay 

Wash  the  white  pebbles  on  thy  shore. 

High  o'er  the  sea-surge  and  the  sands, 
Like  a  great  galleon  wrecked  and  cast 

Ashore  by  storms,  thy  castle  stands, 
A  mouldering  landmark  of  the  Past. 

Upon  its  terrace-walk  I  see 
A  phantom  gliding  to  and  fro  ; 

It  is  Colonna,  —  it  is  she 

Who  lived  and  loved  so  long  ago. 

Pescara's  beautiful  young  wife, 
The  type  of  perfect  womanhood, 

Whose  life  was  love,  the  life  of  life, 

That  time  and  change  and  death  with 
stood. 

For  death,  that  breaks  the  marriage  band 

In  others,  only  closer  pressed 
The  wedding-ring  upon  her  hand 

And  closer  locked  and  barred  her  breast. 

She  knew  the  life-long  martyrdom, 
The  weariness,  the  endless  pain 

Of  waiting  for  some  one  to  come 
Who  nevermore  would  come  again. 

The  shadows  of  the  chestnut  trees, 
The  odor  of  the  orange  blooms, 

The  song  of  birds,  and,  more  than  these, 
The  silence  of  deserted  rooms  ; 

The  respiration  of  the  sea, 

The  soft  caresses  of  the  air, 
All  things  in  nature  seemed  to  be 

But  ministers  of  her  despair  ; 

Till  the  o'erburdened  heart,  so  long 
Imprisoned  in  itself,  found  vent 

And  voice  in  one  impassioned  song 
Of  inconsolable  lament. 

Then  as  the  sun,  though  hidden  from  sight, 
Transmutes  to  gold  the  leaden  mist, 


Her  life  was  interfused  with  light, 

From  realms  that,  though  unseen,  exist. 

Inarime' !  Inarime* ! 

Thy  castle  on  the  crags  above 
In  dust  shall  crumble  and  decay, 

But  not  the  memory  of  her  love. 


THE    REVENGE      OF    RAIN-IN- 
THE-FACE 

IN  that  desolate  land  and  lone, 
Where  the  Big  Horn  and  Yellowstone 

Roar  down  their  mountain  path, 
By  their  fires  the  Sioux  Chiefs 
Muttered  their  woes  and  griefs 

And  the  menace  of  their  wrath. 

"  Revenge  ! "  cried  Rain-in-the-Face, 
"  Revenge  upon  all  the  race 

Of  the  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair  !  " 
And  the  mountains  dark  and  high 
From  their  crags  reechoed  the  cry 

Of  his  anger  and  despair. 

In  the  meadow,  spreading  wide 
By  woodland  and  river-side 

The  Indian  village  stood  ; 
All  was  silent  as  a  dream, 
Save  the  rushing  of  the  stream 

And  the  blue-jay  in  the  wood. 

In  his  war  paint  and  his  beads, 
Like  a  bison  among  the  reeds, 
In  ambush  the  Sitting  Bull 
Lay  with  three  thousand  braves 
Crouched  in  the  clefts  and  caves, 
Savage,  unmerciful ! 

Into  the  fatal  snare 

The  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair 

And  his  three  hundred  men 
Dashed  headlong,  sword  in  hand  ; 
But  of  that  gallant  band 

Not  one  returned  again. 

The  sudden  darkness  of  death 
Overwhelmed  them  like  the  breath 

And  smoke  of  a  furnace  fire  : 
By  the  river's  bank,  and  between 
The  rocks  of  the  ravine, 

They  lay  in  their  bloody  attire. 


A   BALLAD   OF   THE   FRENCH    FLEET 


337 


But  the  foemen  fled  in  the  night, 
And  Rain-in-the-Face,  in  his  flight, 

Uplifted  high  in  air 
As  a  ghastly  trophy,  bore 
The  brave  heart,  that  beat  no  more, 

Of  the  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair. 

Whose  was  the  right  and  the  wrong  ? 
Sing  it,  O  funeral  song, 

With  a  voice  that  is  full  of  tears, 
And  say  that  our  broken  faith 
Wrought  all  this  ruin  and  scathe, 

In  the  Year  of  a  Hundred  Years. 


TO  THE  RIVER  YVETTE 

0  LOVELY  river  of  Yvette  ! 

O  darling  river  !  like  a  bride, 
Some  dimpled,  bashful,  fair  Lisette, 

Thou  goest  to  wed  the  Orge's  tide. 

Maincourt,  and  lordly  Dampierre, 
See  and  salute  thee  on  thy  way, 

And,  with  a  blessing  and  a  prayer, 
King  the  sweet  bells  of  St.  Forget. 

The  valley  of  Chevreuse  in  vain 

Would  hold  thee  in  its  fond  embrace  ; 

Thou  glidest  from  its  arms  again 
And  hurriest  on  with  swifter  pace. 

Thou  wilt  not  stay  ;  with  restless  feet, 
Pursuing  still  thine  onward  flight, 

Thou  goest  as  one  in  haste  to  meet 
Her  sole  desire,  her  heart's  delight. 

O  lovely  river  of  Yvette  ! 

O  darling  stream  !  on  balanced  wings 
The  wood-birds  sang  the  chansonnette 

That  here  a  wandering  poet  sings. 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GLOVE 


"  Combien  faudrait-il  de  peaux  d'Espagne  pour  faire 
un  gant  de  cette  grandeur  ?  "  A  play  upon  the  words 
gant,  a  glove,  and  Gand,  the  French  for  Ghent.  H.  W. 


ON  St.  Bavon's  tower,  commanding 

Half  of  Flanders,  his  domain, 
Charles  the  Emperor  once  was  standing, 
While  beneath  him  on  the  landing 
Stood  Duke  Alva  and  his  train. 


Like  a  print  in  books  of  fables, 

Or  a  model  made  for  show, 
With  its  pointed  roofs  and  gables, 
Dormer  windows,  scrolls  and  labels, 

Lay  the  city  far  below. 

Through  its  squares  and  streets  and  alleys 

Poured  the  populace  of  Ghent  ; 
As  a  routed  army  rallies, 
Or  as  rivers  run  through  valleys, 
Hurrying  to  their  homes  they  went. 

"  Nest  of  Lutheran  misbelievers  !  " 

Cried  Duke  Alva  as  he  gazed  ; 
"  Haunt  of  traitors  and  deceivers, 
Stronghold  of  insurgent  weavers, 
Let  it  to  the  ground  be  razed  !  " 

On  the  Emperor's  cap  the  feather 

Nods,  as  laughing  he  replies  : 
"  How  many  skins  of  Spanish  leather, 
Think  you,  would,  if  stitched  together, 
Make  a  glove  of  such  a  size  ?  " 


A   BALLAD   OF   THE    FRENCH 
FLEET 

OCTOBER,   1746 
MR.  THOMAS  PRINCE  loquitur 

Written  at  the  instance  of  the  Rev.  E.  E.  Hale,  when 
efforts  were  making  to  save  from  destruction  the  Old 
South  Meeting  House  in  Boston.  Mr.  Hale  sent  Mr. 
Longfellow  a  passage  out  of  Hutchiuson's  history,  and 
referred  him  to  Prince's  Thanksgiving  sermon,  given  at 
the  Old  South  in  1746. 

A  FLEET  with  flags  arrayed 

Sailed  from  the  port  of  Brest, 
And  the  Admiral's  ship  displayed 

The  signal  :  "  Steer  southwest." 
For  this  Admiral  D'Anville 

Had  sworn  by  cross  and  crown 
To  ravage  with  fire  and  steel 

Our  helpless  Boston  Town. 

There  were  rumors  in  the  street, 

In  the  houses  there  was  fear 
Of  the  coming  of  the  fleet, 

And  the  danger  hovering  near. 
And  while  from  mouth  to  mouth 

Spread  the  tidings  of  dismay, 
I  stood  in  the  Old  South, 

Saying  humbly  :  "  Let  us  pray  ! 


338 


BIRDS    OF   PASSAGE 


"  O  Lord  !  we  would  not  advise  ; 

But  if  in  thy  Providence 
A  tempest  should  arise 
To  drive  the  French  Fleet  hence, 
And  scatter  it  far  and  wide, 

Or  sink  it  in  the  sea, 
We  should  be  satisfied, 
And  thine  the  glory  be." 

This  was  the  prayer  I  made, 

For  my  soul  was  all  on  flame, 
And  even  as  I  prayed 

The  answering  tempest  came  ; 
It  came  with  a  mighty  power, 

Shaking  the  windows  and  walls, 
And  tolling  the  bell  in  the  tower, 

As  it  tolls  at  funerals. 

The  lightning  suddenly 

Unsheathed  its  flaming  sword, 
And  I  cried  :  "  Stand  still,  and  see 

The  salvation  of  the  Lord  !  " 
The  heavens  were  black  with  cloud, 

The  sea  was  white  with  hail, 
And  ever  more  tierce  and  loud 

Blew  the  October  gale. 

The  fleet  it  overtook, 

And  the  broad  sails  in  the  van 
Like  the  tents  of  Cushan  shook, 

Or  the  curtains  of  Midiau. 
Down  on  the  reeling  decks 

Crashed  the  o'erwhelming  seas  ; 
Ah,  never  were  there  wrecks 

So  pitiful  as  these  ! 

Like  a  potter's  vessel  broke 

The  great  ships  of  the  line  ; 
They  were  carried  away  as  a  smoke, 

Or  sank  like  lead  in  the  brine. 
O  Lord  !  before  thy  path 

They  vanished  and  ceased  to  be, 
When  thou  didst  walk  in  wrath 

With  thine  horses  through  the  sea  ! 


THE   LEAP    OF   ROUSHAN   BEG 

MOUNTED  on  Kyrat  strong  and  fleet, 
His  chestnut  steed  with  four  white  feet, 

Roushan  Beg,  called  Kurroglou, 
Son  of  the  road  and  bandit  chief, 
Seeking  refuge  and  relief, 

Up  the  mountain  pathway  flew. 


Such  was  Kyrat's  wondrous  speed, 
Never  yet  could  any  steed 

Reach  the  dust-cloud  in  his  course. 
More  than  maiden,  more  than  wife, 
More  than  gold  and  next  to  life 

Roushan  the  Robber  loved  his  horse. 

In  the  land  that  lies  beyond 
Erzeroum  and  Trebizond, 

Garden-girt  his  fortress  stood  ; 
Plundered  khan,  or  caravan 
Journeying  north  from  Koordistan, 

Gave  him  wealth  and  wine  and  food. 

Seven  hundred  and  fourscore 
Men  at  arms  his  livery  wore, 

Did  his  bidding  night  and  day  ; 
Now,  through  regions  all  unknown, 
He  was  wandering,  lost,  alone, 

Seeking  without  guide  his  way. 

Suddenly  the  pathway  ends, 
Sheer  the  precipice  descends, 

Loud  the  torrent  roars  unseen  ; 
Thirty  feet  from  side  to  side 
Yawns  the  chasm  ;  on  air  must  ride 

He  who  crosses  this  ravine. 

Following  close  in  his  pursuit, 
At  the  precipice's  foot 

Reyhan  the  Arab  of  Orfah 
Halted  with  his  hundred  men, 
Shouting  upward  from  the  glen, 

"  La  Illah  ilia  Allah  !  " 

Gently  Roushan  Beg  caressed 
Kyrat's  forehead,  neck,  and  breast ; 

Kissed  him  upon  both  his  eyes, 
Sang  to  him  in  his  wild  way, 
As  upon  the  topmost  spray 

Sings  a  bird  before  it  flies. 

"  O  my  Kyrat,  O  my  steed, 
Round  and  slender  as  a  reed, 

Carry  me  this  peril  through  ! 
Satin  housings  shall  be  thine, 
Shoes  of  gold,  O  Kyrat  mine, 

O  thou  soul  of  Kurroglou  ! 

"  Soft  thy  skin  as  silken  skein, 
Soft  as  woman's  hair  thy  mane, 

Tender  are  thine  eyes  and  true  ; 
All  thy  hoofs  like  ivory  shine, 
Polished  bright  ;  O  life  of  mine, 

Leap,  and  rescue  Kurroglou  !  " 


THE   THREE   KINGS 


339 


Kyrat,  then,  the  strong  and  fleet, 
Drew  together  his  four  white  feet, 

Paused  a  moment  on  the  verge, 
Measured  with  his  eye  the  space, 
And  into  the  air's  embrace 

Leaped  as  leaps  the  ocean  surge. 

As  the  ocean  surge  o'er  sand 
Bears  a  swimmer  safe  to  land, 

Kyrat  safe  his  rider  bore  ; 
Rattling  down  the  deep  abyss 
Fragments  of  the  precipice 

Rolled  like  pebbles  on  a  shore. 

Roushan's  tasselled  cap  of  red 
Trembled  not  upon  his  head, 

Careless  sat  he  and  upright  ; 
Neither  hand  nor  bridle  shook, 
Nor  his  head  he  turned  to  look, 

As  he  galloped  out  of  sight. 

Flash  of  harness  in  the  air, 
Seen  a  moment  like  the  glare 

Of  a  sword  drawn  from  its  sheath  ; 
Thus  the  phantom  horseman  passed, 
And  the  shadow  that  he  cast 

Leaped  the  cataract  underneath. 

Reyhan  the  Arab  held  his  breath 
While  this  vision  of  life  and  death 

Passed  above  him.     "  Allahu  !  " 
Cried  he.     "  In  all  Koordistan 
Lives  there  not  so  brave  a  man 

As  this  Robber  Kurroglou  ! " 


HAROUN   AL   RASCHID 

ONE  day,  Haroun  Al  Raschid  read 
A  book  wherein  the  poet  said  :  — 

"  Where  are  the  kings,  and  where  the  rest 
Of  those  who  once  the  world  possessed  ? 

"They  're  gone  with  all  their  pomp  and  show. 
They  're  gone  the  way  that  thou  shalt  go. 

"  O  thou  who  choosest  for  thy  share 
The  world,  and  what  the  world  calls  fair, 

"  Take  all  that  it  can  give  or  lend, 
But  know  that  death  is  at  the  end  !  " 

Haroun  Al  Raschid  bowed  his  head  : 
Tears  fell  upon  the  page  he  read. 


KING    TRISANKU 

VISWAMITRA  the  Magician, 

By  his  spells  and  incantations, 
Up  to  Indra's  realms  elysian 

Raised  Trisauku,  king  of  nations. 

Indra  and  the  gods  offended 

Hurled  him  downward,  and  descending 
In  the  air  he  hung  suspended, 

With  these  equal  powers  contending. 

Thus  by  aspirations  lifted, 

By  misgivings  downward  driven, 

Human  hearts  are  tossed  and  drifted 
Midway  between  earth  and  heaven. 

A  WRAITH    IN   THE   MIST 

"  Sir,  I  should  build  me  a  fortification,  if  I  came  to 
live  here."  —  BOSWELL'S  Johnson. 

ON  the  green  little  isle  of  Inchkenneth, 
Who  is  it  that  walks  by  the  shore, 

So  gay  with  his  Highland  blue  bonnet, 
So  brave  with  his  targe  and  claymore  ? 

His  form  is  the  form  of  a  giant, 

But  his  face  wears  an  aspect  of  pain  ; 

Can  this  be  the  Laird  of  Inchkenneth  ? 
Can  this  be  Sir  Allan  McLean  ? 

Ah,  no  !     It  is  only  the  Rambler, 
The  Idler,  who  lives  in  Bolt  Court, 

And  who  says,  were  he  Laird  of  Inchkenneth, 
He  would  wall  himself  round  with  a  fort. 


THE   THREE   KINGS 

THREE  Kings  came  riding  from  far  away, 

Melchior  and  Gaspar  and  Baltasar  ; 
Three  Wise  Men  out  of  the  East  were  they, 
And  they  travelled  by  night  and  they  slept 

by  day, 

For  their  guide  was  a  beautiful,  wonder- 
ful  star. 

The  star  was  so  beautiful,  large,  and  clear, 

That  all  the  other  stars  of  the  sky 
Became  a  white  mist  in  the  atmosphere, 
And  by  this  they  knew  that  the  coming  was 

near 
Of  the  Prince  foretold  in  the  prophecy. 


340 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 


Three  caskets  they  bore  oil  their   saddle 
bows, 

Three  caskets  of  gold  with  golden  keys  ; 
Their  robes  were  of  crimson  silk  with  rows 
Of  bells  and  pomegranates  and  furbelows, 
Their  turbans  like   blossoming  almond- 
trees. 

And  so  the  Three  Kings  rode  into  the  West, 
Through  the  dusk  of  night,  over  hill  and 

dell, 
And  sometimes  they  nodded  with  beard  on 

breast, 
And  sometimes  talked,  as  they  paused  to 

rest, 

With  the  people  they  met  at  some  way 
side  well. 

"  Of  the  child  that  is  born,"  said  Baltasar, 
"Good  people,  I  pray  you,  tell  us   the 

news  ; 

For  we  in  the  East  have  seen  his  star, 
And  have  ridden  fast,  and  have  ridden  far, 
To  find   and    worship  the   King   of  the 
Jews." 

And  the  people  answered, "  You  ask  in  vain  ; 
We   know   of   no   king  but   Herod   the 

Great  ! " 

They  thought  the  Wise  Men  were  men  in 
sane, 
As  they  spurred   their   horses   across   the 

plain, 

Like   riders   in   haste,  and   who   cannot 
wait. 

And  when  they  came  to  Jerusalem, 

Herod   the  Great,  who   had   heard   this 

thing, 
Sent   for   the    Wise   Men   and   questioned 

them  ; 

And  said,  "  Go  down  unto  Bethlehem, 
And  bring  me  tidings  of  this  new  king." 

So  they  rode  away  ;  and  the  star  stood  still, 
The  only  one  in  the  gray  of  morn  ; 

Yes,  it  stopped,  —  it  stood  still  of  its  own 
free  will, 

Right  over  Bethlehem  on  the  hill, 

The  city  of  David,  where  Christ  was  born. 

And  the  Three  Kings  rode  through  the  gate 

and  the  guard, 

Through  the  silent  street,  till  their  horses 
turned 


And  neighed  as  they  entered  the  great  inn- 
yard  ; 

But    the   windows   were   closed,   and    the 

doors  were  barred, 
And  only  a  light  in  the  stable  burned. 

And  cradled  there  in  the  scented  hay, 
In  the  air  made  sweet  by  the  breath  of 

kine, 

The  little  child  in  the  manger  lay, 
The  child,  that  would  be  king  one  day 
Of  a  kingdom  not  human  but  divine. 

His  mother  Mary  of  Nazareth 

Sat  watching  beside  his  place  of  rest, 
Watching  the  even  flow  of  his  breath, 
For  the  joy  of  life  and  the  terror  of  death 
Were  mingled  together  in  her  breast. 

They  laid  their  offerings  at  his  feet : 

The  gold  was  their  tribute  to  a  King, 
The  frankincense,  with  its  odor  sweet, 
Was  for  the  Priest,  the  Paraclete, 
The  myrrh  for  the  body's  burying. 

And-  the  mother  wondered  and  bowed  her 

head, 

And  sat  as  still  as  a  statue  of  stone  ; 
Her  heart  was  troubled  yet  comforted, 
Remembering  what  the  Angel  had  said 
Of    an    endless    reign    and    of    David's 
throne. 

Then  the  Kings  rode  out  of  the  city  gate, 
With  a  clatter  of  hoofs  in  proud  array  ; 
But  they  went  not  back  to  Herod  the  Great, 
For  they  knew  his  malice  and  feared    his 

hate, 

And  returned  to  their  homes  by  another 
way. 


SONG 

STAY,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest ; 
Home-keeping  hearts  are  happiest, 
For  those  that  wander  they  know  not  where 
Are  full  of  trouble  and  full  of  care  ; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Weary  and  homesick  and  distressed, 
They  wander  east,  they  wander  west, 
And  are  baffled  and  beaten  and  blown  about 
By  the  winds  of  the  wilderness  of  doubt  ; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 


ULTIMA  THULE 


Then  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest ; 
The  bird  is  safest  in  its  nest  ; 
O'er  all  that  flutter  their  wings  and  fly 
A  hawk  is  hovering  in  the  sky  ; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 


THE   WHITE    CZAR 

The  White  Czar  is  Peter  the  Great.  Batyushka, 
Father  dear,  and  Gosudar,  Sovereign,  are  titles  the 
Russian  people  are  fond  of  giving  to  the  Czar  in  their 
popular  songs.  H.  W.  L. 

DOST  thou  see  on  the  rampart's  height 
That  wreath  of  mist,  in  the  light 
Of  the  midnight  moon  ?     Oh,  hist ! 
It  is  not  a  wreath  of  mist  ; 
It  is  the  Czar,  the  White  Czar, 
Batyushka  !     Gosudar  ! 

He  has  heard,  among  the  dead, 
The  artillery  roll  o'erhead  ; 
The  drums  and  the  tramp  of  feet 
Of  his  soldiery  in  the  street ; 
He  is  awake  !  the  White  Czar, 
Batyushka  !     Gosudar  ! 

He  has  heard  in  the  grave  the  cries 
Of  his  people  :  "  Awake  !  arise  !  " 
He  has  rent  the  gold  brocade 
Whereof  his  shroud  was  made  ; 
He  is  risen  !  the  White  Czar, 
Batyushka  !     Gosudar  ! 

From  the  Volga  and  the  Don 
He  has  led  his  armies  on, 
Over  river  and  morass, 
Over  desert  and  mountain  pass  ; 
The  Czar,  the  Orthodox  Czar, 
Batyushka !     Gosudar  ! 


He  looks  from  the  mountain-chain 
Toward  the  seas,  that  cleave  in  twain 
The  continents  ;  his  hand 
Points  southward  o'er  the  land 
Of  Roumili  !     O  Czar, 

Batyushka  !     Gosudar  ! 

And  the  words  break  from  his  lips  : 
"  I  am  the  builder  of  ships, 
And  my  ships  shall  sail  these  seas 
To  the  Pillars  of  Hercules  ! 
I  say  it  ;  the  White  Czar, 
Batyushka  !     Gosudar  ! 

"  The  Bosphorus  shall  be  free  ; 
It  shall  make  room  for  me  ; 
And  the  gates  of  its  water-streets 
Be  unbarred  before  my  fleets. 
I  say  it  ;  the  White  Czar, 
Batyushka  !  Gosudar  ! 

"  And  the  Christian  shall  no  more 
Be  crushed,  as  heretofore, 
Beneath  thine  iron  rule, 

0  Sultan  of  Istamboul  ! 

1  swear  it  !     I  the  Czar, 

Batyushka  !     Gosudar  !  " 


DELIA 

SWEET  as  the  tender  fragrance  that  sur 
vives, 
When  martyred  flowers  breathe  out  their 

little  lives, 

Sweet  as  a  song  that  once  consoled  our  pain, 
But  never  will  be  sung  to  us  again, 
Is   thy   remembrance.     Now   the    hour  of 

rest 

Hath  come  to  thee.     Sleep,  darling  ;  it  is 
best. 


ULTIMA  THULE 


The  collection  of  poems  under  this  title  was  published 
in  1880.  The  volume  bore  on  the  title-page  these  lines 
from  Horace  (Lib.  I.,  Carmen  XXX.,  Ad  Apollinem)  :  — 

Precor,  Integra" 

Cum  mente,  nee  turpem  senectam 
Degere,  nee  cithara"  carentem. 


The  dedication  is  to  his  life-long  friend,  George  Wash 
ington  Greene,  who  himself  dedicated  his  Life  of  Na~ 
thanael  Greene  to  Mr.  Longfellow  in  words  which  give 
a  glowing  picture  of  the  aspirations  of  the  two  in  the 
days  of  their  young  manhood. 


342 


ULTIMA  THULE 


DEDICATION 

TO    G.    W.    G. 

WITH  favoring  winds,  o'er  sunlit  seas, 
We  sailed  for  the  Hesperides, 
The  land  where  golden  apples  grow  ; 
But  that,  ah  !  that  was  long  ago. 

How  far  since  then  the  ocean  streams 
Have  swept  us  from  that  land  of  dreams, 
That  land  of  fiction  and  of  truth, 
The  lost  Atlantis  of  our  youth  ! 

Whither,  ah,  whither  ?     Are  not  these 
The  tempest-haunted  Orcades, 
Where  sea-gulls  scream,  and  breakers  roar, 
And  wreck  and  sea-weed  line  the  shore  ? 

Ultima  Thule  !     Utmost  Isle  ! 
Here  in  thy  harbors  for  a  while 
We  lower  our  sails  ;  a  while  we  rest 
From  the  unending,  endless  quest. 


POEMS 
BAYARD  TAYLOR 

DEAD  he  lay  among  his  books  ! 
The  peace  of  God  was  in  his  looks. 

As  the  statues  in  the  p;loom 
Watch  o'er  Maximilian's  tomb, 

So  those  volumes  from  their  shelves 
Watched  him,  silent  as  themselves. 

Ah  !  his  hand  will  nevermore 
Turn  their  storied  pages  o'er  ; 

Nevermore  his  lips  repeat 
Songs  of  theirs,  however  sweet. 

Let  the  lifeless  body  rest ! 

He  is  gone,  who  was  its  guest  ; 

Gone,  as  travellers  haste  to  leave 
An  inn,  nor  tarry  until  eve. 

Traveller  !  in  what  realms  afar, 
In  what  planet,  in  what  star, 

In  what  vast,  aerial  space, 
Shines  the  light  upon  thy  face  ? 


In  what  gardens  of  delight 
Rest  thy  weary  feet  to-night  ? 

Poet  !  thou,  whose  latest  verse 
Was  a  garland  on  thy  hearse  ; 

Thou  hast  sung,  with  organ  tone, 
In  Deukalion's  life,  thine  own  ; 

On  the  ruins  of  the  Past 
Blooms  the  perfect  flower  at  last. 

Friend  !  but  yesterday  the  bells 
Rang  for  thee  their  loud  farewells  ; 

And  to-day  they  toll  for  thee, 
Lying  dead  beyond  the  sea  ; 

Lying  dead  among  thy  books, 
The  peace  of  God  in  all  thy  looks ! 


THE  CHAMBER  OVER  THE  GATE 

"Written  October  30,  1878.  Suggested  to  the  poet 
when  writing  a  letter  of  condolence  to  the  Bishop  oi 
Mississippi,  whose  son,  the  Rev.  Duncan  C.  Green,  had 
died  at  his  post  at  Greenville,  Mississippi,  Septembei 
15,  during  the  prevalence  of  yellow  fever. 

Is  it  so  far  from  thee 
Thou  canst  no  longer  see, 
In  the  Chamber  over  the  Gate, 
That  old  man  desolate, 
Weeping  and  wailing  sore 
For  his  son,  who  is  no  more  ? 
O  Absalom,  my  son  ! 

Is  it  so  long  ago 
That  cry  of  human  woe 
From  the  walled  city  came, 
Calling  on  his  dear  name, 
That  it  has  died  away 
In  the  distance  of  to-day  ? 
O  Absalom,  my  sou  I 

There  is  no  far  or  near, 
There  is  neither  there  nor  here, 
There  is  neither  soon  nor  late, 
In  that  Chamber  over  the  Gate, 
Nor  any  long  ago 
To  that  cry  of  human  woe, 
O  Absalom,  my  son  ! 

From  the  ages  that  are  past 
The  voice  sounds  like  a  blast, 


FROM   MY  ARM-CHAIR 


343 


Over  seas  that  wreck  and  drown, 
Over  tumult  of  traffic  and  town  ; 
And  from  ages  yet  to  be 
Come  the  echoes  back  to  me, 
O  Absalom,  my  son  ! 

Somewhere  at  every  hour 
The  watchman  on  the  tower 
Looks  forth,  and  sees  the  fleet 
Approach  of  the  hurrying  feet 
Of  messengers,  that  bear 
The  tidings  of  despair. 
O  Absalom,  my  son  ! 

He  goes  forth  from  the  door, 
Who  shall  return  no  more. 
With  him  our  joy  departs  ; 
The  light  goes  out  in  our  hearts  ; 
In  the  Chamber  over  the  Gate 
We  sit  disconsolate. 
O  Absalom,  my  son  ! 

That  't  is  a  common  grief 
Bringeth  but  slight  relief  ; 
Ours  is  the  bitterest  loss, 
Ours  is  the  heaviest  cross  ; 
And  forever  the  cry  will  be 
"  Would  God  I  had  died  for  thee, 
O  Absalom,  my  son  !  " 

FROM  MY  ARM-CHAIR 

TO    THE   CHILDREN    OF    CAMBRIDGE 

WHO  PRESENTED  TO  ME,  ON  MY  SEVENTY- 
SECOND  BIRTHDAY,  FEBRUARY  27,  1879,  THIS 
CHAIR  MADE  FROM  THE  WOOD  OF  THE  VIL 
LAGE  BLACKSMITH'S  CHESTNUT  TREE. 

Mr.  Longfellow  had  this  poem,  which  he  wrote  on  the 
same  day,  printed  on  a  sheet,  and  was  accustomed  to  give 
a  copy  to  each  child  who  visited  him  and  sat  in  the  chair. 

AM  I  a  king,  that  I  should  call  my  own 

This  splendid  ebon  throne  ? 
Or  by  what  reason,  or  what  right  divine, 

Can  I  proclaim  it  mine  ? 

Only,  perhaps,  by  right  divine  of  song 

.    It  may  to  me  belong  ; 
Only  because  the  spreading  chestnut  tree 
Of  old  was  sung  by  me. 

Well  I  remember  it  in  all  its  prime, 

When  in  the  summer-time 
The  affluent  foliage  of  its  branches  made 

A  cavern  of  cool  shade. 


There,   by  the   blacksmith's  forge,    beside 
the  street, 

Its  blossoms  white  and  sweet 
Enticed  the  bees,  until  it  seemed  alive, 

And  murmured  like  a  hive. 

And  when  the  winds  of  autumn,  with   a 

shout, 

Tossed  its  great  arms  about, 
The  shining  chestnuts,   bursting  from  the 

sheath, 
Dropped  to  the  ground  beneath. 

And  now  some  fragments  of  its  branches 

bare, 

Shaped  as  a  stately  chair, 
Have  by  my  hearthstone  found  a  home  at 

last, 
And  whisper  of  the  past. 

The  Danish  king  could  not  in  all  his  pride 

Repel  the  ocean  tide, 
But,  seated  in  this  chair,  I  can  in  rhyme 

Roll  back  the  tide  of  Time. 

I  see  again,  as  one  in  vision  sees, 

The  blossoms  and  the  bees, 
And  hear  the  children's  voices  shout  and 
call, 

And  the  brown  chestnuts  fall. 

I  see  the  smithy  with  its  fires  aglow, 

I  hear  the  bellows  blow, 
And  the  shrill  hammers  on  the  anvil  beat 

The  iron  white  with  heat  ! 

And  thus,  dear  children,  have  ye  made  for 

me 

This  day  a  jubilee, 
And  to  my  more  than  threescore  years  and 

ten 
Brought  back  my  youth  again. 

The  heart  hath  its  own  memory,  like  the 

mind, 

And  in  it  are  enshrined 
The   precious    keepsakes,     into   which    is 

wrought 
The  giver's  loving  thought. 

Only  your  love  and  your  remembrance  could 

Give  life  to  this  dead  wood, 
And  make  these  branches,  leafless  now  so 
long, 

Blossom  again  in  song. 


344 


ULTIMA   THULE 


JUGURTHA 

How  cold  are  thy  baths,  Apollo  ! 

Cried  the  African  monarch,  the  splendid, 

As  down  to  his  death  in  the  hollow 

Dark  dungeons  of  Rome  he  descended, 
Uncrowned,  unthroned,  unattended  ; 

How  cold  are  thy  baths,  Apollo  ! 

How  cold  are  thy  baths,  Apollo  ! 

Cried  the  Poet,  unknown,  unbefriended, 

As  the  vision,  that  lured  him  to  follow, 
With  the  mist  and  the  darkness  blended, 
And  the  dream  of  his  life  was  ended  ; 

How  cold  are  thy  baths,  Apollo  ! 


THE  IRON  PEN 

Written  June  20,  1879.  The  pen  was  made  of  a  bit  of 
iron  from  the  prison  of  Bonuivard  at  Chillon  ;  the 
handle  of  wood  from  the  Frigate  Constitution,  and 
bound  with  a  circlet  of  gold,  inset  with  three  precious 
stones  from  Siberia,  Ceylon,  and  Maine.  It  was  a  gift 
from  Miss  Helen  Hamlin,  of  Bangor,  Maine. 

I  THOUGHT  this  Pen  would  arise 
From  the  casket  where  it  lies  — 
Of  itself  would  arise  and  write 
My  thanks  and  my  surprise. 

When  you  gave  it  me  under  the  pines, 
I  dreamed  these  gems  from  the  mines 

Of  Siberia,  Ceylon,  and  Maine 
Would  glimmer  as  thoughts  in  the  lines  ; 

That  this  iron  link  from  the  chain 
Of  Bonnivard  might  retain 

Some  verse  of  the  Poet  who  sang 
Of  the  prisoner  and  his  pain  ; 

That  this  wood  from  the  frigate's  mast 
Might  write  me  a  rhyme  at  last, 
As  it  used  to  write  on  the  sky 
The  song  of  the  sea  and  the  blast. 

But  motionless  as  I  wait, 
Like  a  Bishop  lying  in  state 

Lies  the  Pen,  with  its  mitre  of  gold, 
And  its  jewels  inviolate. 

Then  must  I  speak,  and  say 

That  the  light  of  that  summer  day 

In  the  garden  under  the  pines 
Shall  not  fade  and  pass  away. 


I  shall  see  you  standing  there, 
Caressed  by  the  fragrant  air, 

With  the  shadow  on  your  face, 
And  the  sunshine  on  your  hair. 

I  shall  hear  the  sweet  low  tone 
Of  a  voice  before  unknown, 

Saying,  "  This  is  from  me  to  you  — 
From  me,  and  to  you  alone." 

And  in  words  not  idle  and  vain 

I  shall  answer  and  thank  you  again 

For  the  gift,  and  the  grace  of  the  gift, 
O  beautiful  Helen  of  Maine  ! 

And  forever  this  gift  will  be 
As  a  blessing  from  you  to  me, 

As  a  drop  of  the  dew  of  your  youth 
On  the  leaves  of  an  aged  tree. 


ROBERT  BURNS 

I  SEE  amid  the  fields  of  Ayr 

A  ploughman,  who,  in  foul  and  fair, 

Sings  at  his  task 
So  clear,  we  know  not  if  it  is 
The  laverock's  song  we  hear,  or  his, 

Nor  care  to  ask. 

For  him  the  ploughing  of  those  fields 
A  more  ethereal  harvest  yields 

Than  sheaves  of  grain  ; 
Songs  flush  with  purple  bloom  the  rye, 
The  plover's  call,  the  curlew's  cry, 

Sing  in  his  brain. 

Touched  by  his  hand,  the  wayside  weed 
Becomes  a  flower  ;  the  lowliest  reed 

Beside  the  stream 

Is  clothed  with  beauty  ;  gorse  and  grass 
And  heather,  where  his  footsteps  pass, 

The  brighter  seem. 

He  sings  of  love,  whose  flame  illumes 
The  darkness  of  lone  cottage  rooms  ; 

He  feels  the  force, 
The  treacherous  undertow  and  stress 
Of  wayward  passions,  and  no  less 

The  keen  remorse. 

At  moments,  wrestling  with  his  fate, 
His  voice  is  harsh,  but  not  with  hate  ; 

The  brush- wood,  hung 
Above  the  tavern  door,  lets  fall 


ELEGIAC 


345 


Its  bitter  leaf,  its  drop  of  gall 
Upon  his  tongue. 

But  still  the  music  of  his  song 
Rises  o'er  all,  elate  and  strong  ; 

Its  master-chords 

Are  Manhood,  Freedom,  Brotherhood, 
Its  discords  but  an  interlude 

Between  the  words. 

And  then  to  die  so  young  and  leave 
Unfinished  what  he  might  achieve  ! 

Yet  better  sure 

Is  this,  than  wandering  up  and  down, 
An  old  man  in  a  country  town, 

Infirm  and  poor. 

For  now  he  haunts  his  native  land 
As  an  immortal  youth  ;  his  hand 

Guides  every  plough  ; 
He  sits  beside  each  ingle-nook, 
His  voice  is  in  each  rushing  brook, 

Each  rustling  bough. 

His  presence  haunts  this  room  to-night, 
A  form  of  mingled  mist  and  light 

From  that  far  coast. 
Welcome  beneath  this  roof  of  mine  ! 
Welcome  !  this  vacant  chair  is  thine, 

Dear  guest  and  ghost ! 


HELEN    OF   TYRE 

WHAT  phantom  is  this  that  appears 
Through  the  purple  mists  of  the  years, 

Itself  but  a  mist  like  these  ? 
A  woman  of  cloud  and  of  fire  ; 
It  is  she  ;  it  is  Helen  of  Tyre, 

The  town  in  the  midst  of  the  seas. 

O  Tyre  !  in  thy  crowded  streets 
The  phantom  appears  and  retreats, 

And  the  Israelites  that  sell 
Thy  lilies  and  lions  of  brass, 
Look  up  as  they  see  her  pass, 

And  murmur  "  Jezebel !  " 

Then  another  phantom  is  seen 
At  her  side,  in  a  gray  gabardine, 

With  beard  that  floats  to  his  waist ; 
It  is  Simon  Magus,  the  Seer  ; 
He  speaks,  and  she  pauses  to  hear 
The  words  he  utters  in  haste. 


He  says  :  "  From  this  evil  fame, 
From  this  life  of  sorrow  and  shame, 

I  will  lift  thee  and  make  thee  mine  ; 
Thou  hast  been  Queen  Candace, 
And  Helen  of  Troy,  and  shalt  be 

The  Intelligence  Divine  !  " 

Oh,  sweet  as  the  breath  of  morn, 
To  the  fallen  and  forlorn 

Are  whispered  words  of  praise  ; 
For  the  famished  heart  believes 
The  falsehood  that  tempts  and  deceives, 

And  the  promise  that  betrays. 

So  she  follows  from  land  to  land 
The  wizard's  beckoning  hand, 

As  a  leaf  is  blown  by  the  gust, 
Till  she  vanishes  into  night. 
O  reader,  stoop  down  and  write 

With  thy  finger  in  the  dust. 

O  town  in  the  midst  of  the  seas, 
With  thy  rafts  of  cedar  trees, 

Thy  merchandise  and  thy  ships, 
Thou,  too,  art  become  as  naught, 
A  phantom,  a  shadow,  a  thought, 

A  name  upon  men's  lips. 


ELEGIAC 

DARK  is  the  morning  with   mist  ;   in  the 

narrow  mouth  of  the  harbor 
Motionless  lies  the  sea,  under  its  curtain 

of  cloud  ; 
Dreamily  glimmer  the  sails  of  ships  on  the 

distant  horizon, 

Like  to  the  towers  of  a  town,  built  on 
the  verge  of  the  sea. 

Slowly  and  stately  and  still,  they  sail  forth 

into  the  ocean  ; 
With  them  sail  my  thoughts  over  the 

limitless  deep, 

Farther  and  farther  away,  borne  on  by  un 
satisfied  longings, 

Unto    Hesperian    isles,  unto    Ausonian 
shores. 

Now  they  have  vanished  away,  have  dis 
appeared  in  the  ocean  ; 
Sunk  are  the  towers  of  the  town  into  the 
depths  of  the  sea  ! 


346 


ULTIMA  THULE 


All  have  vanished  but  those  that,  moored 

in  the  neighboring  roadstead, 
Sailless  at  anchor  ride,  looming  so  large 
in  the  mist. 

Vanished,  too,  are  the  thoughts,  the  dim, 

unsatisfied  longings  ; 
Sunk  are  the  turrets  of  cloud  into  the 

ocean  of  dreams  ; 
While  in  a  haven  of  rest  my  heart  is  riding 

at  anchor, 

Held  by  the  chains  of  love,  held  by  the 
anchors  of  trust  ! 


OLD    ST.  DAVID'S    AT    RADNOR 

At  the  time  of  the  Centennial  Exhibition  at  Phila 
delphia  in  1876,  Mr.  Longfellow,  who  was  a  visitor, 
established  himself  with  his  family  at  Rosemont,  a  few 
miles  from  the  city,  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of 
which  is  the  old  church  of  St.  David's,  the  outgrowth  of 
an  English  mission  of  Queen  Anne's  time. 

WHAT  an  image  of  peace  and  rest 

Is  this  little  church  among  its  graves  ! 
All  is  so  quiet  ;  the  troubled  breast, 
The  wounded  spirit,  the  heart  oppressed, 
Here  may  find  the  repose  it  craves. 

See,  how  the  ivy  climbs  and  expands 

Over  this  humble  hermitage, 
And  seems  to  caress  with  its  little  hands 
The   rough,  gray   stones,  as   a   child   that 
stands 

Caressing  the  wrinkled  cheeks  of  age  ! 

You  cross  the  threshold  ;  and  dim  and  small 
Is  the    space  that  serves  for   the  Shep 
herd's  Fold  ; 

The  narrow  aisle,  the  bare,  white  wall, 
The  pews,  and  the  pulpit  quaint  and  tall, 
Whisper  and  say  :   "  Alas  !  we  are  old." 

Herbert's  chapel  at  Bemerton 

Hardly  more  spacious  is  than  this  ; 
But  poet  and  pastor,  blent  in  one, 
Clothed  with  a  splendor,  as  of  the  sun, 
That  lowly  and  holy  edifice. 

It  is  not  the  wall  o-f  stone  without 

That  makes  the  building  small  or  great, 
But  the  soul's  light  shining  round  about, 
And  the  faith  that  overcometh  doubt, 
And  the  love  that  stronger  is  than  hate. 


Were  I  a  pilgrim  in  search  of  peace, 
Were  I  a  pastor  of  Holy  Church, 

More  than  a  Bishop's  diocese 

Should  I  prize  this  place  of  rest  and  re 
lease 
From  further  longing  and  further  search. 

(Here  would  I  stay,  and  let  the  world 

With    its     distant    thunder     roar     and 

roll; 

Storms  do  not  rend  the  sail  that  is  furled  ; 
Nor  like  a  dead  leaf,  tossed  and  whirled 
In  an  eddy  of  wind,  is  the  anchored  soul.  \ 


FOLK-SONGS 
THE   SIFTING   OF    PETER 

IN  St.  Luke's  Gospel  we  are  told 
How  Peter  in  the  days  of  old 

Was  sifted  ; 

And  now,  though  ages  intervene, 
Sin  is  the  samo,  while  time  and  scene 

Are  shifted. 

Satan  desires  us,  great  and  small, 
As  wheat  to  sift  us,  and  we  all 

Are  tempted  ; 

Not  one,  however  rich  or  great, 
Is  by  his  station  or  estate 

Exempted. 

No  house  so  safely  guarded  is 
But  he,  by  some  device  of  his, 

Can  enter  ; 

No  heart  hath  armor  so  complete 
But  he  can  pierce  with  arrows  fleet 

Its  centre. 

For  all  at  last  the  cock  will  crow, 
Who  hear  the  warning  voice,  but  go 

Unheeding, 

Till  thrice  and  more  they  have  denied 
The  Man  of  Sorrows,  crucified 

And  bleeding. 

One  look  of  that  pale,  suffering  face 
Will  make  us  feel  the  deep  disgrace 

Of  weakness  ; 

We  shall  be  sifted  till  the  strength 
Of  self-conceit  be  changed  at  length 

To  meekness. 


THE   TIDE   RISES,   THE   TIDE   FALLS 


347 


Wounds  of  the  soul,  though  healed,  will 

ache  ; 
The  reddening  scars  remain,  and  make 

Confession  ; 

Lost  innocence  returns  no  more  ; 
We  are  not  what  we  were  before 

Transgression. 

But  noble  souls,  through  dust  and  heat, 
Rise  from  disaster  and  defeat 

The  stronger  ; 

And  conscious  still  of  the  divine 
Within  them,  lie  on  earth  supine 

No  longer. 


MAIDEN     AND    WEATHERCOCK 

.   MAIDEN. 

0  WEATHERCOCK  on  the  village  spire, 
With  your  golden  feathers  all  on  tire, 
Tell   me,   what    can   you    see    from    your 

perch 
Above  there  over  the  tower  of  the  church? 

WEATHERCOCK. 

1  can  see  the  roofs  and  the  streets  below, 
And  the  people  moving  to  and  fro, 

And  beyond,  without  either  roof  or  street, 
The   great   salt   sea,   and   the   fishermen's 
fleet. 

I  can  see  a  ship  come  sailing  in 
Beyond  the  headlands  and  harbor  of  Lynn, 
And  a  young  man  standing  on  the  deck, 
With  a  silken  kerchief  round  his  neck. 


Now  he  is  pressing  it  to  his  lips, 
And  now  he  is  kissing  his  finger-tips, 
And    now   he   is   lifting    and   waving 

.  hand, 
And  blowing  the  kisses  toward  the  land. 


his 


MAIDEN. 

Ah,  that  is  the  ship  from  over  the  sea, 
That  is  bringing  my  lover  back  to  me, 
Bringing  my  lover  so  fond  and  true, 
Who  does  not  change  with  the  wind  like 
you. 

WEATHERCOCK. 

If  I  change  with  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
It  is  only  because  they  made  me  so, 
And  people  would  think  it  wondrous  strange, 
If  I,  a  Weathercock,  should  not  change. 


O  pretty  Maiden,  so  fine  and  fair, 

With  your  dreamy  eyes  and  your  golden 

hair, 

When  you  and  your  lover  meet  to-day 
You  will  thank  me  for  looking  some  other 

way. 


THE   WINDMILL 

BEHOLD  !  a  giant  am  I  ! 

Aloft  here  in  my  tower, 

With  my  granite  jaws  I  devour 

The  maize,  and  the  wheat,  and  the  rye, 
And  grind  them  into  flour. 

I  look  down  over  the  farms  ; 
In  the  fields  of  grain  I  see 
The  harvest  that  is  to  be, 

And  I  fling  to  the  air  my  arms, 
For  I  know  it  is  all  for  me. 

I  hear  the  sound  of  flails 

Far  off,  from  the  threshing-floors 
In  barns,  with  their  open  doors, 

And  the  wind,  the  wind  in  my  sails, 
Louder  and  louder  roars. 

1  stand  here  in  my  place, 

With  my  foot  on  the  rock  below, 
And  whichever  way  it  may  blow, 

I  meet  it  face  to  face 

As  a  brave  man  meets  his  foe. 

And  while  we  wrestle  and  strive, 
My  master,  the  miller,  stands 
And  feeds  me  with  his  hands  ; 

For  he  knows  who  makes  him  thrive, 
Who  makes  him  lord  of  lands. 

On  Sundays  I  take  my  rest  ; 
Church-going  bells  begin 
Their  low,  melodious  din  ; 

I  cross  my  arms  on  my  breast, 
And  all  is  peace  within. 


THE     TIDE     RISES,    THE     TIDE 
FALLS 

THE  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls, 
The  twilight  darkens,  the  curlew  calls  ; 
Along  the  sea-sands  damp  and  brown 
The  traveller  hastens  toward  the  town, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 


348 


ULTIMA   THULE 


Darkness  settles  on  roofs  and  walls, 

But  the  sea,  the  sea  in  the  darkness  calls  ; 

The    little    waves,   with   their    soft,  white 

hands, 

Efface  the  footprints  in  the  sands, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 

The   morning  breaks  ;  the  steeds  in  their 

stalls 

Stamp  and  neigh,  as  the  hostler  calls ; 
The  day  returns,  but  nevermore 
Returns  the  traveller  to  the  shore, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 


SONNETS 
MY   CATHEDRAL 

LIKE  two   cathedral  towers  these  stately 

pines 
Uplift  their  fretted  summits  tipped  with 

cones  ; 
The  arch  beneath  them  is  not  built  with 

stones, 
Not  Art  but  Nature  traced  these  lovely 

lines, 
And   carved    this    graceful    arabesque    of 

vines  ; 
No  organ  but  the  wind   here  sighs  and 

moans, 

No  sepulchre  conceals  a  martyr's  bones, 
No  marble  bishop  on  his  tomb  reclines. 
Enter  !  the  pavement,  carpeted  with  leaves, 
Gives  back  a  softened  echo  to  thy  tread  ! 
Listen  !  the  choir  is  singing  ;  all  the  birds, 
In  leafy  galleries  beneath  the  eaves, 

Are  singing !   listen,  ere  the  sound   be 

fled, 
And  learn  there  may  be  worship  without 

words. 


THE   BURIAL  OF   THE   POET 

RICHARD    HENRY    DANA 

IN  the  old  churchyard  of  his  native  town, 
And  in  the  ancestral   tomb   beside  the 

wall, 
We  laid  him  in  the  sleep  that  comes  to 

all, 

And  left  him   to   his   rest   and   his  re 
nown. 


The  snow  was  falling,  as  if  Heaven  dropped 

down 
White  flowers  of  Paradise  to  strew  his 

pall;  — 
The  dead  around  him  seemed  to  wake, 

and  call 

His  name,  as  worthy  of  so  white  a  crown. 
And  now    the    moon    is    shining    on    the 

scene, 
And  the  broad  sheet  of  snow  is  written 

o'er 

With  shadows  cruciform  of  leafless  trees, 
As  once  the  winding-sheet  of  Saladin 

With  chapters  of   the  Koran  ;  but,  ah ! 

more 
Mysterious    and    triumphant    signs  are 

these. 


NIGHT 

INTO  the  darkness  and  the  hush  of  night 
Slowly  the    landscape   sinks,  and   fades 

away, 

And  with  it  fade  the  phantoms  of  the  day, 
The  ghosts  of  men  and  things,  that  haunt 

the  light. 
The   crowd,  the   clamor,  the   pursuit,  the 

flight, 

The  unprofitable  splendor  and  display, 
The  agitations,  and  the  cares  that  prey 
Upon  our  hearts,  all  vanish  out  of  sight. 
The  better  life  begins  ;  the  world  no  more 
Molests  us  ;  all  its  records  we  erase 
From  the  dull  commonplace  book  of  our 

lives, 
That  like  a  palimpsest  is  written  o'er 

With  trivial  incidents  of  time  and  place, 
And  lo  !  the  ideal,  hidden  beneath,  revives.] 


L'ENVOI 
THE    POET   AND    HIS    SONGS 

As  the  birds  come  in  the  Spring, 
We  know  not  from  where  ; 

As  the  stars  come  at  evening 
From  depths  of  the  air  ; 

As  the  rain  comes  from  the  cloud, 
And  the  brook  from  the  ground  ; 

As  suddenly,  low  or  loud, 
Out  of  silence  a  sound  ; 


THE   POET'S    CALENDAR 


349 


As  the  grape  comes  to  the  vine, 
The  fruit  to  the  tree  ; 

As  the  wind  conies  to  the  pine, 
And  the  tide  to  the  sea ; 

As  come  the  white  sails  of  ships 
O'er  the  ocean's  verge  ; 

As  comes  the  smile  to  the  lips, 
The  foam  to  the  surge  ; 

So  come  to  the  Poet  his  songs, 
All  hither  ward  blown 


From  the  misty  realm,  that  belongs 
To  the  vast  Unknown. 

His,  and  not  his,  are  the  lays 
He  sings  ;  and  their  fame 

Is  his,  and  not  his  ;  and  the  praise 
And  the  pride  of  a  name. 

For  voices  pursue  him  by  day, 

And  haunt  him  by  night, 
And  he  listens,  and  needs  must  obey, 

When  the  Angel  says,  "  Write  I" 


IN   THE    HARBOR 


Shortly  after  Mr.  Longfellow's  death,  the  collection 
entitled  In  the  Harbor,  Ultima  Thule,  Part  //.,  was 
published,  bearing  upon  the  title-page  for  a  motto  the 


BECALMED 

BECALMED  upon  the  sea  of  Thought, 
Still  unattained  the  land  it  sought, 
My  mind,  with  loosely-hanging  sails, 
Lies  waiting  the  auspicious  gales. 

On  either  side,  behind,  before, 
The  ocean  stretches  like  a  floor,  — 
A  level  floor  of  amethyst, 
Crowned  by  a  golden  dome  of  mist. 

Blow,  breath  of  inspiration,  blow  ! 
Shake  and  uplift  this  golden  glow  ! 
And  fill  the  canvas  of  the  mind 
With  wafts  of  thy  celestial  wind. 

Blow,  breath  of  song  !  until  I  feel 
The  straining  sail,  the  lifting  keel, 
The  life  of  the  awakening  sea, 
Its  motion  and  its  mystery  ! 


THE   POET'S    CALENDAR 

JANUARY 

JANUS  am  I  ;  oldest  of  potentates ; 

Forward  I  look,  and  backward,  and  be 
low 
I  count,  as  god  of  avenues  and  gates, 

The  years  that  through  my  portals  come 
and  go. 


final  stanza  in  the  dedicatory  poem  which  introduces 
Ultima  Thule. 


I  block  the  roads,  and  drift  the  fields  with 

snow  ; 
I  chase  the  wild-fowl  from  the  frozen 

fen  ; 

My  frosts  congeal  the  rivers  in  their  flow, 
My  fires  light  up  the  hearths  and  hearts 
of  men. 


FEBRUARY 

I  am  lustration  ;    and  the  sea  is  mine  ! 
I  wash  the  sands  and  headlands  with  my 

tide  ; 
My  brow  is  crowned  with  branches  of  the 

pine  ; 
Before    my    chariot  -  wheels    the    fishes 

glide. 

By  me  all  things  unclean  are  purified, 
By  me  the   souls  of  men  washed  white 

again  ; 

E'en  the  unlovely  tombs  of  those  who  died 
Without  a  dirge,  I  cleanse  from  every 
stain. 

MARCH 

I  Martins  am  !      Once  first,  and  now  the 

third  ! 
To   lead   the    Year   was    my   appointed 

place  ; 

A  mortal  dispossessed  me  by  a  word, 
And  set   there   Janus   with  the   double 
face. 


IN   THE   HARBOR 


Hence  I  make  war  on  all  the  human  race  ; 

I  shake  the  cities  with  my  hurricanes  ; 
I  flood  the  rivers  and  their  banks  efface, 

And  drown  the  farms  and  hamlets  with 


my  rams. 


APRIL 


I  open  wide  the  portals  of  the  Spring 

To  welcome  the  procession  of  the  flowers, 
With  their  gay  banners,  and  the  birds  that 

sing 
Their  song  of   songs   from  their   aerial 

towers. 

I  soften  with  my  sunshine  and  my  showers 
The  heart  of  earth  ;   with   thoughts   of 

love  I  glide 
Into   the   hearts    of    men  ;    and  with   the 

Hours 

Upon  the  Bull  with  wreathed  horns   I 
ride. 

MAY 

Hark  !     The  sea-faring  wild-fowl  loud  pro 
claim 
My  coming,  and  the   swarming  of    the 

bees. 
These   are   my  heralds,   and   behold  !    my 

name 

Is  written  in  blossoms  on  the  hawthorn- 
trees. 

I  tell  the  mariner  when  to  sail  the  seas  ; 
I  waft  o'er  all  the  land  from  far  away 
The  breath  and  bloom  of  the  Hesperides, 
My  birthplace.    I  am  Maia.    I  am  May. 


JUNE 

Mine   is   the    Month   of   Roses  ;  yes,   and 

mine 
The  Month  of  Marriages  !     All  pleasant 

sights 
And  scents,  the  fragrance  of  the  blossoming 

vine, 
The    foliage    of    the    valleys    and    the 

heights. 
Mine  are  the   longest   days,    the  loveliest 

nights  ; 
The  mower's  scythe  makes  music  to  my 

ear  ; 

I  am  the  mother  of  all  dear  delights  ; 
I  am  the  fairest  daughter  of  the  year. 


JULY 

My  emblem  is  the  Lion,  and  I  breathe 
The  breath  of  Libyan  deserts  o'er  the 

land  ; 
My  sickle  as  a  sabre  I  unsheathe, 

And  bent  before  me  the  pale  harvests 

stand. 

The  lakes  and  rivers    shrink  at  my  com 
mand, 

And  there  is  thirst  and  fever  in  the  air  ; 
The  sky  is  changed  to  brass,  the  earth  to 

sand  ; 
I  am  the  Emperor  whose  name  I  bear. 


AUGUST 

The  Emperor  Octavian,  called  the  August, 

I  being  his  favorite,  bestowed  his  name 
Upon  me,  and  I  hold  it  still  in  trust, 

In  memory  of  him  and  of  his  fame. 
I  am  the  Virgin,  and  my  vestal  flame 

Burns    less    intensely   than    the    Lion's 

rage  ; 
Sheaves  are  my  only  garlands,  and  I  claim 

The  golden  Harvests  as  my  heritage. 


SEPTEMBER 

I  bear  the  Scales,  where  hang  in  equipoise 
The  night  and  day  ;  and  when  unto  my 

lips 

I  put  my  trumpet,  with  its  stress  and  noise 
Fly  the  white  clouds  like  tattered  sails 

of  ships  ; 
The  tree-tops   lash  the  air  with  sounding 

whips  ; 
Southward  the  clamorous  sea-fowl  wing 

their  flight  ; 

The  hedges  are  all  red  with  haws  and  hips, 
The  Hunter's   Moon   reigns   empress  of 
the  night. 

OCTOBER 

My   ornaments    are    fruits  ;  my   garments 

leaves, 
Woven  like  cloth  of  gold,  and  crimson 

dyed  ; 

I  do  not  boast  the  harvesting  of  sheaves, 
O'er  orchards  and  o'er  vineyards  I  pre 
side. 


VICTOR   AND  VANQUISHED 


35i 


Though  on  the  frigid  Scorpion  I  ride, 
Tne  dreamy  air  is  full,  and  overflows 

With  tender  memories  of  the  summer-tide, 
And  mingled  voices   of   the  doves  and 
crows. 

NOVEMBER 

The  Centaur,  Sagittarius,  am  I, 

Born  of  Ixion's  and  the  cloud's  embrace  ; 
With   sounding  hoofs   across   the  earth   I 

%> 

A  steed  Thessalian  with  a  human  face. 
Sharp  winds  the  arrows  are  with  which  I 

chase 
The     leaves,    half    dead    already    with 

affright  ; 

I  shroud  myself  in  gloom  ;  and  to  the  race 
Of  mortals  bring   nor  comfort  nor  de 
light. 

DECEMBER 

Riding   upon   the   Goat,    with   snow-white 

hair, 
I  come,  the  last  of  all.     This  crown  of 

mine 
Is  of  the  holly  ;  in  my  hand  I  bear 

The  thyrsus,  tipped  with  fragrant  cones 

of  pine. 
I  celebrate  the  birth  of  the  Divine, 

And  the  return  of  the  Saturniari  reign  ;  — 
My  songs  are  carols  sung  at  every  shrine, 
Proclaiming  "  Peace  on  earth,  good  will 
to  men." 


AUTUMN   WITHIN 

IT  is  autumn  ;  not  without, 
But  within  me  is  the  cold. 

Youth  and  spring  are  all  about  ; 
It  is  I  that  have  grown  old. 

Birds  are  darting  through  the  air, 
Singing,  building  without  rest ; 

Life  is  stirring  everywhere, 
Save  within  my  lonely  breast. 

There  is  silence  :  the  dead  leaves 
Fall  and  rustle  and  are  still  ; 

Beats  no  flail  upon  the  sheaves, 
Comes  no  murmur  from  the  mill. 


THE  FOUR  LAKES  OF  MADISON 

FOUR  limpid  lakes,  —  four  Naiades 
Or  sylvan  deities  are  these, 

In  flowing  robes  of  azure  dressed  ; 
Four  lovely  handmaids,  that  uphold 
Their  shining  mirrors,  rimmed  with  gold, 

To  the  fair  city  in  the  West. 

By  day  the  coursers  of  the  sun 
Drink  of  these  waters  as  they  run 

Their  swift  diurnal  round  on  high  j 
By  night  the  constellations  glow 
Far  down  the  hollow  deeps  below, 

And  glimmer  in  another  sky. 

Fair  lakes,  serene  and  full  of  light, 
Fair  town,  arrayed  in  robes  of  white, 

How  visionary  ye  appear  ! 
All  like  a  floating  landscape  seems 
In  cloud-land  or  the  laud  of  dreams, 

Bathed  in  a  golden  atmosphere  I 


VICTOR  AND  VANQUISHED 

>••"  ^ 

As  orfe   who  long  hath  fled  with  panting 

breath 
Before   his   foe,    bleeding   and    near  to 

fall, 
I   turn   and    set    my   back   against    the 

wall, 
And   look  thee  in  the  face,  triumphant 

Death. 
I  call  for  aid,  and  no  one  answereth  ; 

I  am   alone  with   thee,  who  conquerest 

all; 
Yet   me  thy  threatening  form  doth  not 

appall, 

For  thou  art  but  a  phantom  and  a.wraitk. 
Wounded  and  weak,  sword  broken  at  tne 

hilt, 
With   armor  shattered,  and    without   a 

shield, 
I  stand  unmoved  ;  do  with  me  what  thou 

wilt  ; 

I  can  resist  no  more,  but  will  not  yield. 
This   is   no   tournament  where    cowards 

tilt; 

The   vanquished   here   is   victor   of  the 
field. 


352 


IN   THE   HARBOR 


MOONLIGHT 

As  a  pale  phantom  with  a  lamp 
Ascends  some  ruin's  haunted  stair, 

So  glides  the  moon  along  the  damp 
Mysterious  chambers  of  the  air. 

Now  hidden  in  cloud,  and  now  revealed, 
As  if  this  phantom,  full  of  pain, 

Were  by  the  crumbling  walls  concealed, 
And  at  the  windows  seen  again. 

Until  at  last,  serene  and  proud 
In  all  the  splendor  of  her  light, 

She  walks  the  terraces  of  cloud, 
Supreme  as  Empress  of  the  Night. 

I  look,  but  recognize  no  more 

Objects  familiar  to  my  view  ; 
The  very  pathway  to  my  door 

Is  an  enchanted  avenue. 

All  things  are  changed.    One  mass  of  shade, 
The  elm-trees  drop  their  curtains  down  ; 

By  palace,  park,  and  colonnade 
I  walk  as  in  a  foreign  town. 

The  very  ground  beneath  my  feet 

Is  clothed  with  a  diviner  air  ; 
While  marble  paves  the  silent  street 

And  glimmers  in  the  empty  square. 

Illusion  !     Underneath  there  lies 
The  common  life  of  every  day  ; 

Only  the  spirit  glorifies 

With  its  own  tints  the  sober  gray. 

In  vain  we  look,  in  vain  uplift 

Our  eyes  to  heaven,  if  we  are  blind  ; 

We  see  but  what  we  have  the  gift 
Of  seeing  ;  what  we  bring  we  find. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  CRUSADE 

[A  FRAGMENT] 


WHAT  is  this  I  read  in  history, 
Full  of  marvel,  full  of  mystery, 
Difficult  to  understand  ? 
Is  it  fiction,  is  it  truth  ? 
Children  in  the  flower  of  youth, 


Heart  in  heart,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Ignorant  of  what  helps  or  harms, 
Without  armor,  without  arms, 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land  ! 

Who  shall  answer  or  divine  ? 
Never  since  the  world  was  made 
Such  a  wonderful  crusade 
Started  forth  for  Palestine. 
Never  while  the  world  shall  last 
Will  it  reproduce  the  past ; 
Never  will  it  see  again 
Such  an  army,  such  a  band, 
Over  mountain,  over  main, 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land. 

Like  a  shower  of  blossoms  blown 
From  the  parent  trees  were  they  ; 
Like  a  flock  of  birds  that  fly 
Through  the  unfrequented  sky, 
Holding  nothing  as  their  own, 
Passed  they  into  lands  unknown, 
Passed  to  suffer  and  to  die. 

O  the  simple,  child-like  trust ! 
O  the  faith  that  could  believe 
What  the  harnessed,  iron-mailed 
Knights  of  Christendom  had  failed, 
By  their  prowess,  to  achieve, 
They,  the  children,  could  and  must  ! 

Little  thought  the  Hermit,  preaching 

Holy  Wars  to  knight  and  baron, 

That  the  words  dropped  in  his  teaching, 

His  entreaty,  his  beseeching, 

Would  by  children's  hands  be  gleaned, 

And  the  staff  on  which  he  leaned 

Blossom  like  the  rod  of  Aaron. 

As  a  summer  wind  upheaves 

The  innumerable  leaves 

In  the  bosom  of  a  wood,  — 

Not  as  separate  leaves,  but  massed 

All  together  by  the  blast,  — 

So  for  evil  or  for  good 

His  resistless  breath  upheaved 

All  at  once  the  many-leaved, 

Many-thoughted  multitude. 

In  the  tumult  of  the  air 
Rock  the  boughs  with  all  the  nests 
Cradled  on  their  tossing  crests  ; 
By  the  fervor  of  his  prayer 
Troubled  hearts  were  everywhere 
Rocked  and  tossed  in  human  breasts. 


SUNDOWN 


353 


For  a  century,  at  least, 
His  prophetic  voice  had  ceased  ; 
But  the  air  was  heated  still 
By  his  lurid  words  and  will, 
As  from  fires  in  far-off  woods, 
In  the  autumn  of  the  year, 
An  unwonted  fever  broods 
In  the  sultry  atmosphere. 


In  Cologne  the  bells  were  ringing, 
In  Cologne  the  nuns  were  singing 
Hymns  and  canticles  divine  ; 
Loud  the  monks  sang  in  their  stalls, 
And  the  thronging  streets  were  loud 
With  the  voices  of  the  crowd  ;  — 
Underneath  the  city  walls 
Silent  flowed  the  river  Rhine. 

From  the  gates,  that  summer  day, 
Clad  in  robes  of  hodden  gray, 
With  the  red  cross  on  the  breast, 
Azure-eyed  and  golden-haired, 
Forth  the  young  crusaders  fared  ; 
While  above  the  band  devoted 
Consecrated  banners  floated, 
Fluttered  many  a  flag  and  streamer, 
And  the  cross  o'er  all  the  rest ! 
Singing  lowly,  meekly,  slowly, 
"Give  us,  give  us  back  the  holy 
Sepulchre  of  the  Redeemer  !  " 
On  the  vast  procession  pressed, 
Youths  and  maidens.  .  .  . 


Ill 

Ah  I  what  master  hand  shall  paint 
How  they  journeyed  on  their  way, 
How  the  days  grew  long  and  dreary, 
How  their  little  feet  grew  weary, 
How  their  little  hearts  grew  faint ! 

Ever  swifter  day  by  day 
Flowed  the  homeward  river  ;  ever 
More  and  more  its  whitening  current 
Broke  and  scattered  into  spray, 
Till  the  calmly-flowing  river 
Changed  into  a  mountain  torrent, 
Rushing  from  its  glacier  green 
Down  through  chasm  and  black  ravine. 

Like  a  phoenix  in  its  nest, 
Burned  the  red  sun  in  the  West, 


Sinking  in  an  ashen  cloud  ; 
In  the  East,  above  the  crest 
Of  the  sea-like  mountain  chain, 
Like  a  phoenix  from  its  shroud, 
Came  the  red  sun  back  again. 

Now  around  them,  white  with  snow, 
Closed  the  mountain  peaks.     Below, 
Headlong  from  the  precipice 
Down  into  the  dark  abyss, 
Plunged  the  cataract,  white  with  foam  3 
And  it  said,  or  seemed  to  say  : 
"Oh  return,  while  yet  you  may, 
Foolish  children,  to  your  home, 
There  the  Holy  City  is  !  " 

But  the  dauntless  leader  said  : 
"  Faint  not,  though  your  bleeding  feet 
O'er  these  slippery  paths  of  sleet 
Move  but  painfully  and  slowly  ; 
Other  feet  than  yours  have  bled  ; 
Other  tears  than  yours  been  shed. 
Courage  !  lose  not  heart  or  hope  ; 
On  the  mountains'  southern  slope 
Lies  Jerusalem  the  Holy  !  " 
As  a  white  rose  in  its  pride, 
By  the  wind  in  summer-tide 
Tossed  and  loosened  from  the  branch, 
Showers  its  petals  o'er  the  ground, 
From  the  distant  mountain's  side, 
Scattering  all  its  snows  around, 
With  mysterious,  muffled  sound, 
Loosened,  fell  the  avalanche. 
Voices,  echoes  far  and  near, 
Roar  of  winds  and  waters  blending, 
Mists  uprising,  clouds  impending, 
Filled  them  with  a  sense  of  fear, 
Formless,  nameless,  never  ending. 


SUNDOWN 

'THE  summer  sun  is  sinking  low  ; 
Only  the  tree-tops  redden  and  glow  : 
Only  the  weathercock  on  the  spire 
Of  the  neighboring  church  is  a  flame  of  fire 
All  is  in  shadow  below. 

O  beautiful,  awful  summer  day, 
What  hast  thou  given,  what  taken  away  ? 
Life  and  death,  and  love  and  hate, 
Homes  made  happy  or  desolate, 
Hearts  made  sad  or  gay  \ 


354 


IN   THE   HARBOR 


On  the  road  of  life  one  mile-stone  more  ! 
In  the  book  of  life  one  leaf  turned  o'er  ! 
Like  a  red  seal  is  the  setting  sun 
On  the  good  and  the  evil  men  have  done,  — 
Naught  can  to-day  restore  1 


CHIMES 

SWEET  chimes  1   that   in  the  loneliness  of 

night 

Salute  the  passing  hour,  and  in  the  dark 
And   silent   chambers  of  the  household 

mark 
The   movements    of  the  myriad  orbs  of 

light  ! 
Through  my  closed  eyelids,  by  the  inner 

sight, 

I  see  the  constellations  in  the  arc 
Of   their  great  circles  moving   on,    and 

hark  ! 

I  almost  hear  them  singing  in  their  flight. 
Better  than  sleep  it  is  to  lie  awake, 
O'er-canopied  by  the  vast  starry  dome 
Of  the  immeasurable  sky  ;  to  feel 
The  slumbering  world  sink  under  us,  and 

make 

Hardly  an  eddy,  — ^a  mere  rush  of  foam 
On  the  great  sea  beneath  a  sinking  keel. 


FOUR   BY   THE   CLOCK 

"Nahant,   September  8,   1880,  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning." 

FOUR  by  the  clock  !  and  yet  not  day  ; 
But  the  great  world  rolls  and  wheels  away, 
With    its  cities  on  land,   and  its  ships   at 

sea, 
Into  the  dawn  that  is  to  be  ! 

Only  the  lamp  in  the  anchored  bark 
Sends  its  glimmer  across  the  dark, 
•And  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  sea 
Is  the  only  sound  that  comes  to  me. 


AUF   WIEDERSEHEN 

IN    MEMORY   OF    J.    T.    F. 

In  April,  1881,  Mr.  Longfellow  notes  in  his  diary : 
"A  sorrowful  and  distracted  week.  Fields  died  on  Sim- 
day,  the  21th.  Palfrey  died  on  Tuesday.  Two  intimate 
friends  in  one  week  !  " 


30,  1881. 


The  poem  was  written   April 


UNTIL  we  meet  again  !     That  is  the  mean 
ing 
Of  the  familiar  words,  that  men  repeat 

At  parting  in  the  street. 
Ah  yes,  till  then  !  but  when  death  inter 
vening 

Rends  us  asunder,  with  what  ceaseless  pain 
We  wait  for  the  Again  ! 

•••  i^. 

The  friends  who  leave  us  do  not  feel  the 

sorrow 
Of  parting,  as  we  feel  it,  who  must  stay 

Lamenting  day  by  day, 
And  knowing,    when   we    wake   upon   the 

morrow, 

We  shall  not  find  in  its  accustomed  place 
The  one  beloved  face.] 

It  were  a  double  grief,  if  the  departed, 
Being  released  from  earth,  should  still  re 
tain 

A  sense  of  earthly  pain  ; 
It  were  a  double  grief,  if  the  true-hearted, 
Who  loved  us  here,  should  on  the  farther 

shore 
Remember  us  no  more. 

Believing,  in  the  midst  of  our  afflictions, 
That  death  is  a  beginning,  not  an  end, 

We  cry  to  them,  and  send 
Farewells,  that  better  might  be  called  pre 
dictions, 
Being  fore-shadowings  of  the  future,  thrown 

Into  the  vast  Unknown. 

Faith  overleaps   the  confines  of  our  rea 
son, 
And  if  by  faith,  as  in  old  times  was  said, 

Women  received  their  dead 
Raised  up  to  life,  then  only  for  a  season 
Our  partings  are,  nor  shall  we  wait  in  vain 

Until  we  meet  again  ! 


ELEGIAC  VERSE 

Written  at  various  times,  mostly  between  April  and 
July,  1881.  In  the  notes  at  the  end  of  the  volume  will 
be  found  further  examples. 


PERADVENTURE  of  old,  some  bard  in  Ionian 

Islands, 

Walking  alone  by  the  sea,  hearing  the 
wash  of  the  waves, 


ELEGIAC   VERSE 


355 


Learned  the  secret  from  them  of  the  beauti 
ful  verse  elegiac, 

Breathing  into  his  song  motion  and  sound 
of  the  sea. 

For  as  the  wave  of  the  sea,  upheaving  in 

long  undulations, 
Plunges   loud  on  the  sands,  pauses,  and 

turns,  and  retreats, 
So  the  Hexameter,  rising  and  singing,  with 

cadence  sonorous, 

Falls  ;  and  in  refluent  rhythm  back  the 
Pentameter  flows. 


Not  in  his  youth  alone,  but  in  age,  may  the 

heart  of  the  poet 

Bloom  into  song,  as  the  gorse  blossoms 
in  autumn  and  spring. 


in 

Not  in  tenderness  wanting,  yet  rough  are 

the  rhymes  of  our  poet  ; 
Though  it  be  Jacob's  voice,  Esau's,  alas  ! 
are  the  hands. 


IV 

Let  us  be  grateful  to  writers  for  what  is 

left  in  the  inkstand  ; 
When  to  leave  off  is  an  art  only  attained 
by  the  few. 


How  can  the  Three  be  One  ?  you  ask  me  ; 

I  answer  by  asking, 

Hail  and  snow  and   rain,  are   they  not 
three,  and  yet  one  ? 


VI 

By   the   mirage   uplifted,    the   land   floats 

vague  in  the  ether, 
Ships  and  the  shadows  of  ships  hang  in 

the  motionless  air  ; 
So  by  the  art  of  the  poet  our  common  life 

is  uplifted, 

So,  transfigured,  the  world   floats   in   a 
luminous  haze. 


VII 


Like  a  French  poem  is  Life  ;  being  only 

perfect  in  structure 

When  with  the  masculine  rhymes  mingled 
the  feminine  are. 


VIII 

Down    from   the    mountain    descends   the 

brooklet,  rejoicing  in  freedom  ; 
Little  it  dreams  of  the  mill  hid  in  the 

valley  below  ; 
Glad  with  the  joy  of  existence,  the  child 

goes  singing  and  laughing, 
Little   dreaming   what    toils   lie   in  the 
future  concealed. 


IX 

As  the  ink  from   our   pen,    so    flow    our 

thoughts  and  our  feelings 
When  we  begin  to  write,  however  slug 
gish  before. 


Like  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven,  the  Fountain 

of  Youth  is  within  us  ; 
If  we  seek   it   elsewhere,   old  shall  we 
grow  in  the  search. 


If 


XI 

you  would  hit  the  mark,  you  must  aim 

a  little  above  it  ; 
Every  arrow  that  flies  feels  the  attraction 

of  earth. 


XII 


Wisely  the  Hebrews  admit  no  Present  tense 

in  their  language  ; 

While  we  are  speaking  the  word,  it  is 
already  the  Past. 


XIII 


In  the    twilight   of    age  all    things    seem 

strange  and  phantasmal, 
As  between  daylight  and  dark  ghost-like 
the  landscape  appears. 


356 


IN   THE   HARBOR 


XIV 


Great  is  the  art  of  beginning,  but  greater 

the  art  is  of  ending  ; 
Many  a  poem  is  marred  by  a  superfluous 
verse. 


THE  CITY  AND  THE  SEA 

THE  panting  City  cried  to  the  Sea, 
"  I  am  faint  with  heat,  —  Oh  breathe  on 
me  !  " 

And  the  Sea  said,  "  Lo,  I  breathe  !  but  my 

breath 
To  some  will  be  life,  to  others  death  !  " 

As  to  Prometheus,  bringing  ease 
In  pain,  come  the  Oceauides, 

So  to  the  City,  hot  with  the  flame 

Of  the  pitiless  sun,  the  east  wind  came. 

It  came    from  the  heaving  breast  of   the 

deep, 
Silent  as  dreams  are,  and  sudden  as  sleep. 

Life-giving,  death-giving,  which  will  it  be  ; 
O  breath  of  the  merciful,  merciless  Sea  ? 


MEMORIES 

\  OFT  I  remember  those  whom  I  have  known 

In  other  days,  to  whom  my  heart  was 
led 

As  by  a  magnet,  and  who  are  not  dead, 

But   absent,   and  their   memories   over 
grown 

With  other  thoughts  and  troubles  of  my 
own, 

As  graves  with  grasses  are,  and  at  their 
head 

The  stone  with  moss  and  lichens  so  o'er- 
spread, 

Nothing  is  legible  but  the  name  alone. 
And  is  it  so  with  them  ?     After  long  years, 

Do  they  remember  me  in  the  same  way, 

And  is  the  memory  pleasant  as  to  me  ? 
I  fear  to  ask  ;  yet  wherefore  are  my  fears  ? 

Pleasures,  like  flowers,  may  wither  and 
decay, 

And  yet  the  root  perennial  may  be. 


HERMES  TRISMEGISTUS 

As  Seleucus  narrates,  Hermes  describes  the  principles 
that  rank  as  wholes  in  two  myriads  of  books  ;  or,  as  we 
are  informed  by  Manetho,  he  perfectly  unfolded  these 
principles  in  three  myriads  six  thousand  five  hundred 
and  twenty-five  volumes.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Our  ancestors  dedicated  the  inventions  of  their 
wisdom  to  this  deity,  inscribing  all  their  own  writings 
with  the  name  of  Hermes.  — IAMBLICUS. 

STILL  through  Egypt's  desert  places 

Flows  the  lordly  Nile, 
From  its  banks  the  great  stone  faces 

Gaze  with  patient  smile. 
Still  the  pyramids  imperious 

Pierce  the  cloudless  skies, 
And  the  Sphinx  stares  with  mysterious, 

Solemn,  stony  eyes. 

But  where  are  the  old  Egyptian 

Demi-gods  and  kings  ? 
Nothing  left  but  an  inscription 

Graven  on  stones  and  rings. 
Where  are  Helios  and  Hephsestus, 

Gods  of  eldest  eld  ? 
Where  is  Herrnes  Trismegistus, 

Who  their  secrets  held  ? 

Where  are  now  the  many  hundred 

Thousand  books  he  wrote  ? 
By  the  Thaumaturgists  plundered, 

Lost  in  lands  remote  ; 
In  oblivion  sunk  forever, 

As  when  o'er  the  land 
Blows  a  storm-wind,  in  the  river 

Sinks  the  scattered  sand. 

Something  unsubstantial,  ghostly, 

Seems  this  Theurgist, 
In  deep  meditation  mostly 

Wrapped,  as  in  a  mist. 
Vague,  phantasmal,  and  unreal 

To  our  thought  he  seems, 
Walking  in  a  world  ideal, 

In  a  land  of  dreams. 

Was  he  one,  or  many,  merging 

Name  and  fame  in  one, 
Like  a  stream,  to  which,  converging, 

Many  streamlets  run  ? 
Till,  with  gathered  power  proceeding, 

Ampler  sweep  it  takes, 
Downward  the  sweet  waters  leading 

From  unnumbered  lakes. 


MY   BOOKS 


357 


By  the  Nile  I  see  him  wandering, 

Pausing  now  and  then, 
On  the  mystic  union  pondering 

Between  gods  and  men  ; 
Half  believing,  wholly  feeling, 

With  supreme  delight, 
How  the  gods,  themselves  concealing, 

Lift  men  to  their  height. 

Or  in  Thebes,  the  hundred-gated, 

In  the  thoroughfare 
Breathing,  as  if  consecrated, 

A  diviner  air  ; 
And  amid  discordant  noises, 

In  the  jostling  throng, 
Hearing  far,  celestial  voices 

Of  Olympian  song. 

Who  shall  call  his  dreams  fallacious  ? 

Who  has  searched  or  sought 
All  the  unexplored  and  spacious 

Universe  of  thought  ? 
Who,  in  his  own  skill  confiding, 

Shall  with  rule  and  line 
Mark  the  border-land  dividing 

Human  and  divine  ? 

Trismegistus  !  three  times  greatest  I 

How  thy  name  sublime 
Has  descended  to  this  latest 

Progeny  of  time  ! 
Happy  they  whose  written  pages 

Perish  with  their  lives, 
If  amid  the  crumbling  ages 

Still  their  name  survives  ! 

Thine,  O  priest  of  Egypt,  lately 

Found  I  in  the  vast, 
Weed-encumbered,  sombre,  stately, 

Grave-yard  of  the  Past  ; 
And  a  presence  moved  before  me 

On  that  gloomy  shore, 
As  a  waft  of  wind,  that  o'er  me 

Breathed,  and  was  no  more. 


TO   THE   AVON 

FLOW  on,  sweet  river  !  like  his  verse 
Who  lies  beneath  this  sculptured  hearse  ; 
Nor  wait  beside  the  churchyard  wall 
For  him  who  cannot  hear  thy  call. 

Thy  playmate  once  ;  I  see  him  now 
A  boy  with  sunshine  on  his  brow, 


And  hear  in  Stratford's  quiet  street 
The  patter  of  his  little  feet. 

I  see  him  by  thy  shallow  edge 
Wading  knee-deep  amid  the  sedge  ; 
And  lost  in  thought,  as  if  thy  stream 
Were  the  swift  river  of  a  dream. 

He  wonders  whitherward  it  flows  ; 
And  fain  would  follow  where  it  goes, 
To  the  wide  world,  that  shall  erelong 
Be  filled  with  his  melodious  song. 

Flow  on,  fair  stream  !    That  dream  is  o'er  ; 
He  stands  upon  another  shore  ; 
A  vaster  river  near  him  flows, 
And  still  he  follows  where  it  goes. 


PRESIDENT    GARFIELD 

"  E  vermi  dal  martirio  a  questa  pace." 

Paradiso,  XV.  148. 

THESE  words  the  poet  heard  in  Paradise, 
Uttered  by  one  who,  bravely  dying  here, 
In   the    true    faith   was    living  in   that 

sphere 

Where  the  celestial  cross  of  sacrifice 
Spread    its   protecting    arms   athwart   the 

skies  ; 
And    set    thereon,  like    jewels    crystal 

clear, 
The  souls  magnanimous,  that  knew  not 

fear, 
Flashed  their  effulgence  on  his  dazzled 

eyes. 

Ah  me  !  how  dark  the  discipline  of  pain, 
Were  not  the  suffering  followed  by  the 

sense 

Of  infinite  rest  and  infinite  release  ! 
This  is  our  consolation  ;  and  again 

A  great  soul  cries  to  us  in  our  suspense, 
"  I   came    from    martyrdom    unto    this 
peace  !  " 


MY   BOOKS 

SADLY  as  some  old  mediaeval  knight 

Gazed  at  the  arms  he  could  no  longer 

wield, 
The  sword  two-handed  and  the  shining 

shield 
Suspended  in  the  hall,  and  full  in  sight, 


358 


IN   THE   HARBOR 


While  secret  longings  for  the  lost  delight 

Of  tourney  or  adventure  in  the  field 

Came  over  him,  and  tears  but  half  con 
cealed 

Trembled   and   fell   upon   his    beard  of 

white, 
So  I  behold  these  books  upon  their  shelf, 

My  ornaments  and  arms  of  other  days  ; 

Not  wholly   useless,  though    no   longer 

used, 
For  they  remind  me  of  my  other  self, 

Younger  and  stronger,  and  the  pleasant 
ways 

In  which   I  walked,  now  clouded    and 
confused. 


MAD    RIVER 

IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS 
TRAVELLER. 

WHY  dost  thou  wildly  rush  and  roar, 

Mad  River,  O  Mad  River  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  pause  and  cease  to  pour 
Thy  hurrying,  headlong  waters  o'er 

This  rocky  shelf  forever  ? 

What  secret  trouble  stirs  thy  breast  ? 

Why  all  this  fret  and  flurry  ? 
Dost  thou  not  know  that  what  is  best 
In  this  too  restless  world  is  rest 

From  over-work  and  worry  ? 

THE   RIVER. 

What  wouldst    thou    in    these    mountains 
seek, 

O  stranger  from  the  city  ? 
Is  it  perhaps  some  foolish  freak 
Of  thine,  to  put  the  words  I  speak 

Into  a  plaintive  ditty  ? 

TRAVELLER. 

Yes  ;  I  would  learn  of  thee  thy  song, 
With  all  its  flowing  numbers, 

And  in  a  voice  as  fresh  and  strong 

As  thine  is,  sing  it  all  day  long, 
And  hear  it  in  my  slumbers. 

THE  RIVER. 

A  brooklet  nameless  and  unknown 

Was  I  at  first,  resembling 
A  little  child,  that  all  alone 
Comes  venturing  down  the  stairs  of  stone, 

Irresolute  and  trembling. 


Later,  by  wayward  fancies  led, 

For  the  wide  world  I  panted  ; 
Out  of  the  forest,  dark  and  dread, 
Across  the  open  fields  I  fled, 

Like  one  pursued  and  haunted. 

I  tossed  my  arms,  I  sang  aloud, 

My  voice  exultant  blending 

With  thunder  from  the  passing  cloud, 

The  wind,  the  forest  bent  and  bowed, 

The  rush  of  rain  descending. 

I  heard  the  distant  ocean  call, 

Imploring  and  entreating  ; 
Drawn  onward,  o'er  this  rocky  wall 
1  plunged,  and  the  loud  waterfall 
Made  answer  to  the  greeting. 

And  now,  beset  with  many  ills, 

A  toilsome  life  I  follow  ; 
Compelled  to  carry  from  the  hills 
These  logs  to  the  impatient  mills 
Below  there  in  the  hollow. 

Yet  something  ever  cheers  and  charms 

The  rudeness  of  my  labors  ; 
Daily  I  water  with  these  arms 
The  cattle  of  a  hundred  farms, 

And  have  the  birds  for  neighbors. 

Men  call  me  Mad,  and  well  they  may, 

When,  full  of  rage  and  trouble, 
I  burst  my  banks  of  sand  and  clay, 
And  sweep  their  wooden  bridge  away, 
Like  withered  reeds  or  stubble. 

Now  go  and  write  thy  little  rhyme, 

As  of  thine  own  creating. 
Thou  seest  the  day  is  past  its  prime  j 
I  can  no  longer  waste  my  time  ; 
The  mills  are  tired  of  waiting. 


POSSIBILITIES 

WHERE  are  the  Poets,  unto  whom  belong 
The    Olympian    heights  ;   whose  singing 

shafts  were  sent 
Straight  to  the  mark,  and  not  from  bows 

half  bent, 

But  with  the  utmost  tension  of  the  thong  ? 
Where  are  the  stately  argosies  of  song, 
Whose  rushing  keels  made  music  as  they 

went 
Sailing  in  search  of  some  new  continent, 


THE   BELLS    OF   SAN   BLAS 


359 


With  all  sail  set,  and  steady  winds  and 

strong  ? 

Perhaps  there  lives  some  dreamy  boy,  un 
taught 

In  schools,  some  graduate  of  the  field  or 
street, 

Who  shall  become  a  master  of  the  art, 
An  admiral  sailing  the  high  seas  of  thought. 

Fearless  and  first,  and  steering  with  his 
fleet 

For  lands  not  yet  laid  down  in  any  chart. 

DECORATION    DAY 

SLEEP,  comrades,  sleep  and  rest 

On  this  Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms, 

Where  foes  no  more  molest, 
Nor  sentry's  shot  alarms  ! 

Ye  have  slept  on  the  ground  before, 

And  started  to  your  feet 
At  the  cannon's  sudden  roar, 

Or  the  drum's  redoubling  beat. 

But  in  this  camp  of  Death 

No  sound  your  slumber  breaks  ; 

Here  is  no  fevered  breath, 

No  wound  that  bleeds  and  aches. 

All  is  repose  and  peace, 

Untrampled  lies  the  sod  ; 
The  shouts  of  battle  cease, 

It  is  the  truce  of  God  ! 

Rest,  comrades,  rest  and  sleep  ! 

The  thoughts  of  men  shall  be 
As  sentinels  to  keep 

Your  rest  from  danger  free. 

Your  silent  tents  of  green 

We  deck  with  fragrant  flowers  ; 

Yours  has  the  suffering  been, 
The  memory  shall  be  ours. 

A   FRAGMENT 

AWAKE  !  arise  !  the  hour  is  late  ! 

Angels  are  knocking  at  thy  door  ! 
They  are  in  haste  and  cannot  wait, 

And  once  departed  come  no  more. 

Awake  !  arise  !  the  athlete's  arm 
Loses  its  strength  by  too  much  rest  ; 

The  fallow  land,  the  untilled  farm 
Produces  only  weeds  at  best. 


LOSS   AND   GAIN 

WHEN  I  compare 

What  I  have  lost  with  what  I  have  gained, 
What  I  have  missed  with  what  attained, 
Little  room  do  I  find  for  pride. 

I  am  aware 

How  many  days  have  been  idly  spent ; 
How  like  an  arrow  the  good  intent 
Has  fallen  short  or  been  turned  aside. 

But  who  shall  dare 

To  measure  loss  and  gain  in  this  wise  ? 
Defeat  may  be  victory  in  disguise  ; 
The  lowest  ebb  is  the  turn  of  the  tide. 


INSCRIPTION  ON   THE   SHANK- 
LIN    FOUNTAIN 

O  TRAVELLER,  stay  thy  weary  feet ; 
Drink  of  this  fountain,  pure  and  sweet ; 

It  flows  for  rich  and  poor  the  same. 
Then  go  thy  way,  remembering  still 
The  wayside  well  beneath  the  hill, 

The  cup  of  water  in  his  name. 

THE    BELLS    OF    SAN    BLAS 

The  last  poem  written  by  Mr.  Longfellow.  The  last 
verse  but  one  is  dated  March  12,  1882.  The  final  verse 
was  added  March  15.  Mr.  Longfellow  died  March  24. 
The  poem  was  suggested  by  an  article  in  Harper's 
Magazine,  which  the  poet  had  just  read. 

WHAT  say  the  Bells  of  San  Bias. 
To  the  ships  that  southward  pass 

From  the  harbor  of  Mazatlan  ? 
To  them  it  is  nothing  more 
Than  the  sound  of  surf  on  the  shore, — 

Nothing  more  to  master  or  man. 

Rut  to  me,  a  dreamer  of  dreams, 
To  whom  what  is  and  what  seems 

Are  often  one  and  the  same,  — 
The  Bells  of  San  Bias  to  me 
Have  a  strange,  wild  melody, 

And  are  something  more  than  a  name. 

For  bells  are  the  voice  of  the  church  ; 
They  have  tones  that  touch  and  search 

The  hearts  of  young  and  old  ; 
One  sound  to  all,  yet  each 
Lends  a  meaning  to  their  speech, 

And  the  meaning  is  manifold. 


IN  THE   HARBOR 


They  are  a  voice  of  the  Past, 
Of  an  age  that  is  fading  fast, 

Of  a  power  austere  and  grand  ; 
When  the  flag  of  Spain  unfurled 
Its  folds  o'er  this  western  world, 

And  the  Priest  was  lord  of  the  land. 

The  chapel  that  once  looked  down 
On  the  little  seaport  town 

Has  crumbled  into  the  dust  ; 
And  on  oaken  beams  below 
The  bells  swing  to  and  fro, 

And  are  green  with  mould  and  rust. 

"Is,  then,  the  old  faith  dead," 
They  say,  "  and  in  its  stead 

Is  some  new  faith  proclaimed, 
That  we  are  forced  to  remain 
Naked  to  sun  and  rain, 

Unsheltered  and  ashamed  ? 

"  Once  in  our  tower  aloof 
We  rang  over  wall  and  roof 

Our  warnings  and  our  complaints  ; 
And  round  about  us  there 
The  white  doves  filled  the  air, 

Like  the  white  souls  of  the  saints. 

"  The  saints  !     Ah,  have  they  grown 
Forgetful  of  their  own  ? 

Are  they  asleep,  or  dead, 
That  open  to  the  sky 
Their  ruined  Missions  lie, 

No  longer  tenanted  ? 

"  Oh,  bring  us  back  once  more 
The  vanished  days  of  yore, 

When  the  world  with  faith  was  filled  ; 
Bring  back  the  fervid  zeal, 
The  hearts  of  fire  and  steel, 

The  hands  that  believe  and  build. 

"  Then  from  our  tower  again 
We  will  send  over  land  and  main 

Our  voices  of  command, 
Like  exiled  kings  who  return 
To  their  thrones,  and  the  people  learn 

That  the  Priest  is  lord  of  the  land  ! " 

O  Bells  of  San  Bias,  in  vain 
Ye  call  back  the  Past  again  ! 

The  Past  is  deaf  to  your  prayer  ; 
Out  of  the  shadows  of  night 
The  world  rolls  into  light  ; 

It  is  daybreak  everywhere. 


FRAGMENTS 

October  22,  1838. 

NEGLECTED  record  of  a  mind  neglected, 
Unto  what  "  lets  and  stops  "  art  thou  sub 
jected  ! 

The  day  with  all  its  toils  and  occupations, 
The  night  with  its  reflections  and  sensations, 
The  future,  and  the  present,  arid  the  past,  — 
All  I  remember,  feel,  and  hope  at  last, 
All  shapes  of  joy  and  sorrow,  as  they  pass,  — 
Find  but  a  dusty  image  in  this  glass. 

August  18,  1847. 

0  faithful,  indefatigable  tides, 

That  evermore  upon  God's  errands  go,  — 
Now  seaward  bearing  tidings  of  the  land,  — 
Now  landward  bearing  tidings  of  the  sea,  — 
And  filling  every  frith  and  estuary, 
Each  arm  of  the  great  sea,  each  little  creek, 
Each  thread  and  filament  of  water-courses, 
Full  with  your  ministration  of  delight ! 
Under  the  rafters  of  this  wooden  bridge 

1  see  you  come  and  go  ;  sometimes  in  haste 
To  reach  your  journey's  end,  which  being 

done 

With  feet  tmrested  ye  return  again 
And  recommence  the  never-ending  task  ; 
Patient,  whatever  burdens  ye  may  bear, 
And  fretted  only  by  the  impeding  rocks. 

December  18, 1847. 

Soft   through    the   silent   air   descend  the 

feathery  snow-flakes  ; 
White  are  the  distant  hills,  white  are  the 

neighboring  fields  ; 
Only  the  marshes  are  brown,  and  the  river 

rolling  among  them 
Weareth  the  leaden  hue  seen  in  the  eyes  of 

the  blind. 

— ^_  August  4,  1856. 

»  A  lovely  morning,  without  the  glare  of  the 
sun,  the  sea  in  great  commotion,  chafing 
and  foaming. 

So  from  the   bosom  of  darkness  our  days 

come  roaring  and  gleaming, 
Chafe  and   break   into  foam,   sink   into 

darkness  again. 
But  on  the  shores  of  Time  each  leaves  some 

trace  of  its  passage, 

Though  the  succeeding  wave  washes   it 
out  from  the  sand.^ 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


361 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


The  reader  is  referred  for  a  consideration  of  the  place 
which  Christus  held  in  the  poet's  scheme  of  work  to  the 
biographical  sketch  prefixed  to  this  edition. 

There  is  no  one  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  writings  which 
may  be  said  to  have  so  dominated  his  literary  life.  The 
study  of  Dante  and  the  translation  of  the  Divina  Coin- 
media  subtended  a  wider  arc  in  time,  but  from  the 
nature  of  things  the  interpretation  of  a  great  work  was 
subordinate  to  the  development  of  a  theme  which  was 
interior  to  the  poet's  thought  and  emotion.  Yet  even  in 
pointof  time,  that  which  elapsed  between  the  first  concep 
tion  of  Chrislusa,n<l  its  final  accomplishment  was  scarcely 
less  than  that  which  extended  from  the  day  when  Mr. 
Longfellow  opened  Dante  to  the  end  of  his  life,  —  for 
so  long  did  he  live  in  companionship  with  the  great  seer. 

The  first  indication  of  actual  work  upon  the  subject 
does  not  appear  until  the  end  of  1849,  when  he  seems  to 
have  decided  to  take  up  first  the  second  division.  He 
had  dismissed  his  volume  of  poems,  The  Seaside  and  (he 
Fireside,  "another  stone  rolled  over  the  hilltop!  "  and 
proceeded  in  his  diary,  November  19  :"  And  now  1  long 
to  try  a  loftier  strain,  the  sublimer  Song  whose  broken 
melodies  have  for  so  many  years  breathed  through  my 
soul  in  the  better  hours  of  life,  and  which  I  trust  and 
believe  will  ere  long  unite  themselves  into  a  symphony 
not  all  unworthy  the  sublime  theme,  but  furnishing 
'some  equivalent  expression  for  the  trouble  and  wrath 
of  life,  for  its  sorrow  and  its  mystery.'  "  On  December 
10th,  he  wrote  :  "  A  bleak  and  dismal  day.  Wrote  in 
the  morning  The  Challenge  of  Thor  as  Prologue  or  In- 
troitus  to  the  second  part  of  Christus."  This  he  laid 
aside,  taking  it  up  again  ten  years  liter,  when  he  pro 
posed  to  write  the  Saga  of  King  Olaf.  It  is  probable 
that  he  had  in  mind  the  opposition  of  northern  pagan 
ism  to  the  Christianity  of  sacerdotalism,  and  the  suprem 
acy  of  the  latter.  But  the  theme  of  the  drama  was 
constantly  before  him  in  one  shape  or  another.  In  his 
diary,  under  date  of  January  10,  1850,  he  records  :  "  In 
the  evening,  pondered  and  meditated  upon  sundry 
scenes  of  Christus.  In  such  meditation  one  tastes  the 
delight  of  the  poetic  vision,  without  the  pain  of  putting 
it  into  words."  The  scheme  of  his  first  venture  had 
evidently  been  more  or  less  determined  upon,  for  a  few 
weeks  later  lie  notes :  "  February  28.  And  so  ends  the 
winter  and  the  vacation.  Not  quite  satisfactorily  to 
me.  Yet  something  I  have  done.  Some  half  dozen 
scenes  or  more  are  written  of  The  Golden  Legend, 
which  is  Part  Second  of  Christus ;  and  the  whole  is 
much  clearer  in  my  mind  as  to  handling,  division,  and 
the  form  and  pressure  of  the  several  parts."  It  is  to  be 
noted  that  already  in  1839  there  had  crossed  his  mind 
the  notion  of  writing  a  drama  based  upon  the  legend  of 
Der  Arme  Heinrich,  and  that  he  had  perceived  the 
value  of  Elsie.  "I  have  a  heroine,"  he  saye,  "as 
sweet  as  Imogen,  could  I  but  paint  her  so." 

The  Golden  Legend  was  published  near  the  close  of 
1851,  but  the  author  gave  no  intimation  of  the  relation 
which  the  work  held  to  a  larger  plan.  He  had  taken 
for  the  core  of  his  poem  the  story  of  Der  Arme  Heinrich 
as  told  by  Hartmann  von  der  Aue,  a  minnesinger  of  the 
twelfth  century,  to  be  found  in  Mailath's  Altdeutsche 
Gedichle,  published  in  Stuttgart  in  1809,  and  it  was  not 
till  after  the  book  was  issued  that  he  caught  sight  of 
Jacobus  de  Voragine's  Legenda  Aurea.  His  own  ac 
count  of  his  work  may  be  read  in  brief  in  a  letter  which 
he  wrote  to  an  English  correspondent  at  this  time.  "  I 
am  glad  to  know,"  he  says,  "  that  you  find  something 
to  like  in  The  Golden  Legend.  I  have  endeavored  to 
show  in  it,  among  other  tilings,  that  through  the  dark 
ness  and  corruption  of  the  Middle  Ages  ran  a  bright, 
deep  stream  of  Faith,  strong  enough  for  all  the  exigen 


cies  of  life  and  death.  In  order  to  do  this  I  had  to  in 
troduce  some  portion  of  this  darkness  and  corruption  as 
a  background.  I  am  sure  you  will  be  glad  to  know  that 
the  monk's  sermon  is  not  wholly  of  my  own  invention. 
The  worst  passage  in  it  is  from  a  sermon  of  Fra  Ga- 
briella  Barletta,  an  Italian  preacher  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  The  Miracle  Play  is  founded  on  the  Apocry 
phal  Gospels  of  James  and  the  Infancy  of  Christ.  Both 
this  and  the  sermon  show  how  sacred  themes  were 
handled  in  '  the  days  of  long  ago.'  " 

It  is  a  strong  illustration  of  the  importance  which  Mr. 
Longfellow  attached  lo  The  Golden  Legend  as  a  portion 
of  a  larger,  more  inclusive  work,  that  we  find  him  re 
gretting,  while  his  book  was  in  full  tide  of  suecess,  that 
he  had  not  taken  a  theme  more  fit  to  his  purpose  which 
had  been  chosen  by  another  poet.  "  We  stayed  at 
home,"  he  writes,  April  2,1852,  "  reading  The  Saint's 
Tragedy,  the  story  of  St.  Elizabeth  of  Hungary  put  into 
dramatic  form  with  great  power.  I  wish  I  had  hit  upon 
this  theme  for  my  Golden  Legend,  the  mediaeval  part 
of  my  Trilogy.  It  is  nobler  and  more  characteristic 
than  my  obscure  legend.  Strange  that  while  I  was 
writing  a  dramatic  poem  illustrating  the  Middle  Ages, 
Kingsley  should  have  been  doing  the  same,  and  that  we 
should  have  chosen  precisely  the  same  period,  about 
1230.  His  poem  was  published  first,  but  I  never  saw  it, 
or  a  review  of  it,  till  two  days  ago."  Whether  or  not 
Mr.  Longfellow  would  have  wrought  at  the  other  theme 
with  any  more  satisfaction  to  himself,  The  Golden 
Legend  has  taken  its  place  as  a  faithful  exponent  of 
the  phase  of  Christianity  which  it  described.  "  Long 
fellow,"  says  a  competent  authority,  "in  his  Golden 
Legend  has  entered  more  closely  into  the  temper  of  the 
monk,  for  good  and  for  evil,  than  ever  yet  theological 
writer  or  historian,  though  they  may  have  given  their 
life's  labor  to  the  analysis." 

Christus  was,  however,  pressing  upon  the  poet's 
mind  ;  the  completion  of  the  second  division  only  made 
him  more  desirous  of  fulfilling  the  noble  theme.  The 
Golden  Legend  had  been  published  a  few  weeks  when 
he  wrote  in  his  diary  one  Sunday  :  "  Dec.  28,  1851.  The 
weather,  which  has  been  intensely  cold,  suddenly 
changes  to  rain ;  and  avalanches  of  snow  thunder  from 
the  college-roofs  all  sermon-time.  A  grand  accom 
paniment  to  Mr.  Ellis,  who  was  preaching  about  the 
old  prophets,  —  an  excellent  discourse.  Ah  me  !  how 
many  things  there  are  to  meditate  upon  in  this  great 
world  !  And  all  this  meditation,  —  of  what  avail  is  it,  if 
it  does  not  end  in  some  action  ?  The  great  theme  of  my 
poem  haunts  me  ever  ;  but  I  cannot  bring  it  into  act." 

It  was  nearly  a  score  of  years  before  another  number 
of  the  Trilogy  was  ready,  though  it  is  probable  that 
Mr.  Longfellow  was  in  the  neighborhood  of  The  New 
England  Tragedies  when  he  was  diverted  for  the  time 
by  the  attractive  theme  of  The  Courtship  of  Miles 
Standish.  As  far  back  as  1839  he  had  thought  of  a 
drama  on  Cotton  Mather.  It  is  curious  that  he  should 
have  mentioned  that  and  a  drama  on  "  the  old  poetic 
legend  of  Der  Arme  Heinrich  "  in  the  same  sentence  as 
possible  themes,  a  couple  of  years  before  the  conception 
of  Christus  came  to  him.  In  the  spring  of  1856  he  was 
contemplating  a  tragedy  which  should  take  in  the  Puri 
tans  and  the  Quakers,  and  preparing  for  it  by  looking 
over  books  on  the  two  sects,  "  particularly,"  he  says, 
"  Besse's  Sufferings  of  the  Quakers,  —  a  strange  record 
of  violent  persecution  for  merest  trifles."  He  notes  on 
April  2d  of  that  year  :  "  Wrote  a  scene  in  my  new 
drama,  The  Old  Colony,  just  to  break  ground,"  and  a 
month  later  :  "  May  1.  At  home  all  day  pondering  the 
New  England  Tragedy,  and  writing  notes  and  bits  of 
scenes."  He  was  still  experimenting  on  it  in  July 


362 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


and  in  November,  but  then  he  seems  to  have  made  a 
new  start  and  to  have  begun  The  Courtship  of  Miles 
Blandish  as  a  drama. 

On  the  27th  of  August,  1857,  he  had  finished  the  first 
rough  draft  of  Wenlock  Christison,  and  later  resumed  his 
Miles  Standish  as  an  idyl.  For  a  while  this  poem  ex 
cluded  the  tragedy,  but  he  took  up  the  latter  when  the 
Courtship  was  completed  and  began  a  revision.  On 
the  17th  of  August,  1858,  he  notes :  "  The  morning,  as 
usual,  worm  -  eaten  with  the  writing  of  letters.  I  am 
now  going  to  try  a  scene  in  Wenlock  Chrixtison.  I  write 
accordingly  scene  second  of  act  first.  Just  as  I  finish 
the  bells  ring  noon.  There  is  a  distant  booming  of  can 
non.  F.  comes  in  and  says,  '  The  Queen's  message  has 
arrived  by  the  Atlantic  cable.'"  "December  13.  I 
have  been  at  work  on  Wenlock  Christison,  moulding 
and  shaping  it." 

It  was  ten  years  after  this  that  The  Neiv  England 
Tragedies  emerged  from  the  printing-office.  Ten  copies 
at  first  were  printed  to  guard  against  accident  to  the 
manuscript  copy,  as  the  author  was  about  leaving  home 
for  a  considerable  absence  in  Europe.  In  October 
of  the  same  year,  18G8,  the  book  was  published  simul 
taneously  in  Boston  and  London.  It  would  seem  as  if 
this  whole  division  of  the  Trilogy  caused  the  poet  great 
doubt,  and  that  he  held  back  from  publication  out  of 
distrust  of  his  work.  He  makes  but  little  reference  to 
it  in  his  diary,  recording  once  that  he  read  a  portion  to 
Mr.  Fields,  who  received  it  rather  coldly.  In  this  case 
more  emphatically  than  in  the  case  of  The  Golden 
Legend,  the  relation  of  the  part  to  the  whole  was 
uppermost  in  the  poet's  inind.  It  may  be  that  he  in 


tended  at  first  to  wait  until  he  could  write  the  first  part 
before  publishing  the  third,  but  finally  gave  out  the 
modern  portion,  as  before,  with  no  intimation  of  its 
place  in  a  larger  plan.  But  The  New  England  Trage 
dies  had  no  such  intrinsic  attractiveness  as  The  Golden 
Legend,  and  in  absence  of  any  explanation  of  the  au 
thor's  ulterior  design  was  taken  on  its  own  ground  with 
comparative  indifference.  The  title  of  Wenlock  Christi 
son  given  to  the  former  of  the  two  tragedies  was  changed, 
when  the  book  was  published,  to  John  Endicotl. 

Although  Mr.  Longfellow  projected  a  third  drama, 
the  scene  to  be  laid  among  the  Moravians  of  Bethlehem, 
by  which  he  hoped  to  be  able  to  harmonize  the  discord 
of  The  New  England  Tragedies  and  thus  give  a  not  un 
fitting  close  to  the  work,  he  never  wrote  this  drama, 
and  it  is  most  probable  that  Mr.  Longfellow  finally  re 
garded  the  Tragedies  as  satisfying  the  requirements  of 
the  Trilogy,  arid  was  thenceforth  impelled  by  an  in 
creased  desire  to  complete  his  task  by  the  preparation 
of  the  first  and  most  difficult  number.  In  the  latter 
part  of  1870  he  began  to  make  essays  in  it,  and  early  in 
January,  1871,  he  writes  in  his  diary  :  "  The  subject  of 
The  Divine  Tragedy  has  taken  entire  possession  of  me. 
All  day  pondering  upon  and  arranging  it." 

The  Divine  Tragedy  was  published  thus  at  the  close  of 
1871,  and  in  the  autumn  of  1872  Christus  appeared  as  a 
complete  work.  It  is  an  interesting  illustration  of  the 
place  which  the  work  held  in  his  mind  that  he  should 
now  incorporate  in  it  the  poem  of  Blind  Bartimeus, 
which,  when  he  wrote,  he  was  disposed  to  refer  in  im 
agination  to  a  monk  of  the  middle  ages.  The  design  of 
the  poet  now  stood  revealed. 


INTROITUS 

The  ANGEL  bearing  the  PROPHET  HABAKKUK 
through  the  air. 

PROPHET. 

WHY  dost  thou  bear  me  aloft, 

O  Angel  of  God,  on  thy  pinions 

O'er  realms  and  dominions  ? 

Softly  I  float  as  a  cloud 

In  air,  for  thy  right  hand  upholds  me, 

Thy  garment  enfolds  me  ! 


Lo  !  as  I  passed  on  my  way 
In  the  harvest-field  I  beheld  thee, 
When  no  man  compelled  thee, 
Bearing  with  thine  own  hands 
This  food  to  the  famishing  reapers, 
A  flock  without  keepers  ! 

The  fragrant  sheaves  of  the  wheat 

Made  the  air  above  them  sweet ; 

Sweeter  and  more  divine 

Was  the  scent  of  the  scattered  grain, 

That  the  reaper's  hand  let  fall 

To  be  gathered  again 

By  the  hand  of  the  gleaner  ! 

Sweetest,  divinest  of  all, 

Was  the  humble  deed  of  thine, 

And  the  meekness  of  thy  demeanor  ! 


PROPHET. 
Angel  of  Light, 
I  cannot  gainsay  thee, 
I  can  but  obey  thee  ! 

ANGEL. 

Beautiful  was  it  in  the  Lord's  sight, 
To  behold  his  Prophet 
Feeding  those  that  toil, 
The  tillers  of  the  soil. 
But  why  should  the  reapers  eat  of  it 
And  not  the  Prophet  of  Zion 
In  the  den  of  the  lion  ? 
The  Prophet  should  feed  the  Prophet ! 
Therefore  I  thee  have  uplifted, 
And  bear  thee  aloft  by  the  hair 
Of  thy  head,  like  a  cloud  that  is  drifted 
Through  the  vast  unknown  of  the  air  ! 

Five  days  hath  the  Prophet  been  lying 

In  Babylon,  in  the  den 

Of  the  lions,  death-defying, 

Defying  hunger  and  thirst ; 

But  the  worst 

Is  the  mockery  of  men  ! 

Alas  !  how  full  of  fear 

Is  the  fate  of  Prophet  and  Seer  ! 

Forevermore,  forevermore, 

It  shall  be  as  it  hath  been  heretofore  ; 

The  age  in  which  they  live 

Will  not  forgive 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


363 


The  splendor  of  the  everlasting  light, 
That  makes  their  foreheads  bright, 
Nor  the  sublime 
Fore-running  of  their  time  ! 

PROPHET. 

Oh  tell  me,  for  thou  kuowest, 
Wherefore  and  by  what  grace, 
Have  I,  who  am  least  and  lowest, 
Been  chosen  to  this  place, 
To  this  exalted  part  ? 

ANGEL. 

Because  thou  art 

The  Struggler  ;  and  from  thy  youth 

Thy  humble  and  patient  life 

Hath  been  a  strife 

And  battle  for  the  Truth  ; 

Nor  hast  thou  paused  nor  halted, 

Nor  ever  in  thy  pride 

Turned  from  the  poor  aside, 

But  with  deed  and  word  and  pen 

Hast  served  thy  fellow-men  ; 

Therefore  art  thou  exalted  ! 

PROPHET. 

By  thine  arrow's  light 
Thou  goest  onward  through  the  night, 
And  by  the  clear 
Sheen  of  thy  glittering  spear  ! 
When  will  our  journey  end  ? 

ANGEL. 

Lo,  it  is  ended  ! 

Yon  silver  gleam 

Is  the  Euphrates'  stream. 

Let  us  descend 

Into  the  city  splendid, 

Into  the  City  of  Gold  ! 

PROPHET. 

Behold ! 

As  if  the  stars  had  fallen  from  their  places 

Into  the  firmament  below, 

The  streets,  the  gardens,  and  the  vacant 

spaces 

With  light  are  all  aglow  ; 
And  hark  ! 
As  we  draw  near, 
What  sound  is  it  I  hear 
Ascending  through  the  dark  ? 

ANGEL. 

The  tumultuous  noise  of  the  nations, 
Their  rejoicings  and  lamentations, 


The  pleadings  of  their  prayer, 
The  groans  of  their  despair, 
The  cry  of  their  imprecations. 
Their  wrath,  their  love,  their  hate  ! 

PROPHET. 

Surely  the  world  doth  wait 
The  coming  of  its  .Redeemer  ! 

ANGEL. 

Awake  from  thy  sleep,  O  dreamer  I 
The  hour  is  near,  though  late  ; 
Awake  !  write  the  vision  sublime, 
The  vision,  that  is  for  a  time, 
Though  it  tarry,  wait  ;  it  is  nigh  ; 
In  the  end  it  will  speak  and  not  lie. 


PART  ONE 

THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 
THE   FIRST   PASSOVER 

I 
VOX   CLAMANTIS 

JOHN  THE  BAPTIST. 

REPENT  !  repent !  repent ! 

For  the  kingdom  of  God  is  at  hand, 

And  all  the  land 

Full  of  the  knowledge  of  the  Lord  shall 

As  the  waters  cover  the  sea, 

And  encircle  the  continent ! 

Repent !  repent !  repent ! 

For  lo,  the  hour  appointed, 

The  hour  so  long  foretold 

By  the  Prophets  of  old, 

Of  the  coming  of  the  Anointed, 

The  Messiah,  the  Paraclete, 

The  Desire  of  the  Nations,  is  nigh  ! 

He  shall  not  strive  nor  cry, 

Nor  his  voice  be  heard  in  the  street ; 

Nor  the  bruised  reed  shall  He  break, 

Nor  quench  the  smoking  flax  ; 

And  many  of  them  that  sleep 

In  the  dust  of  earth  shall  awake, 

On  that  great  and  terrible  day, 

And  the  wicked  shall  wail  and  weep, 

And  be  blown  like  a  smoke  away, 

And  be  melted  away  like  wax. 

Repent !  repent !  repent ! 


364 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


0  Priest,  and  Pharisee, 
Who  hath  warned  you  to  flee 
From  the  wrath  that  is  to  be  ? 
From  the  coming  anguish  and  ire  ? 
The  axe  is  laid  at  the  root 

Of  the  trees,  and  every  tree 
That  bringeth  not  forth  good  fruit 
Is  hewn  down  and  cast  into  the  fire  ! 

Ye  Scribes,  why  come  ye  hither  ? 

In  the  hour  that  is  uncertain, 

In  the  day  of  anguish  and  trouble, 

He  that  stretcheth  the  heavens  as  a  curtain 

And  spreadeth  them  out  as  a  tent, 

Shall  blow  npon  you,  and  ye  shall  wither, 

And  the  whirlwind  shall  take  you  away  as 

stubble  ! 
Repent  !  repent !  repent ! 

PKIEST. 

Who  art  thou,  O  man  of  prayer  ! 
In  raiment  of  camel's  hair, 
Begirt  with  leathern  thong, 
That  here  in  the  wilderness, 
With  a  cry  as  of  one  in  distress, 
Preachest  unto  this  throng? 
Art  thou  the  Christ  ? 

JOHN. 

Priest  of  Jerusalem, 

In  meekness  and  humbleness, 

1  deny  not,  I  confess 
I  am  not  the  Christ ! 

PEIEST. 

What  shall  we  say  unto  them 
That  sent  us  here  ?     Reveal 
Thy  name,  and  naught  conceal  I 
Art  thou  Elias  ? 

JOHN. 

No! 

PKIEST. 

Art  thou  that  Prophet,  then, 
Of  lamentation  and  woe, 
Who,  as  a  symbol  and  sign 
Of  impending  wrath  divine 
Upon  unbelieving  men, 
Shattered  the  vessel  of  clay 
In  the  Valley  of  Slaughter  ? 


PRIEST. 


Who  art  thou,  and  what  is  the  word 
That  here  thou  proclaimest  ? 


JOHN. 


JOHN. 
I  am  not  he  thou  namest ! 


Nay. 


I  am  the  voice  of  one 

Crying  in  the  wilderness  alone  : 

Prepare  ye  the  way  of  the  Lord  ; 

Make  his  paths  straight 

In  the  land  that  is  desolate  I 


If  thou  be  not  the  Christ, 
Nor  yet  Elias,  nor  he 
That,  in  sign  of  the  things  to  be, 
Shattered  the  vessel  of  clay 
In  the  Valley  of  Slaughter, 
Then  declare  unto  us,  and  say 
By  what  authority  now 
Baptizest  thou  ? 

JOHN. 

I  indeed  baptize  you  with  water 
Unto  repentance  ;  but  He, 
That  cometh  after  me, 
Is  mightier  than  I  and  higher  j 
The  latchet  of  whose  shoes 
I  am  not  worthy  to  unloose  ; 
He  shall  baptize  you  with  fire, 
And  with  the  Holy  Ghost ! 
Whose  fan  is  in  his  hand  ; 
He  will  purge  to  the  uttermost 
His  floor,  and  garner  his  wheat, 
But  will  burn  the  chaff  in  the  brand 
And  fire  of  unquenchable  heat  1 
Repent !  repent !  repent ! 


II 

MOUNT  QUARANTANIA 
I 

LUCIFER. 

Not  in   the   lightning's   flash,  nor  in  the 

thunder, 
Not  in  the  tempest,  nor  the  cloudy  storm, . 

Will  I  array  my  form  ; 
But  part  invisible  these  boughs  asunder, 
And  move  and  murmur,  as  the  wind  up 
heaves 
And  whispers  in  the  leaves. 


THE   DIVINE  TRAGEDY 


3-55 


Not  as  a  terror  and  a  desolation, 

Not  in  my  natural  shape,  inspiring  fear 

And  dread,  will  I  appear  ; 
But  in  soft  tones  of  sweetness  and  persua 
sion, 
A  sound  as  of  the  fall  of  mountain  streams, 

Or  voices  heard  in  dreams. 

He  sitteth  there  in  silence,  worn  and  wasted 
With  famine,  and  uplifts  his  hollow  eyes 

To  the  unpitying  skies  ; 
For  forty  days  and  nights  he  hath  not  tasted 
Of  food  or  drink,  his  parted  lips  are  pale, 

Surely  his  strength  must  fail. 

Wherefore  dost  thou  in  penitential  fasting 
Waste   and   consume   the    beauty   of    thy 

youth  ? 

Ah,  if  thou  be  in  truth 
The  Son  of  the  Unnamed,  the  Everlasting, 
Command  these  stones  beneath  thy  feet  to 

be 
Changed  into  bread  for  thee  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

'T  is  written  :  Man  shall  not  live  by  bread 

alone, 
But  by  each  word  that  from  God's  mouth 

proceedeth  ! 

II 

LUCIFER. 

Too  weak,  alas  !  too  weak  is  the  temptation 
For  one  whose  soul  to  nobler  things  aspires 

Than  sensual  desires  ! 
Ah,  could  I,  by  some  sudden  aberration, 
Lead  and  delude  to  suicidal  death 

This  Christ  of  Nazareth  ! 

Unto  the  holy  Temple  on  Moriah, 

With  its  resplendent  domes,  and  manifold 

Bright  pinnacles  of  gold, 
Where  they  await  thy  coming,  O  Messiah  ! 
Lo,  I  have  brought  thee  !     Let  thy  glory 
here 

Be  manifest  and  clear. 

Reveal  thyself  by  royal  act  and  gesture 
Descending  with  the  bright  triumphant  host 

Of  all  the  highermost 
Archangels,  and  about  thee  as  a  vesture 
The  shining  clouds,  and  all  thy  splendors 
show 

Unto  the  world  below  1 


Cast  thyself  down,  it  is  the  hour  appointed  ; 
And  God  hath  given  his  angels  charge  and 
care 

To  keep  thee  and  upbear 
Upon  their  hands  his  only  Son,  the  Anointed, 
Lest  he  should  dash  his  foot  against  a  stone 

And  die,  and  be  unknown. 

CHRISTUS. 

'T  is  written  :  Thou  shalt  not  tempt  the 
Lord  thy  God  ! 

ill 

LUCIFER. 

I  cannot  thus  delude  him  to  perdition  ! 
But  one  temptation  still  remains  untried, 

The  trial  of  his  pride, 

The  thirst  of  power,  the  fever  of  ambition  1 
Surely  by  these  a  humble  peasant's  son 

At  last  may  be  undone  ! 

Above  the  yawning  chasms  and  deep  abysses, 
Across  the  headlong  torrents,  I  have  brought 

Thy  footsteps,  swift  as  thought  ; 
And  from  the  highest  of  these  precipices, 
The  Kingdoms  of  the  world  thine  eyes  be 
hold, 

Like  a  great  map  unrolled. 

From  far-off  Lebanon,  with  cedars  crested, 
To  where  the  waters  of  the  Asphalt  Lake 

On  its  white  pebbles  break, 
And  the  vast  desert,  silent,  sand-invested, 
These  kingdoms  all   are  mine,  and   thine 
shall  be, 

If  thou  wilt  worship  me  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan  !  thou  shalt  wor 
ship 

The  Lord  thy  God  ;  Him  only  shalt  thou 
serve  ! 

ANGELS  MINISTRANT. 

The  sun  goes  down  ;  the  evening  shadows 

lengthen, 
The  fever  and  the  struggle  of  the  day 

Abate  and  pass  away  ; 
Thine    Angels    Ministrant,    we    come    to 

strengthen 
And  comfort  thee,  and  crown  thee  with  the 

palm, 
The  silence  and  the  calm. 


366 


CHRISTUS:    A    MYSTERY 


ill 
THE   MARRIAGE  IN   CANA 

THE  MUSICIANS. 

Rise  up,  my  love,  my  fair  one, 
Rise  up,  and  come  away, 
For  lo  !  the  winter  is  past, 
The  rain  is  over  and  gone, 
The  flowers  appear  on  the  earth, 
The  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  is  come, 
And  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in 
our  land. 

THE  BRIDEGROOM. 

Sweetly   the   minstrels   sing  the   Song   of 

Songs  ! 

My  heart  runs  forward  with  it,  and  I  say  : 
Oh  set  me  as  a  seal  upon  thine  heart, 
And  set  me  as  a  seal  upon  thine  arm  ; 
For  love  is  strong  as  life,  and  strong  as 

death, 
And  cruel  as  the  grave  is  jealousy  ! 

THE  MUSICIANS. 

I  sleep,  but  my  heart  awaketh  ; 

'T  is  the  voice  of  my  beloved 

Who  knocketh,  saying  :  Open  to  me, 

My  sister,  my  love,  my  dove, 

For  my  head  is  filled  with  dew, 

My  locks  with  the  drops  of  the  night ! 

THE  BRIDE. 

Ah  yes,  I  sleep,  and  yet  my  heart  awaketh. 
It  is  the  voice  of  my  beloved  who  knocks. 

THE  BRIDEGROOM. 

O  beautiful  as  Rebecca  at  the  fountain, 
O  beautiful  as  Ruth  among  the  sheaves  ! 
O  fairest  among  women  !  O  undefiled  ! 
Thou  art  all  fair,  my  love,  there 's  no  spot 
in  thee  ! 

THE  MUSICIANS. 

My  beloved  is  white  and  ruddy, 
The  chiefest  among  ten  thousand  ; 
His  locks  are  black  as  a  raven, 
His  eyes  are  the  eyes  of  doves, 
Of  doves  by  the  rivers  of  water, 
His  lips  are  like  unto  lilies, 
Dropping  sweet-smelling  myrrh. 

ARCHITRICLINUS. 

Who  is   that  youth  with  the  dark  azure 
eyes, 


And  hair,  in  color  like  unto  the  wine, 
Parted  upon  his  forehead,  and  behind 
Falling  in  flowing  locks  ? 

PARANYMPHUS. 

The  Nazarene 
WTho  preacheth  to  the  poor  in    field  and 

village 
The  coming  of  God's  Kingdom. 

ARCHITRICLINUS. 

How  serene 
His  aspect  is  !  manly  yet  womanly. 

PARANYMPHUS. 

Most  beautiful  among  the  sons  of  men  ! 
Oft  known  to  weep,  but  never  known  to 
laugh. 

ARCHITRICLINUS. 

And  tell  me,  she  with  eyes  of  olive  tint, 
And  skin  as  fair  as  wheat,  and  pale  brown 

hair, 
The  woman  at  his  side  ? 

PARANYMPHUS. 

His  mother,  Mary. 

ARCHITRICLINUS. 

And  the  tall  figure  standing  close  behind 
them, 

Clad  all  in  white,  with  face  and  beard  like 
ashes, 

As  if  he  were  Elias,  the  White  Witness, 

Come  from  his  cave  on  Carmel  to  fore 
tell 

The  end  of  all  things  ? 

PARANYMPHUS. 

That  is  Manahem 
The  Essenian,  he  who  dwells  among  the 

palms 
Near  the  Dead  Sea. 

ARCHITRICLINUS. 

He  who  foretold  to  Herod 
He  should  one  day  be  King  ? 

PARANYMPHUS. 

The  same. 

ARCHITRICLINUS. 

Then  why 

Doth  he  come  here  to  sadden  with  his 
presence 


THE   DIVINE  TRAGEDY 


367 


Our  marriage  feast,  belonging  to  a  sect 
Haters  of  women,  and  that  taste  not  wine  ? 

THE    MUSICIANS. 

My  undefiled  is  but  one, 

The  only  one  of  her  mother, 

The  choice  of  her  that  bare  her  ; 

The  daughters  saw  her  and  blessed  her  ; 

The  queens  and  the  concubines  praised 

her  ; 

Saying,  Lo  !  who  is  this 
That  looketh  forth  as  the  morning  ? 

MANAHEM,  aside. 

The  Ruler  of  the  Feast  is  gazing  at  me, 
As  if  he  asked,  why  is  that  old  man  here 
Among    the    revellers  ?      And    thou,    the 

Anointed  ! 

Why  art  thou  here  ?     I  see  as  in  a  vision 
A  figure  clothed  in  purple,  crowned  with 

thorns  ; 

I  see  a  cross  uplifted  in  the  darkness, 
And  hear  a  cry  of  agony,  that  shall  echo 
Forever  and  forever  through  the  world  ! 

ARCHITRICLINUS. 

Give  us  more  wine.     These  goblets  are  all 
empty. 

MARY  to  CHRISTUS. 

They  have  no  wine  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

O  woman,  what  have  I 
To  do  with  thee  ?     Mine  hour  is  not  yet 
come. 

MARY  to  the  servants. 
"Whatever  he  shall  say  to  you,  that  do. 

CHRISTUS. 

Fill  up  these  pots  with  water. 

THE  MUSICIANS. 

Come,  my  beloved, 

Let  us  go  forth  into  the  field, 

Let  us  lodge  in  the  villages  ; 

Let  us  get  up  early  to  the  vineyards, 

Let  us  see  if  the  vine  nourish, 

Whether  the  tender  grape  appear, 

And  the  pomegranates  bud  forth. 

CHRISTUS. 

Draw  out  now 
And  bear  unto  the  Ruler  of  the  Feast. 


MANAHEM,  aside. 

O  thou,  brought  up  among  the  Essenians, 
Nurtured  in  abstinence,  taste  not  the  wine  ! 
It  is  the  poison  of  dragons  from  the  vine 
yards 
Of  Sodom,  and  the  taste  of  death  is  in  it ! 

ARCHITRICLINUS  to   the  BRIDEGROOM. 

All  men  set  forth  good  wine  at  the  be 
ginning, 

And  when  men  have  well  drunk,  that  which 
is  worse  ; 

But  thou  hast  kept  the  good  wine  until 
now. 

MANAHEM,  aside. 

The  things  that  have  been  and  shall  be  no 

more, 
The  things  that  are,  and    that    hereafter 

shall  be, 
The  things  that  might  have  been,  and  yet 

were  not, 

The  fading  twilight  of  great  joys  departed, 
The  daybreak  of  great  truths  as  yet  un- 

risen, 

The  intuition  and  the  expectation 
Of  something,  which,  when  come,  is  not  the 

same, 

But  only  like  its  forecast  in  men's  dreams, 
The  longing,  the  delay,  and  the  delight, 
Sweeter  for  the  delay  ;  youth,  hope,  love, 

death, 

And  disappointment  which  is  also  death, 
All  these  make  up  the  sum  of  human  life  ; 
A  dream  within  a  dream,  a  wind  at  night 
Howling  across  the  desert  in  despair, 
Seeking  for  something  lost  it  cannot  find. 
Fate  or  foreseeing,  or  whatever  name 
Men  call  it,  matters  not  ;  what  is  to  be 
Hath    been    fore-written    in    the   thought 

divine 
From     the    beginning.      None    can     hide 

from  it, 

But  it  will  find  him  out  ;  nor  run  from  it, 
But  it  o'ertaketh   him  !     The   Lord   hath 

said  it. 

THE  BRIDEGROOM  to  the  BRIDE,  on  the  balcony. 

When  Abraham  went  with  Sarah  into 
Egypt, 

The  land  was  all  illumined  with  her 
beauty  ; 

But  thou  dost  make  the  very  night  itself 

Brighter  than  day  !  Behold,  in  glad  pro 
cession, 


368 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


Crowding  the  threshold  of  the  sky  above  us, 
The  stars  come  forth  to    meet  thee  with 

their  lamps  ; 
And   the  soft  winds,   the  ambassadors    of 

flowers, 
From  neighboring  gardens  and  from  fields 

unseen, 
Come    laden    with   odors    unto    thee,    my 

Queen ! 

THE    MUSICIANS. 

Awake,  O  north-wind, 

And  come,  thou  wind  of  the  South. 

Blow,  blow  upon  my  garden, 

That  the  spices  thereof  may  flow  out. 


IV 


IN   THE  CORNFIELDS 


Onward  through  leagues  of  sun-illumined 

corn, 
As  if    through  parted    seas,  the  pathway 

runs, 
And  crowned  with  sunshine  as  the  Prince 

of  Peace 

Walks  the  beloved  Master,  leading  us, 
As  Moses  led  our  fathers  in  old  times 
Out  of  the  land  of   bondage  !     We   have 

found 
Him  of    whom   Moses   and   the    Prophets 

wrote, 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  the  Son  of  Joseph. 

NATHANAEL. 

Can  any  good  come  out  of  Nazareth  ? 
Can  this  be  the  Messiah  ? 


Come  and  see. 


NATHANAEL. 


The  summer  sun  grows  hot  :  I  am  anhun 
gered. 

How  cheerily  the  Sabbath-breaking  quail 
Pipes  in  the  corn,  and  bids  us  to  his  Feast 
Of  Wheat   Sheaves  !     How   the   bearded, 

ripening  ears 

Toss  in  the  roofless  temple  of  the  air  ; 
As  if  the  unseen  hand  of  some  High-Priest 
Waved   them  before  Mount  Tabor   as  an 

altar  ! 
It  were  no  harm,  if  we  should  pluck  and  eat. 


PHILIP. 

How  wonderful  it  is  to  walk  abroad 
With  the  Good  Master  !    Since  the  miracle 
He  wrought  at  Cana,  at  the  marriage  feast, 
His  fame  hath  gone  abroad  through  all  the 

land, 
And  when  we  come  to  Nazareth,  thou  shalt 

see 
How  his    own    people   will    receive   their 

Prophet, 

And  hail  him  as  Messiah  !     See,  he  turns 
And  looks  at  thee. 

CHRISTUS. 

Behold  an  Israelite 
In  whom  there  is  no  guile. 

NATHANAEL. 

Whence  knowest  thou  me  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

Before  that  Philip  called  thee,  when  thou 

wast 
Under  the  fig-tree,  I  beheld  thee. 

NATHANAEL. 

Rabbi ! 

Thou  art  the  Son  of  God,  thou  art  the  King 
Of  Israel ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Because  I  said  I  saw  thee 
Under  the  fig-tree,  before  Philip  called  thee, 
Believest  thou  ?     Thou  shalt  see  greater 

things. 

Hereafter  thou  shalt  see  the  heavens  un 
closed, 

The  angels  of  God  ascending  and  descend 
ing 
Upon  the  Son  of  Man  ! 

PHARISEES,  passing. 

Hail,  Rabbi ! 


CHRISTUS. 


Hail! 


PHARISEES. 

Behold  how  thy  disciples  do  a  thing 
Which  is  not  lawful  on  the  Sabbath-day, 
And  thou  forbiddest  them  not  / 

CHRISTUS. 

Have  ye  not  read 
What  David  did  when  he  anhungered  was, 


THE    DIVINE    TRAGEDY 


369 


And  all  they  that  were  with  him  ?     How 

he  entered 
Into  the  house  of  God,  and  ate  the  shew- 

bread, 
Which   was    not   lawful,   saving    for    the 

priests  ? 

Have  ye  not  read,  how  on  the  Sabbath-days 
The   priests   profane   the    Sabbath   in   the 

Temple, 

And  yet  are  blameless  ?     But  I  say  to  you, 
One    in   this    place   is    greater  than  the 

Temple  ! 
And  had   ye   known   the   meaning  of  the 

words, 

I  will  have  mercy  and  not  sacrifice, 
The  guiltless  ye  would  not  condemn.     The 

Sabbath 
Was  made  for  man,  and  not  man  for  the 

Sabbath. 

Passes  on  with  the  disciples. 

PHARISEES. 

This  is,  alas  !  some  poor  demoniac 
Wandering  about  the  fields,  and  uttering 
His  unintelligible  blasphemies 
Among  the  common  people,  who  receive 
As  prophecies  the  words  they  comprehend 

not  ! 

Deluded  folk  !     The  incomprehensible 
Alone  excites  their  wonder.     There  is  none 
So  visionary,  or  so  void  of  sense, 
But  he  will  find  a  crowd  to  follow  him  ! 


NAZARETH 

CHRISTUS,  reading  in  the  Synagogue. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  God  is  upon  me. 
He  hath  anointed  me  to  preach  good  tidings 
Unto  the  poor  ;  to  heal  the  broken-hearted  ; 
To  comfort  those  that  mourn,  and  to  throw 

open 

The  prison  doors  of  captives,  and  proclaim 
The  Year  Acceptable  of  the  Lord,  our  God  ! 

He  closes  the  book  and  sits  down. 

A  PHARISEE. 

Who  is  this  youth  ?     He  hath  taken  the 

Teacher's  seat  ! 
Will  he  instruct  the  Elders  ? 

A  PRIEST. 

Fifty  years 
Have  I  been  Priest  here  in  the  Synagogue, 


And  never  have  I  seen  so  young  a  man 
Sit  in  the  Teacher's  seat  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Behold,  to-day 

This  scripture  is  fulfilled.    One  is  appointed 
And  hath  been  sent  to  them  that  mourn  in 

Zion, 

To  give  them  beauty  for  ashes,  and  the  oil 
Of  joy  for  mourning !     They  shall  build 

again 

The  old  waste-places  ;  and  again  raise  up 
The  former  desolations,  and  repair 
The  cities  that  are  wasted  !     As  a  bride- 

r-oom 
himself  with  ornaments  ;  as  a  bride 
Adorneth  herself  with  jewels,  so  the  Lord 
Hath  clothed  me  with  the  robe  of  righteous 
ness  ! 

A  PRIEST. 

He  speaks  the  Prophet's  words  ;  but  with 

an  air 
As   if  himself  had  been  foreshadowed  in 

them  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

For  Zion's  sake  I  will  not  hold  my  peace, 

And  for  Jerusalem's  sake  I  will  not  rest 

Until  its  righteousness  be  as  a  brightness, 

And  its  salvation  as  a  lamp  that  burneth  ! 

Thou  shalt  be  called  no  longer  the  For 
saken, 

Nor  any  more  thy  land  the  Desolate. 

The  Lord  hath  sworn,  by  his  right  hand 
hath  sworn, 

And  by  his  arm  of  strength  :  I  will  no  more 

Give  to  thine  enemies  thy  corn  as  meat ; 

The  sons  of  strangers  shall  not  drink  thy 
wine. 

Go  through,  go  through  the  gates  !  Pre 
pare  a  way 

Unto  the  people  !    Gather  out  the  stones  ! 

Lift  up  a  standard  for  the  people  ! 


Ah! 


A  PRIEST. 

These  are  seditious  words  I 

CHRISTUS. 

And  they  shall  call  them 
The  holy  people  ;  the  redeemed  of  God  ! 
And  thou,  Jerusalem,  shalt  be  called  Sought 

out, 
A  city  not  forsaken  ! 


37o 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


A   PHARISEE. 

Is  not  this 
The   carpenter  Joseph's   son  ?     Is  not  his 

mother 
Called  Mary?    and  his  brethren  and   his 

sisters 
Are   they   not   with   us  ?     Doth   he  make 

himself 
To  be  a  Prophet  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

No  man  is  a  Prophet 
In  his  own  country,  and  among  his  kin. 
In  his  own  house  no  Prophet  is  accented. 
I  say  to  you,  in  the  land  of  Israel 
Were  many  widows  in  Elijah's  day, 
When  for  three  years  and  more  the  heavens 

were  shut, 
And  a   great  famine  was   throughout  the 

land  ; 

But  unto  no  one  was  Elijah  sent 
Save  to  Sarepta,  to  a  city  of  Sidon, 
And  to  a  woman  there  that  was  a  widow. 
And  many  lepers  were  there  in  the  land 
Of  Israel,  in  the  time  of  Eliseus 
The  Prophet,  and   yet  none  of  them  was 

cleansed, 
Save  Naaman  the  Syrian  ! 

A  PRIEST. 

Say  no  more  ! 

Thou  comest  here  into  our  Synagogue 
And  speakest  to  the  Elders  and  the  Priests, 
As  if  the  very  mantle  of  Elijah 
Had   fallen    upon    thee  !     Art    thou    not 
ashamed  ? 

A   PHARISEE. 

We  want  no  Prophets  here  !     Let  him  be 

driven 

From  Synagogue  and  city  !     Let  him  go 
And  prophesy  to  the  Samaritans  ! 

AN  ELDER. 

The  world  is  changed.     We  Elders  are  as 

nothing  ! 

We  are  but  yesterdays,  that  have  no  part 
Or  portion   in   to-day  !      Dry  leaves   that 

rustle, 
That   make   a  little   sound,  and   then   are 

dust! 

A  PHARISEE. 

A  carpenter's  apprentice  !  a  mechanic, 
Whom  we  have  seen  at  work  here  in  the 
town 


Day  after  day  ;  a  stripling  without  learn 
ing* 

Shall  he  pretend  to  unfold  the  Word  of  God 
To  men  grown  old  in  study  of  the  Law  ? 
CHRISTUS  is  thrust  out. 


VI 


THE   SEA   OF  GALILEE 
PETER  and  ANDREW  mending  their  nets. 

PETER. 

Never  was  such  a  marvellous  draught  of 

fishes 

Heard  of  in  Galilee  !    The  market-places 
Both  of  Bethsaida  and  Capernaum 
Are  full  of  them  !     Yet  we  had  toiled  all 

night 

And  taken  nothing,  when  the  Master  said  : 
Launch  out  into  the  deep,  and  cast  your 

nets  ; 

And  doing  this,  we  caught  such  multitudes, 
Our  nets  like  spiders'  webs  were  snapped 

asunder, 
And  with  the  draught  we  filled  two  ships 

so  full 
That   they  began  to  sink.     Then  I   knelt 

down 

Amazed,  and  said:  O  Lord,  depart  from  me, 
I  am  a  sinful  man.  And  he  made  answer  : 
Simon,  fear  not  ;  henceforth  thou  shalt 

catch  men  ! 
What  was  the  meaning  of  those  words  ? 


I  know  not. 

But  here  is  Philip,  come  from  Nazareth. 
He  hath  been  with  the  Master.     Tell  us, 

Philip, 
What  tidings  dost  thou  bring  ? 


Most  wonderful ! 

As  we  drew  near  to  Nain,  out  of  the  gate 
Upon  a  bier  was  carried  the  dead  body 
Of  a  young  man,  his  mother's  only  son, 
And  she  a  widow,  who  with  lamentation 
Bewailed  her  loss,  and  the  much   people 

with  her  ; 
And   when   the    Master   saw  her   he  was 

filled 

With  pity  ;  and  he  said  to  her  :  Weep  not ! 
And  came  and  touched  the  bier,  and  they 

that  bare  it 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


37i 


Stood  still ;  and  then  he  said  :  Young  man, 

arise  ! 
And  he  that   had  been  dead  sat  up,  and 

soon 

Began  to  speak  ;  and  he  delivered  him 
Unto  his  mother.     And  there  came  a  fear 
On  all  the  people,  and  they  glorified 
The   Lord,  and   said,  rejoicing  :    A   great 

Prophet 

Is  risen  up  among  us  !  and  the  Lord 
Hath  visited  his  people  ! 

PETER. 

A  great  Prophet  ? 

Ay,  greater  than  a  Prophet :  greater  even 
Than  John  the  Baptist ! 


Yet  the  Nasarenes 


Rejected  him. 


The  Nazarenes  are  dogs  ! 
As  natural    brute   beasts,   they   growl   at 

things 
They  do  not   understand  ;  and   they  shall 

perish, 

Utterly  perish  in  their  own  corruption. 
The  Nazarenes  are  dogs  ! 

PHILIP. 

They  drave  him  forth 
Out  of  their  Synagogue,  out  of  their  city, 
And  would  have  cast  him  down  a  precipice, 
But,  passing  through  the  midst  of  them,  he 

vanished 
Out  of  their  hands. 

PETER. 

Wells  arc  they  without  water, 
Clouds  carried  with  a  tempest,  unto  whom 
The  mist  of  darkness  is  reserved  forever  ! 

PHILIP. 
Behold  he  cometh.     There  is  one  man  with 

him 
I  am  amazed  to  see  ! 

ANDREW. 

What  man  is  that  ? 


Judas  Iscariot ;  he  that  cometh  last, 
Girt    with    a    leathern    apron.      No    one 
knoweth 


His  history  ;  but  the  rumor  of  him  is 
He  had  an  unclean  spirit  in  his  youth. 
It  hath  not  left  him  yet. 

CHRISTUS,  passing. 

Come  unto  me, 

All  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 
And  I  will  give  you  rest  !     Come  unto  me, 
And  take  my  yoke  upon  you  and  learn  of  me, 
For  I  am  meek,  and  I  am  lowly  in  heart, 
And  ye  shall  all  find  rest  unto  your  souls  ! 

PHILIP. 
Oh,  there  is  something  in  that  voice  that 

reaches 

The  innermost  recesses  of  my  spirit  ! 
I  feel  that  it  might  say  unto  the  blind  : 
Receive  your  sight  !  and  straightway  they 

would  see  ! 

I  feel  that  it  might  say  unto  the  dead, 
Arise  !  and  they  would  hear  it  and  obey  ! 
Behold,  he  beckons  to  us  ! 

CHRISTUS,  to  PETER  and  ANDREW. 

Follow  me  ! 

PETER. 

Master,  I  will  leave  all  and  follow  thee. 


VII 


THE   DEMONIAC   OF  GADARA 

A  GADARENE. 

He  hath  escaped,  hath  plucked  his  chains 

asunder, 
And  broken  his  fetters  ;  always  night  and 

day 

Is  in  the  mountains  here,  and  in  the  tombs, 
Crying    aloud,  and  cutting    himself    with 

stones, 
Exceeding  fierce,  so  that  no  man  can  tame 

him  ! 

THE  DEMONIAC  from  above,  unseen. 
0  Aschmedai  !     O  Aschmedai,  have  pity  ! 

A  GADARENE. 

Listen  !    It  is  his  voice  !   Go  warn  the  people 
Just  landing  from  the  lake  ! 

THE    DEMONIAC. 

0  Aschmedai ! 

Thou   angel    of   the  bottomless   pit,   have 
pity! 


372 


CHRISTUS  :    A    MYSTERY 


It  was  enough  to  hurl  King  Solomon, 

On  whom  be  peace  !  two  hundred  leagues 
away 

Into  the  country,  and  to  make  him  scul 
lion 

In  the  kitchen  of  the  King  of  Maschke- 
men  ! 

Why  dost  thou  hurl  me  here  among  these 
rocks, 

And  cut  me  with  these  stones  ? 

A  GADABENE. 

He  raves  and  mutters 
He  knows  not  what. 

THE  DEMONIAC,  appearing  from  a  tomb  among 
the  rocks. 

The  wild  cock  Tarnegal 
Singeth  to  me,  and  bids  me  to  the  banquet, 
Where  all  the  Jews  shall  come  ;  for  they 

have  slain 

Behemoth  the  great  ox,  who  daily  cropped 
A  thousand  hills  for  food,  and  at  a  draught 
Drank  up  the  river  Jordan,  and  have  slain 
The   huge   Leviathan,    and    stretched    his 

skin 

Upon  the  high  walls  of  Jerusalem, 
And  made  them  shine  from  one  end  of  the 

world 

Unto  the  other  ;   and  the  fowl  Barjuchne, 
Whose   outspread   wings    eclipse  the  sun, 

and  make 

Midnight  at  noon  o'er  all  the  continents  ! 
And  we  shall  drink  the  wine  of  Paradise 
From  Adam's  cellars. 

A  GADARENE. 

O  thou  unclean  spirit  ! 

THE  DEMONIAC,  hurling  down  a  stone. 

This  is  the  wonderful  Barjuchne's  egg, 

That  fell  out  of  her  nest,  and  broke  to 
pieces 

And  swept  away  three  hundred  cedar- 
trees, 

And  threescore  villages  !  —  Rabbi  Eliezer, 

How  thou  didst  sin  there  in  that  seaport 
town 

When  thou  hadst  carried  safe  thy  chest  of 
silver 

Over  the  seven  rivers  for  her  sake  ! 

I  too  have  sinned  beyond  the  reach  of 
pardon. 

Ye  hills  and  mountains,  pray  for  mercy  on 
me  ! 


Ye  stars  and  planets,  pray  for  mercy  on 

me  ! 
Ye  sun  and  moon,  oh  pray  for  mercy  on 

me  ! 
CHRISTUS  and  his  disciples  pass. 

A    GADARENE. 

There  is  a  man  here  of  Decapolis, 

Who  hath  an  unclean  spirit  ;  so  that  none 

Can  pass  this  way.     He  lives  among  the 

tombs 
Up  there  upon  the  cliffs,  and  hurls  down 

stones 
On  those  who  pass  beneath. 


CHRISTUS. 


Thou  unclean  spirit ! 


Come  out  of  him, 


THE   DEMONIAC. 

What  have  I  to  do 

With  thee,  thou  Son  of  God?  Do  not 
torment  us. 

CHRISTUS. 
What  is  thy  name  ? 

THE  DEMONIAC. 

Legion  ;  for  we  are  many. 

Cain,  the  first  murderer  ;  and  the  King 
Belshazzar, 

And  Evil  Merodach  of  Babylon, 

And  Admatha,  the  death-cloud,  prince  of 
Persia  ; 

And  Aschmedai,  the  angel  of  the  pit, 

And  many  other  devils.     We  are  Legion. 

Send  us  not  forth  beyond  Decapolis  ; 

Command  us  not  to  go  into  the  deep  ! 

There  is  a  herd  of  swine  here  in  the  pas 
tures, 

Let  us  go  into  them. 

CHRISTUS. 

Come  out  of  him, 
Thou  unclean  spirit ! 

A  GADARENE. 

See,  how  stupefied, 
How  motionless  he  stands  !     He  cries  no 

more  ; 

He  seems  bewildered  and  in  silence  stares 
As  one  who,  walking  in  his  sleep,  awakes 
And  knows  not  where  he  is,  and  looks 

about  him, 
And  at  his  nakedness,  and  is  ashamed. 


THE   DIVINE  TRAGEDY 


373 


THE  DEMONIAC. 

Why  am  I  here  alone  among  the  tombs  ? 
What  have  they  done   to  me,   that  I  am 

naked  ? 
Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Go  home  unto  thy  friends 
And  tell  them  how  great  things  the  Lord 

hath  done 

For  thee,  and  how  He  had  compassion  on 
thee  ! 

A  SWINEHERD,  running. 
The  herds  !  the   herds  !     O  most  unlucky 

day! 

They  were  all  feeding  quiet  in  the  sun, 
When    suddenly  they   started,    and    grew 

savage 

As  the  wild  boars  of  Tabor,  and  together 
Rushed  down  a  precipice  into  the  sea  ! 
They  are  all  drowned  ! 

PETER. 

Thus  righteously  are  punished 
The  apostate  Jews,  that   eat   the  flesh  of 

swine, 
And  broth  of  such  abominable  things  ! 

GREEKS  OF  GADARA. 

We  sacrifice  a  sow  unto  Demeter 
At  the  beginning  of  harvest,  and  another 
To  Dionysus  at  the  vintage-time. 
Therefore  we  prize  our  herds  of  swine,  and 

count  them 

Not  as  unclean,  but  as  things  consecrate 
To  the  immortal  gods.     O  great  magician, 
Depart  out  of  our  coasts  ;  let  us  alone, 
We  are  afraid  of  thee. 

PETER. 

Let  us  depart ; 

For  they  that  sanctify  and  purify 
Themselves  in  gardens,  eating  flesh  of  swine, 
And  the  abomination,  and  the  mouse, 
Shall  be  consumed  together,  saith  the  Lord  ! 


VIII 
TALITHA   CUMI 

JAIRUS  at  the  feet  o/"  CHRISTUS. 
O  Master  !  I  entreat  thee  !  I  implore  thee  ! 
My  daughter  lieth  at  the  point  of  death  j 


I  pray  thee  come  and  lay  thy  hands  upon 

her, 
And  she  shall  live  ! 

CHRISTUS. 
Who  was  it  touched  my  garments  ? 

SIMON  PETER. 

Thouseest  the  multitude  that  throng  and 

press  thee, 
And    sayest    thou  :  Who     touched     me  ? 

T  was  not  I. 

CHRISTUS. 
Some  one  hath   touched   my  garments  ;  I 

perceive 
That  virtue  is  gone  out  of  me. 

A  WOMAN. 

O  Master ! 

Forgive  me  !     For  I  said  within  myself, 
If  I  so  much  as  touch  his  garment's  hem, 
I  shall  be  whole. 

CHRISTUS. 

Be  of  good  comfort,  daughter! 
Thy  faith  hath  made  thee  whole.     Depart 
in  peace. 

A  MESSENGER  from  the  house. 

Why  troublest  thou  the  Master  ?  Hearest 
thou  not 

The  flute-players,  and  the  voices  of  the  wo 
men 

Singing  their  lamentation  ?     She  is  dead  ! 

THE   MINSTRELS  AND  MOURNERS. 

We  have  girded  ourselves  with  sackcloth  ! 

We  have  covered  our  heads  with  ashes  ! 

For  our  young  men  die,  and  our  maidens 

Swoon  in  the  streets  of  the  city  ; 

And  into  their  mother's  bosom 

They  pour  out  their  souls  like  water  ! 

CHRISTUS,  going  in. 
Give  place.     Why  make  ye  this  ado,  and 

weep  ? 
She  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth. 

THE  MOTHER,  from  within. 

Cruel  Death  ! 

To  take  away  from  me  this  tender  blos 
som  ! 

To  take  away  my  dove,  my  lamb,  my  dar 
ling  ! 


374 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


THE  MINSTRELS  AND  MOURNERS. 

He  hath  led  me  and  brought  into  darkness, 
Like  the  dead  of  old  in  dark  places  ! 
He  hath  bent  his  bow,  and  hath  set  me 
Apart  as  a  mark  for  his  arrow  ! 
He  hath  covered  himself  with  a  cloud, 
That  our  prayer  should  not  pass  through 
.      and  reach  him  ! 

THE  CROWD. 
He  stands  beside  her  bed  !     He  takes  her 

hand  ! 
Listen,  he  speaks  to  her  ! 

CHRISTUS,  within. 

Maiden,  arise  ! 

THE  CROWD. 
See,  she  obeys  his  voice  !     She  stirs  !     She 

lives  ! 

Her  mother  holds  her  folded  in  her  arms  ! 
O  miracle  of  miracles  !     O  marvel ! 


IX 

THE   TOWER  OF   MAGDALA 

MARY  MAGDALENE. 

Companionless,  unsatisfied,  forlorn, 
I  sit  here  in  this  lonely  tower,  and  look 
Upon  the  lake  below  me,  and  the  hills 
That   swoon   with   heat,  and  see    as   in  a 

vision 

All  my  past  life  unroll  itself  before  me. 
The  princes  and  the   merchants   come  to 

me, 

Merchants  of  Tyre  and  Princes  of  Damas 
cus, 

And  pass,  and  disappear,  and  are  no  more  ; 
But   leave   behind  their   merchandise'  and 

jewels, 
Their  perfumes,  and  their  gold,  and  their 

disgust. 

I  loathe  them,  and  the  very  memory  of  them 
Is  unto  rne  as  thought  of  food  to  one 
Cloyed  with  the  luscious  figs  of  Dalmanu- 

tha  ! 

What  if  hereafter,  in  the  long  hereafter 
Of  endless  joy  or  pain,  or  joy  in  pain, 
It  were  my  punishment  to  be  with  them 
Grown  hideous  and  decrepit  in  their  sins, 
And  hear  them  say  :  Thou  that  hast  brought 

us  here, 
Be  unto  us  as  thou  hast  been  of  old  ! 


I  look  upon  this  raiment  that  I  wear, 
These   silks,  and   these  embroideries,  and 

they  seem 
Only    as    cerements   wrapped    about    my 

limbs  ! 

I  look  upon  these  rings  thick  set  with  pearls, 
And  emerald  and  amethyst  and  jasper, 
And  they  are  burning  coals  upon  my  flesh  ! 
This  serpent  on  my  wrist  becomes  alive  ! 
Away,  thou  viper  !  and  away,  ye  garlands, 
Whose  odors  bring  the  swift  remembrance 

back 

Of  the  unhallowed  revels  in  these  cham 
bers  ! 

But  yesterday,  —  and  yet  it  seems  to  me 
Something  remote,  like  a  pathetic  song 
Sung  long  ago  by  minstrels  in  the  street,  — 
But  yesterday,  as  from  this  tower  I  gazed, 
Over  the  olive  and  the  walnut  trees 
Upon   the    lake   and  the  white  ships,  and 

wondered 
Whither  and  whence  they  steered,  and  who 

was  in  them, 

A  fisher's  boat  drew  near  the  landing-place 
Under  the  oleanders,  and  the  people 
Came  up  from  it,  and  passed  beneath  the 

tower, 
Close   under   me.     In  front   of   them,  as 

leader, 
Walked   one   of  royal   aspect,  clothed   in 

white, 

Who  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  me, 
And  all  at  once  the  air  seemed  filled  and 

living 
With  a  mysterious  power,  that   streamed 

from  him, 

And  overflowed  me  with  an  atmosphere 
Of   light  and   love.     As  one   entranced   I 

stood, 

And  when  I  woke  again,  lo  !  he -was  gone  ; 
So  that  I  said  :  Perhaps  it  is  a  dream. 
But  from  that  very  hour  the  seven  demons 
That  had  their  habitation  in  this  body 
Which  men  call  beautiful,  departed  from 

me  ! 

This  morning,  when  the  first  gleam  of  the 
dawn 

Made  Lebanon  a  glory  in  the  air, 

And  all  below  was  darkness,  I  beheld 

An  angel,  or  a  spirit  glorified, 

With  wind-tossed  garments  walking  on  the 
lake. 

The  face  I  could  not  see,  but  I  distin 
guished 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


375 


The  attitude  and  gesture,  and  I  knew 

'T  was  he  that  healed  me.     And  the  gusty 

wind 
Brought  to  mine  ears  a  voice,  which  seemed 

to  say  : 

Be  of  good  cheer  !  'T  is  I  !  Be  not  afraid  ! 
And  from  the  darkness,  scarcely  heard,  the 

answer  : 

If  it  be  thou,  bid  me  come  unto  thee 
Upon   the   water !     And    the   voice   said  : 

Come  ! 
And  then   I   heard  a  cry  of  fear  :   Lord, 

save  me  ! 
As   of    a   drowning  man.     And   then  the 

voice  : 
Why  didst   thou   doubt,  O   thou   of  little 

faith  ! 
At  this   all   vanished,  and   the   wind   was 

hushed, 

And  the  great  sun  came  up  above  the  hills, 
And  the  swift-flying  vapors  hid  themselves 
In  caverns  among  the  rocks  !  Oh,  I  must 

find  him 
And  follow  him,  and  be  with  him  forever  ! 

Thou  box  of  alabaster,  in  whose  walls 
The  souls  of  flowers  lie  pent,  the  precious 

balm 

And  spikenard  of  Arabian  farms,  the  spirits 
Of  aromatic  herbs,  ethereal  natures 
Nursed  by  the  sun  and   dew,  not   all  un 
worthy 

To  bathe  his  consecrated  feet,  whose  step 
Makes  every  threshold  holy  that  he  crosses  ; 
Let  us  go  forth  upon  our  pilgrimage, 
Thou  and  I  only  !     Let  us  search  for  him 
Until  we  find  him,  and  pour  out  our  souls 
Before  his  feet,  till  all  that 's  left  of  us 
Shall  be  the  broken  caskets  that  once  held 
us  ! 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SIMON  THE  PHARISEE 

A  GUEST  at  table. 

Are  ye  deceived  ?  Have  any  of  the  Rulers 
Believed  on  him  ?  or  do  they  know  indeed 
This  man  to  be  the  very  Christ  ?  Howbeit 
We  know  whence  this  man  is,  but  when  the 

Christ 
Shall  come,  none  knoweth  whence  he  is. 

CHRISTUS. 
Whereunto  shall  I  liken,  then,  the  men 


Of  this  generation  ?   and   what  are   they 

like? 

They  are  like  children  sitting  in  the  mar 
kets, 

And  calling  unto  one  another,  saying  : 
We  have  piped  unto  you,  and  ye  have  not 

danced  ; 
We  have  mourned  unto  you,  and  ye  'have 

not  wept  ! 

This  say  I  unto  you,  for  John  the  Baptist 
Came    neither    eating  bread  nor  drinking 

wine  ; 

Ye  say  he  hath  a  devil.     The  Son  of  Man 
Eating  and  drinking  cometh,  and  ye  say  : 
Behold  a  gluttonous  man,  and  a  wine-bib 
ber  ; 
Behold  a  friend  of  publicans  and  sinners  ! 

A  GUEST  aside  to  SIMON. 
Who  is  that  woman  yonder,  gliding  in 
So  silently  behind  him.  ? 

SIMON. 

It  is  Mary, 
Who  dwelleth  in  the  Tower  of  Magdala. 

THE    GUEST. 

See,  how  she  kneels  there  weeping,  and  her 

tears 

Fall  on  his  feet  ;  and  her  long,  golden  hair 
Waves  to  and  fro  and  wipes  them  dry  again. 
And  now  she  kisses  them,  and  from  a  box 
Of  alabaster  is  anointing  them 
With  precious  ointment,  filling  all  the  house 
With  its  sweet  odor  ! 

SIMON,  aside. 

Oh,  this  man,  forsooth, 
Were  he   indeed   a   Prophet,  would   have 

known 
Who  and  what  manner  of  woman  this  may 

be 

That  toucheth  him  !  would  know  she  is  a 
sinner  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Simon,  somewhat  have  I  to  say  to  thee. 


Master,  say  on. 

CHRISTUS. 

A  certain  creditor 

Had  once  two  debtors  ;  and  the  one  of  them 
Owed  him  five  hundred  pence  ;  the  other, 
fifty. 


376 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


They   having   naught    to    pay   withal,   he 

frankly 
Forgave  them  both.    Now  tell  me  which  of 

them 
Will  love  him  most  ? 


He  most  forgave. 


SIMON. 

He,  I  suppose,  to  whom 


CHRISTUS. 

Yea,  thou  hast  rightly  judged. 
Seest    thou    this    woman  ?      When   thine 

house  I  entered, 

Thou  gavest  me  no  water  for  my  feet, 
But  she  hath  washed  them  with  her  tears, 

and  wiped  them 
With  her  own  hair.     Thou  gavest  me  no 

kiss  ; 
This  woman  hath  not  ceased,  since  I  came 

in, 
To  kiss  my  feet.     My  head  with  oil  didst 

thou 

Anoint  not  ;  but  this  woman  hath  anointed 
Mv  feet  with  ointment.      Hence  I  say  to 

thee, 

Her  sins,  which  have  been  many,  are  for 
given, 
For  she  loved  much. 

THE  GUESTS. 

Oh,  who,  then,  is  this  man 
That   pardoneth   also  sins   without   atone 
ment  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

Woman,  thy  faith  hath  saved  thee  !    Go  in 
peace  1 


THE    SECOND   PASSOVER 


BEFORE   THE  GATES   OF  MACILERUS 

MANAHEM. 

WELCOME,    O    wilderness,    and    welcome, 

night 

And  solitude,  and  ye  swift-flying  stars 
That   drift  with  golden  sands  the    barren 

heavens, 
Welcome  once  more  !     The  Angels  of  the 

Wind 


Hasten  across  the  desert  to  receive  me  ; 
And  sweeter  than  men's  voices  are  to  me 
The  voices  of  these  solitudes  ;  the  sound 
Of  unseen  rivulets,  and  the  far-off  cry 
Of  bitterns  in  the  reeds  of  water-pools. 
And  lo  !  above  me,  like  the  Prophet's  arrow 
Shot  from  the  eastern  window,  high  in  air 
The  clamorous  cranes  go  singing  through 
the  night. 

0  ye  mysterious  pilgrims  of  the  air, 
Would   I  had  wings  that  I  might   follow 

you  ! 

1  look  forth  from  these  mountains,  and  be 

hold 

The  omnipotent  and  omnipresent  night, 
Mysterious  as  the  future  and  the  fate 
That  hangs  o'er  all  men's  lives  !     I  see  be 
neath  me 

The  desert  stretching  to  the  Dead  Sea  shore, 
And   westward,   faint   and   far   away,  the 

glimmer 

Of  torches  on  Mount  Olivet,  announcing 
The  rising  of  the  Moon  of  Passover. 
Like  a  great  cross  it  seems,  on  which  sus 
pended, 

With  head  bowed  down  in  agony,  I  see 
A  human  figure  !    Hide,  O  merciful  heaven, 
The  awful  apparition  from  my  sight  ! 

And  thou,  Machserus,  lifting  high  and  black 
Thy  dreadful  walls  against  the  rising  moon, 
Haunted  by  demons  and  by  apparitions, 
Lilith,  and  Jezerhara,  and  Bedargon, 
How   grim    thou  showest  in  the  uncertain 

light, 

A  palace  and  a  prison,  where  King  Herod 
Feasts    with   Herodias,    while   the  Baptist 

John 

Fasts,  and  consumes  his  unavailing  life  ! 
And  in  thy  court-yard  grows  the  untithed 

rue, 

Huge  as  the  olives  of  Gethsemane, 
And  ancient  as  the  terebinth  of  Hebron, 
Coeval  with   the  world.     Would   that   its 

leaves 

Medicinal  could  purge  thee  of  the  demons 
That  now  possess  thee,  and  the  cunning  fox 
That  burrows  in  thy  walls,  contriving  mis 
chief  ! 

Music  is  heard  from  within. 

Angels   of   God  !     Sandalphon,   thou   that 

weavest 
The  prayers  of  men  into  immortal  garlands, 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


377 


And  thou,  Metatron,  who  dost  gather  up 
Their  songs,  and  bear  them  to  the  gates  of 

heaven, 

Now  gather  up  together  in  your  hands 
The  prayers  that  fill  this  prison,  and  the 

songs 

That  echo  from  the  ceiling  of  this  palace, 
And  lay  them  side  by  side   before   God's 

feet ! 

He  enters  the  castle. 


II 


HEROD'S   BANQUET-HALL 

MANAHEM. 

Thou  hast  sent  for  me,  O  King,  and  I  am 
here. 


Who  art  thou  ? 


MANAHEM. 

Manahem,  the  Essenian. 


HEROD. 

I  recognize  thy  features,  but  what  mean 
These  torn  and  faded  garments  ?     On  thy 

road 
Have    demons   crowded  thee,  and  rubbed 

against  thee, 
And  given  thee  weary  knees  ?     A  cup  of 

wine  ! 

MANAHEM. 

The  Essenians  drink  no  wine. 

HEROD. 

What  wilt  thou,  then  ? 


Nothing. 


MANAHEM. 
HEROD. 

Not  even  a  cup  of  water  ? 


MANAHEM. 


Why  hast  thou  sent  for  me  ? 


Nothing. 


HEROD. 

Dost  thou  remember 

One  day  when  I,  a  schoolboy  in  the  streets 
Of  the  great  city,  met  thee  on  my  way 
To  school,  and  thou  didst  say  to  me  :  Here 
after 
Thou  shalt  be  king  ? 


MANAHEM. 

Yea,  I  remember  it. 

HEROD. 

Thinking  thou  didst  not  know  me,  I  re 
plied  : 

I  am  of  humble  birth  ;  whereat  thou,  smil 
ing* 

Didst  smite  me  with  thy  hand,  and  saidst 
again  : 

Thou  shalt  be  King  ;  and  let  the  friendly 
blows 

That  Manahem  hath  given  thee  on  this  day 

Remind  thee  of  the  fickleness  of  fortune. 


What  more  ? 


MANAHEM. 
HEROD. 

No  more. 


MANAHEM. 

Yea,  for  I  said  to  thee  : 
It  shall  be  well  with  thee  if  thou  love  jus 
tice 

And  clemency  towards  thy  fellow-men. 
Hast  thou  done  this,  O  King  ? 

HEROD. 

Go,  ask  my  people. 

MANAHEM. 

And  then,  foreseeing  all  thy  life,  I  added  : 
But  these  thou  wilt  forget  ;  and  at  the  end 
Of  life  the  Lord  will  punish  thee. 

HEROD. 

The  end  ! 
When  will  that  come  ?     For  this  I  sent  to 

thee. 
How  long  shall  I  still  reign  ?     Thou  dost 

not  answer  ! 
Speak  !  shall  I  reign  ten  years  ? 

MANAHEM. 

Thou  shalt  reign  twenty, 
Nay,  thirty  years.    I  cannot  name  the  end. 

HEROD. 

Thirty  ?     I  thank  thee,  good  Essenian  1 
This  is  my  birthday,  and  a  happier  one 
Was  never  mine.    We  hold  a  banquet  here. 
See,  yonder  are  Herodias  and  her  daughter. 

MANAHEM,  aside. 

'Tis  said  that  devils  sometimes  take  the 
shape 


378 


CHRISTUS:    A    MYSTERY 


Of  ministering  angels,  clothed  with  air, 
That  they  may  be  inhabitants  of  earth, 
And  lead   man  to  destruction.     Such  are 
these. 

HEROD. 
Knowest  thou  John  the  Baptist  ? 

MANAHEM. 

Yea,  I  know  him  ; 
Who  knows  him  not  ? 

HEROD. 

Know,  then,  this  John  the  Baptist 
Said  that  it  was  not  lawful  I  should  marry 
My  brother  Philip's  wife,  and  John  the 

Baptist 

Is  here  in  prison.     In  my  father's  time 
Matthias  Margaloth  was  put  to  death 
For  tearing  the  golden  eagle  from  its  sta 
tion 
Above    the    Temple    Gate,  —  a    slighter 

crime 
Than  John  is  guilty  of.     These  things  are 

warnings 

To  intermeddlers  not  to  play  with  eagles, 
Living  or  dead.     I  think  the  Essenians 
Are  wiser,  or  more  wary,  are  they  not  ? 

MANAHEM. 

The  Essenians  do  not  marry. 

HEROD. 

Thou  hast  given 

My    words    a    meaning     foreign    to    my 
thought. 

MANAHEM. 

Let  me  go  hence,  O  King  ! 


Stay  yet  awhile, 

And  see  the  daughter  of  Herodias  dance. 
Cleopatra  of  Jerusalem,  my  mother, 
In  her  best  days,  was  not  more  beautiful. 
Music.    THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HERODIAS  dances. 

HEROD. 

Oh,  what  was  Miriam   dancing  with   her 

timbrel, 
Compared  to  this  one  ? 

MANAHEM,  aside. 

O  thou  Angel  of  Death, 
Dancing  at  funerals  among  the  women, 


When  men  bear  out  the  dead  !     The  air  is 

hot 

And  stifles  me  !    Oh  for  a  breath  of  air  ! 
Bid  me  depart,  O  King  ! 

HEROD. 

Not  yet.     Come  hither, 
Salome,  thou  enchantress  !     Ask  of  me 
Whate'er  thou  wilt  ;    and  even   unto   the 

half 

Of  all  my  kingdom,  I  will  give  it  thee, 
As  the  Lord  liveth  ! 

DAUGHTER  OF  HERODIAS,  kneeling. 

Give  me  here  the  head 
Of  John  the  Baptist  on  this  silver  charger  ! 

HEROD. 
Not  that,  dear  child  !   I  dare  not  ;  for  the 

people 
Regard  John  as  a  prophet. 

DAUGHTER  OF  HERODIAS. 

Thou  hast  sworn  it. 

HEROD. 

For  mine  oath's  sake,  then.     Send  unto  the 

prison  ; 
Let  him  die  quickly.     Oh,  accursed  oath  ! 

MANAHEM. 

Bid  me  depart,  0  King  ! 

HEROD. 

Good  Manahem, 

Give  me  thy  hand.     I  love  the  Essenians. 
He  's  gone  and  hears  me  not  !     The  guests 

are  dumb, 

Awaiting  the  pale  face,  the  silent  witness. 
The  lamps  flare  ;  and  the  curtains  of  the 

doorways 
Wave    to   and    fro    as    if    a    ghost    were 

passing  ! 
Strengthen  my  heart,  red  wine  of  Ascalon  ! 


Ill 


UNDER   THE   WALLS    OF   MACHJERUS 

MANAHEM,  rushing  OUt. 

Away  from  this  Palace  of  sin  ! 
The  demons,  the  terrible  powers 
Of  the  air,  that  haunt  its  towers 
And  hide  in  its  water-spouts, 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


379 


Deafen  me  with  the  din 

Of  their  laughter  and  their  shouts 

For  the  crimes  that  are  doiie  within  ! 

Sink  back  into  the  earth, 

Or  vanish  into  the  air, 

Thou  castle  of  despair  ! 

Let  it  all  be  but  a  dream 

Of  the  things  of  monstrous  birth, 

Of  the  things  that  only  seem  ! 

White  Angel  of  the  Moon, 

Onafiel !  be  my  guide 

Out  of  this  hateful  place 

Of  sin  and  death,  nor  hide 

In  yon  black  cloud  too  soon 

Thy  pale  and  tranquil  face  ! 

A.  trumpet  is  blown  from  the  walls. 
Hark  !  hark  !     It  is  the  breath 
Of  the  trump  of  doom  and  death, 
From  the  battlements  overhead 
Like  a  burden  of  sorrow  cast 
On  the  midnight  and  the  blast, 
A  wailing  for  the  dead, 
That  the  gusts  drop  and  uplift  ! 
O  Herod,  thy  vengeance  is  swift ! 
O  Herodias,  thou  hast  been 
The  demon,  the  evil  thing, 
That  in  place  of  Esther  the  Queen, 
In  place  of  the  lawful  bride, 
Hast  lain  at  night  by  the  side 
Of  Ahasuerus  the  king  ! 

The  trumpet  again. 
The  Prophet  of  God  is  dead  ! 
At  a  drunken  monarch's  call, 
At  a  dancing-woman's  beck, 
They  have  severed  that  stubborn  neck 
And  into  the  banquet-hall 
Are  bearing  the  ghastly  head  ! 

A  body  is  thrown  from  the  tower. 
A  torch  of  lurid  red 
Lights  the  window  with  its  glow  ; 
And  a  white  mass  as  of  snow 
Is  hurled  into  the  abyss 
Of  the  black  precipice, 
That  yawns  for  it  below  ! 
O  hand  of  the  Most  High, 
O  hand  of  Adonai  ! 
Bury  it,  hide  it  away 
From  the  birds  and  beasts  of  prey, 
And  the  eyes  of  the  homicide, 
More  pitiless  than  they, 
As  thou  didst  bury  of  yore 
The  body  of  him  that  died 
On  the  mountain  of  Peor  J 


Even  now  I  behold  a  sign, 

A  threatening  of  wrath  divine, 

A  watery,  wandering  star, 

Through  whose  streaming  hair,  and  the 

white 

Unfolding  garments  of  light, 
That  trail  behind  it  afar, 
The  constellations  shine  ! 
And  the  whiteness  and  brightness  appear 
Like  the  Angel  bearing  the  Seer 
By  the  hair  of  his  head,  in  the  might 
And  rush  of  his  vehement  flight. 
And  I  listen  until  I  hear 
From  fathomless  depths  of  the  sky 
The  voice  of  his  prophecy 
Sounding  louder  and  more  near  ! 

Malediction  !  malediction  ! 
May  the  lightnings  of  heaven  fall 
On  palace  and  prison  wall, 
And  their  desolation  be 
As  the  day  of  fear  and  affliction, 
As  the  day  of  anguish  and  ire, 
With  the  burning  and  fuel  of  fire, 
In  the  Valley  of  the  Sea  ! 


IV 
NICODEMUS   AT   NIGHT 

NICODEMUS. 

The  streets  are   silent.     The  dark  houses 

seem 

Like  sepulchres,  in  which  the  sleepers  lie 
Wrapped  in  their  shrouds,  and  for  the  mo 
ment  dead. 

The  lamps  are  all  extinguished  ;  only  one 
Burns  steadily,  and  from  the  door  its  light 
Lies  like  a  shining  gate  across  the  street. 
He  waits  for  me.    Ah,  should  this  be  at  last 
The  long-expected  Christ  !    I  see  him  there 
Sitting  alone,  deep-buried  in  his  thought, 
As  if  the  weight  of  all  the  world  were  rest 
ing 
Upon  him,  and  thus  bowed  him  down.     O 

Rabbi, 
We  know  thou  art  a  Teacher  come  from 

God, 

For  no  man  can  perform  the  miracles 
Thou  dost  perform,  except  the  Lord  be  with 

him. 

Thou  art  a  Prophet,  sent  here  to  proclaim 
The  Kingdom  of  the  Lord.     Behold  in  me 


380 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


A  Ruler  of  the  Jews,  who  long  have  waited 
The  coming  of  that  kingdom.    Tell  me  of  it. 

CHRISTUS. 

Verily,  verily  I  say  unto  thee, 

Except  a  man  be  born  again,  he  cannot 

Behold  the  Kingdom  of  God  ! 

NICODEMUS. 

Be  born  again  ? 

How  can  a  man  be  born  when  he  is  old  ? 
Say,  can  he  enter  for  a  second  time 
Into  his  mother's  womb,  and  so  be  born  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

Verily  I  say  unto  thee,  except 
A  man  be  born  of  water  and  the  spirit, 
He  cannot  enter  into  the  Kingdom  of  God. 
For   that   which   of   the   flesh   is   born,   is 

flesh  ; 
And  that  which   of  the   spirit  is   born,  is 

spirit. 

NICODEMUS. 

We  Israelites  from  the  Primeval  Man 
Adam  Ahelion  derive  our  bodies  ; 
Our  souls  are  breathings  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 
No  more   than  this  we  know,  or  need  to 
know. 

CHRISTUS. 

Then  marvel  not,  that  I  said  unto  thee 
Ye  must  be  born  again. 

NICODEMUS. 

The  mystery 
Of  birth  and  death  we  cannot  comprehend. 

CHRISTUS. 
The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth,  and  we 

hear 
The  sound  thereof,  but  know  not  whence  it 

cometh, 

Nor  whither  it  goeth.     So  is  every  one 
Born  of  the  spirit ! 

NICODEMUS,  aside. 

How  can  these  things  be  ? 
He  seems  to  speak  of  some  vague  realm  of 

shadows, 

Some  unsubstantial  kingdom  of  the  air  ! 
It  is  not  this  the  Jews  are  waiting  for, 
Nor  can  this   be  the   Christ,  the   Son   of 

David, 
Who  shall  deliver  us  ! 


CHRISTUS. 

Art  thou  a  master 

Of  Israel,  and  knowest  not  these  things  ? 
We  speak  that  we  do  know,  and  testify 
That  we  have  seen,  and  ye  will  not  receive 
Our  witness.     If  I  tell  you  earthly  things, 
And  ye  believe  not,  how  shall  ye  believe, 
If  I  should  tell  you  of  things  heavenly  ? 
And  no  man  hath  ascended  up  to  heaven, 
But  He  alone  that  first  came  down  from 

heaven, 
Even  the  Son  of  Man  which  is  in  heaven  ! 

NICODEMUS,  aside. 

This  is  a  dreamer  of  dreams  ;  a  visionary, 
Whose  brain  is  overtasked,  until  he  deems 
The  unseen  world  to  be  a  thing  substantial, 
And  this  we  live  in,  an  unreal  vision  ! 
And  yet  his  presence  fascinates  and  fills  me 
With  wonder,  and  I  feel  myself  exalted 
Into  a  higher  region,  and  become 
Myself  in  part  a  dreamer  of  his  dreams, 
A  seer  of  his  visions  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

And  as  Moses 

Uplifted  the  serpent  in  the  wilderness, 
So  must  the  Son  of  Man  be  lifted  up  ; 
That  whosoever  shall  believe  in  Him 
Shall  perish  not,  but  have  eternal  life. 
He  that  believes  in  Him  is  not  condemned  ; 
He  that  believes  not,  is  condemned  already. 

NICODEMUS,  aside. 
He  speaketh  like  a  Prophet  of  the  Lord  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

This  is  the  condemnation  ;  that  the  light 
Is   come   into   the  world,  and   men  loved 

darkness 
Rather,  than  light,  because  their  deeds  are 

evil ! 

NICODEMUS,  aside. 

Of  me  he  speaketh  !     He  reprove th  me, 
Because  I  come  by  night  to  question  him  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

For  every  one  that  doeth  evil  deeds 
Hateth  the  light,  nor  cometh  to  the  light, 
Lest  he  should  be  reproved. 

NICODEMUS,  aside. 

Alas,  how  truly 
He  readeth  what  is  passing  in  my  heart ! 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


CHRISTUS. 


But  he  that  doeth  truth  comes  to  the  light, 
So  that  his  deeds  may  be  made  manifest, 
That  they  are  wrought  in  God. 


NICODEMUS. 


Alas !  alas ! 


BLIND   BARTIMEUS 

BARTIMEUS. 

Be  not  impatient,  Chilion  ;  it  is  pleasant 
To  sit  here  in  the  shadow  of  the  walls 
Under   the   palms,  and   hear   the  hum  of 

bees, 

And  rumor  of  voices  passing  to  and  fro, 
And  drowsy  bells  of  caravans  on  their  way 
To  Sidon  or  Damascus.     This  is  still 
The  City  of  Palms,  and  yet  the  walls  thou 

seest 
Are  not  the  old  walls,  not  the  walls  where 

Rahab 
Hid  the  two  spies,  and  let  them  down  by 

cords 
Out  of  the  window,  when  the  gates  were 

shut, 

And  it  was  dark.     Those  walls  were  over 
thrown 
When    Joshua's   army    shouted,   and   the 

priests 
Blew  with  their  seven  trumpets. 

CHILION. 

When  was  that  ? 

BARTIMEUS. 

O  my  sweet  rose  of  Jericho,  I  know  not. 
Hundreds  of  years  ago.     And  over  there 
Beyond  the  river,  the  great  prophet  Elijah 
Was  taken  by  a  whirlwind  up  to  heaven 
In  chariot  of  fire,  with  fiery  horses. 
That  is  the  plain  of  Moab  ;   and  beyond 

it 

Rise  the  blue  summits  of  Mount  Abarim, 
Nebo  and  Pisgah  and  Peor,  where  Moses 
Died,  whom  the  Lord  knew  face  to  face, 

and  whom 

He  buried  in  a  valley,  and  no  man 
Knows  of  his  sepulchre  unto  this  day. 


CHILION. 

Would  thou  couldst  see  these 
see  them. 


BARTIMEUS. 

I  have  not  seen  a  glimmer  of  the  light 
Since  thou  wast  born.    I  never  saw  thy  face, 
And  yet  I  seem  to  see  it  ;  and  one  day 
Perhaps  shall  see  it  ;  for  there  is  a  Prophet 
In  Galilee,  the  Messiah,  the  Son  of  David, 
Who  heals  the  blind,  if  I  could  only  find 

him. 

I  hear  the  sound  of  many  feet  approaching, 
And  voices,  like  the  murmur  of  a  crowd  1 
What  seest  thou  ? 

CHILION. 

A  young  man  clad  in  white 
Is   coming  through    the    gateway,  and   a 

crowd 
Of  people  follow. 

BARTIMEUS. 

Can  it  be  the  Prophet ! 
O  neighbors,  tell  me  who  it  is  that  passes  ? 

ONE  OF   THE  CROWD. 

Jesus  of  Nazareth. 

BARTIMEUS,  crying. 

O  Son  of  David  ! 
Have  mercy  on  me  ! 

MANY  OP  THE  CROWD. 

Peace,  Blind  Bartimeus ! 
Do  not  disturb  the  Master. 

BARTIMEUS,  crying  more  vehemently. 

Son  of  David, 
Have  mercy  on  me  ! 

ONE  OF  THE  CROWD. 

See,  the  Master  stops. 
Be  of  good  comfort  ;  rise,  He  calleth  thee  I 

BARTIMEUS,  casting  away  his  cloak. 
Chilion  !  good  neighbors  !  lead  me  on. 


CHRISTUS. 


That  I  should  do  to  thee  ? 


What  wilt  thou 


BARTIMEUS. 

Good  Lord  !  my  sight  — 
That  I  receive  my  sight ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Receive  thy  sight ! 
Thy  faith  hath  made  thee  whole  ! 


382 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


THE  CROWD. 

He  sees  again  ! 

CHRISTUS  passes  on.    The  crowd  gathers  round 
BARTIMEUS. 

BARTIMEUS. 

I  see  again  ;  but  sight  bewilders  me  ! 

Like  a  remembered  dream,  familiar  things 

Come  back  to  me.     I  see  the  tender  sky 

Above  me,  see  the  trees,  the  city  walls, 

And  the  old  gateway,  through  whose  echo 
ing  arch 

I  groped  so  many  years  ;  and  you,  my 
neighbors  ; 

But  know  you  by  your  friendly  voices  only. 

How  beautiful  the  world  is  !  and  how 
wide ! 

Oh,  I  am  miles  away,  if  I  but  look  ! 

Where  art  thou,  Chilion  ? 

CHILION. 

Father,  I  am  here. 

BARTIMEUS. 

Oh  let  me  gaze  upon  thy  face,  dear  child  ! 
For  I  have  only  seen  thee  with  my  hands  ! 
How  beautiful  thou   art !    I  should   have 

known  thee  ; 
Thou   hast   her   eyes  whom  we  shall   see 

hereafter  ! 

O  God  of  Abraham  !  Elion  !  Adonai ! 
Who  art  thyself  a  Father,  pardon  me 
If  for  a  moment  I  have  thee  postponed 
To    the    affections    and    the    thoughts    of 

earth, 

Thee,  and  the  adoration  that  I  owe  thee, 
When  by  thy  power  alone  these  darkened 

eyes 
Have  been  unsealed  again  to  see  thy  light  ! 


VI 
JACOB'S   WELL 

A   SAMARITAN  WOMAN. 

The   sun  is  hot  ;    and  the   dry  east-wind 

blowing 
Fills  all  the  air  with  dust.     The  birds  are 

silent  ; 

Even  the  little  fieldfares  in  the  corn 
No  longer  twitter  ;  only  the  grasshoppers 
Sing  their  incessant  song  of  sun  and  sum- 


I  wonder  who  those  strangers  were  I  met 

Going  into  the  city  ?     Galileans 

They  seemed  to  me  in  speaking,  when  they 

asked 
The  short  way  to  the  market-place.     Per- 


They   are   fishermen   from   the   lake  ;    or 

travellers, 
Looking  to  find  the  inn.    And  here  is  some 

one 

Sitting  beside  the  well  ;  another  stranger  ; 
A  Galilean  also  by  his  looks. 
What  can  so  many  Jews  be  doing  here 
Together  in  Samaria  ?     Are  they  going 
Up  to  Jerusalem  to  the  Passover  ? 
Our  Passover  is  better  here  at  Sychem, 
For  here  is  Ebal  ;  here  is  Gerizim, 
The   mountain   where    our    father    Abra 
ham 

Went  up  to  offer  Isaac  ;  here  the  tomb 
Of  Joseph,  —  for  they  brought  his  bones 

from  Egypt 

And  buried  them  in   this  land,  and  it  is 
holy. 

CHRISTUS. 

Give  me  to  drink. 

SAMARITAN  WOMAN. 

How  can  it  be  that  thou, 
Being  a  Jew,  askest  to  drink  of  me 
Which  am  a  woman  of  Samaria  ? 
You   Jews   despise   us  ;  have   no  dealings 

with  us  ; 

Make  us  a  byword  ;  call  us  in  derision 
The  silly  folk  of  Sycliar.     Sir,  how  is  it 
Thou  askest  drink  of  me  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

If  thou  hadst  known 

The  gift  of  God,  and  who  it  is  that  sayeth 
Give  me  to  drink,  thou  wouldst  have  asked 

of  Him  ; 
He  would  have  given  thee  the  living  water. 

SAMARITAN  WOMAN. 

Sir,  thou  hast  naught  to  draw  with,  and  the 

well 

Is  deep  !    Whence  hast  thou  living  water  ? 
Say,    art    thou   greater    than    our   father 

Jacob, 
Which   gave  this   well   to   us,   and  drank 

thereof 
Himself,    and    all    his    children    and    his 

cattle  ? 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


383 


CHRISTUS. 

Ah,  whosoever  drinketh  of  this  water 
Shall  thirst  again  ;  but  whosoever  drinketh 
The  water  I  shall  give  him  shall  not  thirst 
Forevermore,  for  it  shall  be  within  him 
A  well  of  living  water,  springing  up 
Into  life  everlasting. 

SAMARITAN  WOMAN. 

Every  day 

I  must  go  to  and  fro,  in  heat  and  cold, 
And  I  am  weary.     Give  me  of  this  water, 
That  I  may  thirst  not,  nor  come   here  to 
draw. 

CHRISTUS. 

Go   call   thy   husband,  woman,  and   come 
hither. 

SAMARITAN  WOMAN. 

I  have  no  husband,  Sir. 

CHRISTUS. 

Thou  hast  well  said 
I  have  no  husband.     Thou  hast  had  five 

husbands  ; 
And  he  whom  now  thou  hast  is  not   thy 

husband. 

SAMARITAN  WOMAN. 

Surely  thou  art  a  Prophet,  for  thou  readest 
The   hidden   things  of   life  !     Our  fathers 

worshipped 

Upon  this  mountain  Gerizim  ;  and  ye  say 
The  only  place  in  which  men  ought  to  wor 
ship 
Is  at  Jerusalem. 

CHRISTUS. 

Believe  me,  woman, 

The  hour  is  coming,  when  ye  neither  shall 
Upon  this  mount,  nor  at  Jerusalem, 
Worship  the  Father  ;  for  the  hour  is  coming, 
And  is  now  come,  when  the  true  worship 
pers 
Shall  worship  the  Father  in  spirit  and  in 

truth ! 

The  Father  seeketh  such  to  worship  Him. 
God  is  a  spirit ;  and  they  that  worship  Him 
Must  worship  Him  in  spirit  and  in  truth. 

SAMARITAN  WOMAN- 

Master,  I  know  that  the  Messiah  cometh, 
Which  is   called  Christ ;  and  He  will  tell 
us  all  things. 


CHRISTUS. 

I  that  speak  unto  thee  am  He  ! 

THE  DISCIPLES,  returning. 

Behold, 

The  Master  sitting  by  the  well,  and  talk 
ing 

With  a  Samaritan  woman  !   With  a  woman 
Of  Sychar,  the  silly  people,  always  boast 
ing 

Of  their  Mouni  Ebal,  and  Mount  Gerizim, 
Their  Everlasting  Mountain,  which    they 

think 

Higher  and  holier  than  our  Mount  Moriah  ! 
Why,  once    upon   the  Feast  of    the  New 

Moon, 

When  our  great  Sanhedrim  of  Jerusalem 
Had  all  its  watch-fires  kindled  on  the  hills 
To  warn  the  distant  villages,  these  people 
Lighted  up  others  to  mislead  the  Jews, 
And  make  a  mockery  of  their  festival ! 
See,  she  has  left  the  Master  ;  and  is  run 
ning 
Back  to  the  city  ! 

SAMARITAN  WOMAN. 

Oh,  come  see  a  man 
Who  hath  told  me  all  things  that  I  ever 

did  ! 
Say,  is  not  this  the  Christ  ? 

THE   DISCIPLES. 

Lo,  Master,  here 
Is  food,  that  we  have  brought  thee  from 

the  city. 
We  pray  thee  eat  it. 

CHRISTU& 

I  have  food  to  eat 
Ye  know  not  of. 

THE  DISCIPLES,  to  each  other. 

Hath  any  man  been  here, 
And  brought  Him  aught  to  eat,  while  we 
were  gone  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

The  food  I  speak  of  is  to  do  the  will 
Of  Him  that    sent  me,  and   to  finish   his 

work. 
Do   ye   not   say,    Lo !   there   are  yet  four 

months 

And  cometh  harvest  ?     I  say  unto  you, 
Lift  up  your  eyes,  and  look  upon  the  fields, 
For  they  are  white  already  unto  harvest  ! 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


VII 


THE  COASTS   OF  (LESAREA   PHILIPPI 

CHRISTUS,  going  up  the  mountain. 
Who  do  the  people  say  I  am  ? 

JOHN. 

Some  say 
That  thou   art    John   the  Baptist ;   some, 

Elias  ; 
And  others  Jeremiah. 

JAMES. 

Or  that  one 
Of  the  old  Prophets  is  arisen  again. 

CHRISTUS. 
But  who  say  ye  I  am  ? 

PETER. 

Thou  art  the  Christ  ! 
Thou  art  the  Son  of  God  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Blessed  art  thou, 
Simon   Barjona !      Flesh   and    blood   hath 

not 

Revealed  it  unto  thee,  but  even  my  Father, 
Which  is  in  Heaven.     And  I  say  unto  thee 
That  thou  art  Peter  ;  and  upon  this  rock 
I  build  my  Church,  and   all  the  gates  of 

Hell 

Shall  not  prevail  against  it.   But  take  heed 
Ye  tell  to  no  man  that  I  am  the  Christ. 
For  I  must  go  up  to  Jerusalem, 
And  suffer  many  things,  and  be  rejected 
Of  the  Chief  Priests,  and  of  the  Scribes  and 

Elders, 

And  must  be  crucified,  and  the  third  day 
Shall  rise  again  ! 

PETER. 

Be  it  far  from  thee,  Lord  ! 
This  shall  not  be  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan  ! 
Thou   savorest   not  the  things   that  be  of 

God, 

But  those  that  be  of  men  !     If  any  will 
Come  after  me,  let  him  deny  himself, 
And  daily  take  his  cross,  and  follow  me. 


For  whosoever  will  save  his  life  shall  lose 

it, 
And  whosoever  will  lose  his  life  shall  find 

it. 

For  wherein  shall  a  man  be  profited 
If  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world,  and  shall 

lose 
Himself  or  be  a  castaway  ? 

JAMES,  after  a  long  pause. 

Why  doth 
The  Master  lead  us  up  into  this  mountain  ? 

PETER. 
He  goeth  up  to  pray. 

JOHN. 

See,  where  He  standeth 

Above  us  on  the  summit  of  the  hill  ! 

His  face  shines  as  the  sun  !  and  all  his 
raiment 

Exceeding  white  as  snow,  so  as  no  fuller 

On  earth  can  white  them  !  He  is  not 
alone  ; 

There  are  two  with  Him  there  :  two  men 
of  eld, 

Their  white  beards  blowing  on  the  moun 
tain  air, 

Are  talking  with  him. 

JAMES. 

I  am  sore  afraid  I 

PETER. 

Who  and  whence  are  they  ? 


JOHN. 


Moses  and  Elias  ! 


PETER. 

0  Master  !  it  is  good  for  us  to  be  here  ! 

If   thou  wilt,  let  us  make  three  taberna 
cles  ; 
For  thee  one,  and  for  Moses  and  Elias  ! 

JOHN. 

Behold  a  bright  cloud  sailing  in  the  sun  ! 
It  overshadows  us.     A  golden  mist 
Now  hides  them  from  us,  and  envelops  us 
And  all  the  mountain  in  a  luminous  shadow  ! 

1  see  no  more.     The  nearest  rocks  are  hid 

den. 

VOICE  from  the  cloud. 
Lo  !  this  is  my  beloved  Son  !     Hear  Him  ! 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


385 


PETER. 

It  is  the  voice  of  God.     He  speaketh  to  us, 
As  from  the   burning   bush  He   spake   to 
Moses  ! 

JOHN. 

The  cloud-wreaths  roll  away.     The  veil  is 

lifted  ; 

We  see  again.     Behold  !     He  is  alone. 
It  was  a  vision  that  our  eyes  beheld, 
And  it  hath  vanished  into  the  unseen. 

CHRJSTUS,  coming  down  from  the  mountain. 
I  charge  ye,  tell  the  vision  unto  no  one, 
Till  the  Son  of  Man  be  risen  from  the  dead  ! 

PETER,  aside. 

Again  He  speaks  of  it !    What  can  it  mean, 
This  rising  from  the  dead  ? 

JAMES. 

Why  say  the  Scribes 
Elias  must  first  come  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

He  cometh  first, 

Restoring  all  things.     But  I  say  to  you, 
That  this  Elias  is  already  come. 
They  knew  him  not,  but  have   done  unto 

him 
Whate'er  they  listed,  as  is  written  of  him. 

PETER,  aside. 
It  is  of  John  the  Baptist  He  is  speaking. 

JAMES. 

As  we  descend,  see,  at  the  mountain's  foot, 
A  crowd  of  people  ;  coming,  going,  throng 
ing 

Round  the  disciples,  that  we  left  behind  us, 
Seeming  impatient,  that  we  stay  so  long. 

PETER. 

It  is  some  blind  man,  or  some  paralytic 
That   waits   the     Master's    coming   to   be 
healed. 

JAMES. 

I  see  a  boy,  who  struggles  and  demeans  him 
As  if  an  unclean  spirit  tormented  him  ! 

A  CERTAIN  MAN,  running  forward. 
Lord  !  I  beseech  thee,  look  upon  my  son. 
He  is  mine  only  child  ;  a  lunatic, 
And  sorely  vexed  ;  for  oftentimes  he  falleth 


Into  the  fire  and  oft  into  the  water. 

Wherever  the  dumb  spirit  taketh  him 

He  teareth   him.     He   gnasheth   with   his 

teeth, 

And  pines  away.     I  spake  to  thy  disciples 
That  they  should  cast  him  out,  and  they 

could  not. 

CHRISTUS. 

O  faithless  generation  and  perverse  ! 
How  long  shall  I  be  with  you,  and  suffer 

you  ? 
Bring  thy  son  hither. 

BYSTANDERS. 

How  the  unclean  spirit 
Seizes  the  boy,  and  tortures  him  with  pain  ! 
He  falleth  to  the  ground  and  wallows, 

foaming  ! 
He  cannot  live. 

CHRISTUS. 

How  long  is  it  ago 
Since  this  came  unto  him  ? 

THE  FATHER. 

Even  of  a  child. 
Oh,  have  compassion  on  us,  Lord,  and  help 

us, 
If  thou  canst  help  us. 

CHRISTUS. 

If  thou  canst  believe. 
For  unto  him  that  verily  believeth, 
All  things  are  possible. 

THE    FATHER. 

Lord,  I  believe  ! 
Help  thou  mine  unbelief  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Dumb  and  deaf  spirit, 
Come  out  of  him,  I  charge  thee,  and  no 

more 
Enter  thou  into  him  ! 

The  boy  utters  a  loud  cry  of  pain,  and  then  lies 
still. 

BYSTANDERS. 

How  motionless 

He  lieth  there.     No  life  is  left  in  him. 
His  eyes  are  like  a  blind  man's,  that  see  not. 
The  boy  is  dead  ! 

OTHERS. 
Behold  !  the  Master  stoops, 


386 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


And  takes  him  by  the  hand,  and  lifts  him 

up. 
He  is  not  dead. 

DISCIPLES. 

But  one  word  from  those  lips, 
But   one   touch   of   that   hand,  and  he   is 

healed ! 
Ah,  why  could  we  not  do  it  ? 

THE   FATHER. 

My  poor  child  ! 
Now  thou  art   mine   again.     The   unclean 

spirit 
Shall  never  more  torment  thee  !     Look  at 

me  ! 
Speak  unto  me  !     Say  that   thou  knowest 

me  ! 

DISCIPLES  to  CHRISTUS,  departing. 
Good  Master,  tell  us,  for  what  reason  was  it 
We  could  not  cast  him  out  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

Because  of  your  unbelief  ! 


VIII 
THE   YOUNG    RULER 

CHRISTUS. 

Two  men  went  up  into  the  temple  to  pray. 
The  one  was  a  self-righteous  Pharisee, 
The  other  a  Publican.     And  the  Pharisee 
Stood  and  praved  thus  within  himself  !     O 

God, 

I  thank  thee  I  am  not  as  other  men, 
Extortioners,  unjust,  adulterers, 
Or  even  as  this  Publican.     I  fast 
Twice  in  the  week,  and  also  I  give  tithes 
Of  all  that  I  possess  !     The  Publican, 
Standing  afar  off,  would  not  lift  so  much 
Even  as  his  eyes  to  heaven,  but  smote  his 

breast, 

Saying  :  God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner  ! 
I  tell  you  that  this  man  went  to  his  house 
More  justified  than  the  other.     Every  one 
That  doth  exalt  himself  shall  be  abased, 
And    he  that   humbleth    himself   shall   be 

exalted  ! 

CHILDREN,  among  themselves. 
Let  us  go  nearer  !     He  is  telling  stories  ! 
Let  us  go  listen  to  them. 


AN  OLD  JEW. 

Children,  children  ! 
What   are   ye   doing  here  ?     Why  do  ye 

crowd  us  ? 

It  was  such  little  vagabonds  as  you, 
That  followed   Elisha,   mocking  him  and 

crying  : 
Go  up,  thou  bald-head  !     But  the  bears  — 

the  bears 
Came  out  of  the  wood,  and  tare  them  I 

A  MOTHER. 

Speak  not  thus  ! 
We  brought  them  here,  that  He  might  lay 

his  hands 
On  them,  and  bless  them. 

CHRISTUS. 

Suffer  little  children 
To  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not ; 
Of   such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ;   and 

their  angels 
Look  always  on  my  Father's  face. 

Takes  them  in  his  arms  and  blesses  them. 

A  YOUNG  RULER,  running. 

Good  Master ! 
What  good   thing  shall  I  do,  that  I  may 

have 
Eternal  life  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

Why  callest  thou  me  good  ? 
There  is  none  good  but  one,  and   that  is 

God. 

If  thou  wilt  enter  into  life  eternal, 
Keep  the  commandments. 

YOUNG  RULER. 

Which  of  them  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

Thou  shalt  not 

Commit  adultery  ;  thou  shalt  not  kill  ; 
Thou  shalt  not  steal  ;  thou  shalt  not  bear 

false  witness  ; 
Honor   thy  father   and   thy   mother ;   and 

love 
Thy  neighbor  as  thyself. 

YOUNG  RULER. 

From  my  youth  up 
All  these  things  hav^  I  kept.     What  lack  I 

yet? 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


387 


JOHN. 


With  what  divine  compassion  in  his  eyes 
The  Master  looks  upon  this  eager  youth, 
As  if  He  loved  him  ! 

CHKISTUS. 

Wouldst  thou  perfect  be, 
Sell  all  thou  hast,  and  give  it  to  the  poor, 
And  come,  take  up  thy  cross,  and  follow  me, 
And  thou  shalt   have   thy  treasure  in  the 
heavens. 

JOHN. 
Behold,  how  sorrowful  he  turns  away  ! 

CHKISTUS. 

Children  !  how  hard  it  is  for  them  that  trust 
In  riches  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  God  ! 
'T  is  easier  for  a  camel  to  go  through 
A  needle's  eye,  than  for  the  rich  to  enter 
The  kingdom  of  God  ! 

JOHN. 
Ah,  who  then  can  be  saved  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

With  men  this  is  indeed  impossible, 
But  unto  God  all  things  are  possible  ! 


Behold,  we  have  left  all,  and  followed  thee. 
What  shall  we  have  therefor  ? 


CHRISTUS. 


IX 


Eternal  life. 


AT  BETHANY 

MARTHA  busy  about  household  affairs.    MARY 
sitting  at  the  feet  of  CHRISTUS. 

MARTHA. 

She  sitteth  idly  at  the  Master's  feet, 

And   troubles  not   herself   with  household 

cares. 

'T  is  the  old  story.     When  a  guest  arrives 
She  gives  up  all  to  be  with  him  ;  while  I 
Must  be  the  drudge,  make  ready  the  guest- 
chamber, 

Prepare  the  food,  set  everything  in  order, 
And  see  that  naught  is  wanting  in  the  house. 
She  shows  her  love   by  words,  and  I  by 
works. 


0  Master  !  when  thou  comest,  it  is  always 
A  Sabbath  in  the  house.     I  cannot  work  ; 

1  must  sit  at  thy  feet ;  must  see  thee,  hear 

thee! 

I  have  a  feeble,  wayward,  doubting  heart, 
Incapable  of  endurance  or  great  thoughts, 
Striving  for  something  that  it  cannot  reach. 
Baffled  and  disappointed,  wounded,  hungry  j 
And  only  when  I  hear  thee  am  I  happy, 
And  only  when  I  see  thee  am  at  peace  ! 
Stronger  than  I,  and  wiser,  and  far  better 
In  every  manner,  is  my  sister  Martha. 
Thou  seest  how  well  she  orders  everything 
To  make   thee  welcome  ;  how  she   comes 

and  goes, 
Careful    and    cumbered   ever   with   much 

serving, 
While   I  but  welcome    thee  with    foolish 

words  ! 
Whene'er    thou    speakest    to    me,    I    am 

happy  ; 

When  thou  art  silent,  I  am  satisfied. 
Thy  presence  is  enough.     I  ask  no  more. 
Only  to  be  with  thee,  only  to  see  thee, 
Sufficeth  me.     My  heart  is  then  at  rest. 
I  wonder  I  am  worthy  of  so  much. 

MARTHA. 

Lord,  dost  thou  care  not   that   my  sister 

Mary 

Hath  left  me  thus  to  wait  on  thee  alone  ? 
I  pray  thee,  bid  her  help  me. 

CHRISTUS. 

Martha,  Martha, 

Careful  and  troubled  about  many  things 
Art  thou,  and  yet  one  thing  alone  is  need 
ful  ! 
Thy    sister  Mary  hath   chosen   that   good 

part, 
Which  never  shall  be  taken  away  from  her  1 


BORN   BLIND 

A  JEW. 

Who  is  this  beggar  blinking  in  the  sun  ? 
Is  it  not  he  who  used  to  sit  and  beg 
By  the  Gate  Beautiful  ? 


ANOTHER. 


It  is  the  same. 


388 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


A    THIRD. 

It  is  not  he,  but  like  him,  for  that  beggar 
Was  blind  from  birth.     It  cannot  be  the 
same. 


Yea,  I  am  he. 


THE  BEGGAR. 


A  JEW. 

How  have  thine  eyes  been  opened  ? 

THE   BEGGAR. 

A  man  that  is  called  Jesus  made  a  clay 
And  put  it  on  mine  eyes,  and  said  to  me  : 
Go  to  Siloam's  Pool  and  wash  thyself. 
I  went  and  washed,   and  I    received   my 
sight. 


A  JEW. 


Where  is  He  ? 


THE    BEGGAR. 

I  know  not. 

PHARISEES. 

What  is  this  crowd 

Gathered  about  a  beggar  ?    What  has  hap 
pened  ? 

A  JEW. 

Here  is  a  man  who  hath  been  blind  from 

birth, 
And  now  he  sees.  He  says  a  man  called 

Jesus 
Hath  healed  him. 

PHARISEES. 

As  God  liveth,  the  Nazarene  ! 
How  was  this  done  ? 

THE   BEGGAR. 

Rabboni,  he  put  clay 
Upon   mine   eyes  ;    I  washed,  and  now  I 


PHARISEES. 

When  did  he  this  ? 

THE    BEGGAR. 

Rabboni,  yesterday. 

PHARISEES. 

The  Sabbath  clay.     This  man  is  not  of  God 
Because  he  keepeth  not  the  Sabbath  day  ! 


A  JEW. 

How  can  a  man  that  is  a  sinner  do 
Such  miracles  ? 

PHARISEES. 

What  dost  thou  say  of  him 
That  hath  restored  thy  sight  ? 

THE    BEGGAR. 

He  is  a  Prophet. 

A  JEW. 

This  is  a  wonderful  story,  but  not  true. 
A  beggar's  fiction.    He  was  not  born  blind, 
And  never  has  been  blind  ! 


Ask  them. 


OTHERS. 

Here  are  his  parents. 

PHARISEES. 
Is  this  your  son  ? 


THE  PARENTS. 


We  know  this  is  our  son. 


Rabboni,  yea  ; 


PHARISEES. 

Was  he  born  blind  ? 

THE  PARENTS. 

He  was  born  blind. 

PHARISEES. 

Then  how  doth  he  now  see  ? 

THE  PARENTS,  aside. 

What  answer  shall  we  make  ?  If  we  con 
fess 

It  was  the  Christ,  we  shall  be  driven  forth 

Out  of  the  Synagogue  !  We  know,  Rab 
boni, 

This  is  our  son,  and  that  he  was  born 
blind  ; 

But  by  what  means  he  seeth,  we  know  not, 

Or  who  his  eyes  hath  opened,  we  know 
not. 

He  is  of  age  ;  ask  him  ;  we  cannot  say  ; 

He  shall  speak  for  himself. 

PHARISEES. 

Give  God  the  praise  ! 

We  know  the  man  that  healed  thee  is  a 
sinner  ! 


THE    DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


389 


THE    BEGGAR. 

Whether  He  be  a  sinner,  I  know  not  ; 
One  thing  I  know;  that  whereas   I   was 

blind, 
I  now  do  see. 


PHARISEES. 


How  opened  he  thine  eyes  ? 
What  did  he  do  ? 


THE  BEGGAR. 

I  have  already  told  you. 
Ye   did   not    hear  :    why   would    ye   hear 


agan 
Will  ye  be  his  disciples  ? 


PHARISEES. 

God  of  Moses  ! 

Are  we  demoniacs,  are  we  halt  or  blind, 
Or  palsy-stricken,  or  lepers,  or  the  like, 
That  we  should  join  the  Synagogue  of 

Satan, 
And  follow  jugglers  ?     Thou  art  his  dis 

ciple, 
But  we  are  disciples  of  Moses  ;   and    we 

know 
That   God   spake    unto    Moses  ;    but   this 

fellow, 
We  know  not  whence  he  is  ! 

THE  BEGGAR. 

Why,  herein  is 
A  marvellous  thing  !     Ye  know  not  whence 

He  is, 
Yet  He  hath  opened  mine  eyes  !  We  know 

that  God 

Heareth  not  sinners  ;  but  if  any  man 
Doeth  God's  will,  and  is  his  worshipper, 
Him  doth  He  hear.     Oh,  since  the  world 

began 
It    was    not    heard    that    any    man   hath 

opened 
The  eyes  of  one  that  was  born  blind.     If 

He 
Were  not  of  God,  surely  He  could  do  no 

thing  ! 

PHARISEES. 

Thou,  who  wast  altogether  born  in  sins 
And  in  iniquities,  dost  thou  teach  us  ? 
Away  with  thee  out  of  the  holy  places, 
Thou   reprobate,  thou   beggar,   thou   blas 
phemer  ! 

THE  BEGGAR  is  cast  out. 


XI 


SIMON   MAGUS   AND    HELEN   OF  TYRE 

On  the  house-top  at  Endor.    Night.     A  lighted 
lantern  on  a  table, 

SIMON. 

Swift   are   the   blessed   Immortals   to   the 

mortal 

That   perseveres  !      So   doth   it   stand   re 
corded 

In  the  divine  Chaldsean  Oracles 
Of  Zoroaster,  once  Ezekiel's  slave, 
Who  in  his  native  East  betook  himself 
To  lonely  meditation,  and  the  writing 
On   the   dried  skins   of   oxen  the    Twelve 

Books 

Of  the  Avesta  and  the  Oracles  ! 
Therefore  I  persevere  ;  and  I  have  brought 

thee 
From  the  great  city  of  Tyre,  where  men 

deride 
The  things  they  comprehend   not,  to   this 

plain 

Of  Esdraelon,  in  the  Hebrew  tongue 
Called  Armageddon,  and  this  town  of  Endor, 
Where  men  believe  ;  where  all  the  air  is  full 
Of  marvellous  traditions,  and  the  Enchan 
tress 

That  summoned  up  the  ghost  of  Samuel 
Is  still  remembered.     Thou  hast  seen  the 

land  ; 
Is  it  not  fair  to  look  on  ? 


HELEN. 


Yet  not  so  fair  as  Tyre. 


It  is  fair, 


SIMON. 

Is  not  Mount  Tabor 
As  beautiful  as  Carmel  by  the  Sea  ? 

»      HELEN. 

It  is  too  silent  and  too  solitary  ; 
I  miss  the  tumult  of  the  streets  ;  the  sounds 
Of  traffic,  and  the  going  to  and  fro 
Of   people   in   gay  attire,  with    cloaks   of 

purple, 
And  gold  and  silver  jewelry  ! 

SIMON. 

Inventions 

Of  Ahriman,  the  spirit  of  the  dark, 
The  Evil  Spirit  ! 


39° 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


I  regret  the  gossip 

Of  friends  and  neighbors  at  the  open  door 
On  summer  nights. 

SIMON. 

An  idle  waste  of  time. 

HELEN. 

The  singing  and  the  dancing,  the  delight 
Of  music  and  of  motion.     Woe  is  me, 
To  give  up  all  these  pleasures,  and  to  lead 
The  life  we  lead  ! 

SIMON. 

Thou  canst  not  raise  thyself 
Up  to  the  level  of  my  higher  thought, 
And  though  possessing  thee,  I  still  remain 
Apart  from  thee,  and  with  thee,  am  alone 
In  my  high  dreams. 

HELEN. 

Happier  was  I  in  Tyre. 
Oh,  I  remember  how  the  gallant  ships 
Came  sailing  in,  with  ivory,  gold,  and  silver, 
And  apes  and  peacocks  ;  and  the  singing- 
sailors, 
And  the   gay   captains   with   their   silken 

dresses, 
Smelling  of  aloes,  myrrh,  and  cinnamon  ! 

SIMON. 

But  the  dishonor,  Helen  !    Let  the  ships 
Of  Tarshish  howl  for  that ! 


And  what  dishonor  ? 
Remember  Rahab,  and  how  she  became 
The  ancestress  of  the  great  Psalmist  David  ; 
And  wherefore  should  not  I,  Helen  of  Tyre, 
Attain  like  honor  ? 

SIMON. 

Thou  art  Helen  of  Tyre, 
And  hast  been  Helen   of   Troy,  and   hast 

been  Rahab, 

The  Queen  of  Sheba,  and  Semiramis, 
And  Sara  of  seven  husbands,  and  Jezebel, 
And  other  women  of  the  like  allurements  ; 
And  now  thou  art  Minerva,  the  first 
The  Mother  of  Angels  ! 


And  the  concubine 
Of  Simon  the  Magician  !    Is  it  honor 


For  one  who  has  been  all  these  noble  dames, 
To  tramp  about  the  dirty  villages 
And  cities  of  Samaria  with  a  juggler  ? 
A  charmer  of  serpents  ? 

SIMON. 

He  who  knows  himself 
Knows    all    things    in    himself.      I    have 

charmed  thee, 

Thou  beautiful  asp  :  yet  am  I  no  magician. 
I  am  the  Power  of  God,  and  the  Beauty  of 

God! 
I  am  the  Paraclete,  the  Comforter  ! 


Illusions  !    Thou  deceiver,  self-deceived  ! 
Thou  dost  usurp  the  titles  of  another  ; 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  sayest. 


Then  feel  my  power. 


Am  I  not  ? 


HELEN. 

Would  I  had  ne'er  left  Tyre  ! 
He  looks  at  her,  and  she  sinks  into  a  deep  sleep. 


Go,  see  it  in  thy  dreams,  fair  unbeliever  ! 
And  leave  me  unto  mine,  if  they  be  dreams, 
That  take  such  shapes  before  me,  that  I  see 

them  ; 

These  effable  and  ineffable  impressions 
Of  the  mysterious  world,  that  come  to  me 
From  the  elements  of  Fire  and  Earth  and 

Water, 

And  the  all-nourishing  Ether  !  It  is  written, 
Look  not  on  Nature,  for  her  name  is  fatal ! 
Yet   there   are  Principles,  that   make   ap 
parent 

The  images  of  unapparent  things, 
And  the  impression  of  vague  characters 
And  visions  most  divine  appear  in  ether. 
So   speak    the    Oracles  ;    then   wherefore 

fatal ? 
I   take    this    orange-bough,  with  9  its   five 

leaves, 

Each  equidistant  on  the  upright  stem  ; 
And  I  project  them  on  a  plane  below, 
In  the  circumference  of  a  circle  drawn 
About  a  centre  where  the  stem  is  planted, 
And  each  still  equidistant  from  the  other  ; 
As  if  a  thread  of  gossamer  were  drawn 
Down  from  each  leaf,  and  fastened  with  a 
pin. 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


Now  if  from  these   five   points  a  line  be 

traced 

To  each  alternate  point,  we  shall  obtain 
The  Pentagram,  or  Solomon's  Pentaiigle, 
A  charm  against  all  witchcraft,  and  a  sign, 
Which  on  the  banner  of  Autiochus 
Drove  back  the  fierce   barbarians  of   the 

North, 
Demons   esteemed,  and   gave   the   Syrian 

King 

The  sacred  name  of  Soter,  or  of  Savior. 
Thus    Nature    works     mysteriously    with 

man  ; 
And   from   the   Eternal   One,  as   from   a 

centre, 
All  things  proceed,  in  fire,  air,  earth,  and 

water, 
And   all   are    subject   to   one   law,  which 

broken 

Even  in  a  single  point,  is  broken  in  all ; 
Demons  rush  in,  and  chaos  comes  again. 

By  this  will  I  compel  the  stubborn  spirits, 
That  guard  the  treasures,  hid  in  caverns 

deep 

On  Gerizim,  by  Uzzi  the  High-Priest, 
The  ark  and  holy  vessels,  to  reveal 
Their  secret  unto  me,  and  to  restore 
These  precious  things  to  the  Samaritans. 
A  mist  is  rising  from  the  plain  below  me, 
And  as  I  look,  the  vapors  shape  themselves 
Into  strange  figures,  as  if  unawares 
My  lips  had  breathed  the  Tetragrammaton, 
And  from  their  graves,  o'er  all  the  battle 
fields 

Of  Armageddon,  the  long-buried  captains 
Had  started,  with  their  thousands,  and  ten 

thousands, 

And  rushed  together  to  renew  their  wars, 
Powerless,  and  weaponless,  and  without  a 

sound  ! 
Wake,   Helen,  from  thy  sleep  !     The  air 

grows  cold  ; 
Let  us  go  down. 

HELEN,  awaking. 
Oh,  would  I  were  at  home  ! 

SIMON. 

Thou  sayest  that  I  usurp  another's  titles. 
In  youth  I  saw  the  Wise  Men  of  the  East, 
Magalath  and  Pangalath  and  Saracen, 
Who  followed  the   bright  star,  but  home 

returned 
For  fear  of  Herod  by  another  way. 


Oh  shining  worlds  above  me  !  in  what  deep 

Recesses  of  your  realms  of  mystery 

Lies  hidden  now  that  star  ?  and  where  are 

they 
That  brought  the  gifts  of  frankincense  and 

myrrh  ? 

HELEN. 
The  Nazarene  still  liveth. 

SIMON. 

We  have  heard 
His   name    in   many  towns,  but   have  not 

seen  Him. 

He  flits  before  us  ;  tarries  not  ;  is  gone 
When  we  approach,  like  something  unsub 
stantial, 

Made  of  the  air,  and  fading  into  air. 
He  is  at  Nazareth,  He  is  at  Nain, 
Or  at  the  Lovely  Village  on  the  Lake, 
Or  sailing  on  its  waters. 

HELEN. 

So  say  those 
Who  do  not  wish  to  find  Him. 

SIMON. 

Can  this  be 
The  King  of  Israel,  whom  the  Wise  Men 

worshipped  ? 
Or  does  He  fear  to  meet  me  ?     It  would 

seem  so. 
We  should  soon  learn  which  of  us  twain 

usurps 

The  titles  of  the  other,  as  thou  sayest. 
They  go  down. 


THE    THIRD    PASSOVER 


THE  ENTRY   INTO  JERUSALEM 

THE  SYRO  -  PHCENICIAN  WOMAN   and    her 
DAUGHTER  on  the  house-top  at  Jerusalem. 

THE  DAUGHTER,  singing. 
BLIND  Bartimeus  at  the  gates 
Of  Jericho  in  darkness  waits  ; 
He  hears  the  crowd  ;  —  he  hears  a  breath 
Say,  It  is  Christ  of  Nazareth  ! 
And  calls,  in  tones  of  agony, 


The  thronging  multitudes  increase  : 
Blind  Bartimeus,  hold  thy  peace  ! 


392 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


But  still,  above  the  noisy  crowd, 
The  beggar's  cry  is  shrill  and  loud  ; 
Until  they  say,  He  calleth  thee  ! 
©opcrei  '  e-yeipcu,  <£a>i/et  (re  / 

Then  saith  the  Christ,  as  silent  stands 
The  crowd,  What  wilt  thou  at  my  hands  ? 
And  he  replies,  Oh,  give  me  light  ! 
Rabbi,  restore  the  blind  man's  sight ! 
And  Jesus  answers,  "Tiraye  • 
'H  TriffTis  crov  aecrco/ce  <re  / 

Ye  that  have  eyes,  yet  cannot  see, 
In  darkness  and  in  misery, 
Recall  those  mighty  voices  three, 
'l-rjffov,  (\€f]a6i>  yue  / 
&dpff€i  '  ejeipai,  virayf  ! 
'H  iria'Tis  ffov  ffeffcaKt  ae  ! 

THE  MOTHER. 

Thy  faith  hath  saved  thee  !     Ah,  how  true 

that  is  ! 
For  I  had  faith  ;    and  when  the   Master 

came 

Into  the  coasts  of  Tyre  and  Sidon,  fleeing 
From  those  who  sought  to  slay  Him,  I  went 

forth 
And  cried  unto  Him,  saying  :  Have  mercy 

on  me, 

0  Lord,   thou    Son   of    David !     for    my 

daughter 

Is  grievously  tormented  with  a  devil. 
But  He  passed  on,  and  answered  not  a  word. 
And  his  disciples  said,  beseeching  Him  : 
Send  her  away  !     She  crieth  after  us  ! 
And  then  the  Master  answered  them  and 

said  : 

1  am  not  sent  but  nnto  the  lost  sheep 

Of  the  House  of  Israel  !  Then  I  wor 
shipped  Him, 

Saying :  Lord,  help  me  !  And  He  an 
swered  me, 

It  is  not  meet  to  take  the  children's  bread 

And  cast  it  unto  dogs  !   Truth,  Lord,  I  said  ; 

And  yet  the  dogs  may  eat  the  crumbs 
which  fall 

From  off  their  master's  table  ;  and  He 
turned, 

And  answered  me  ;  and  said  to  me  :  O 
woman, 

Great  is  thy  faith  ;  then  be  it  unto  thee 

Even  as  thou  wilt.  And  from  that  very 
hour 

Thou  wast  made  whole,  my  darling !  my 
delight ! 


THE   DAUGHTER. 

There   came  upon  my  dark  and  troubled 

mind 

A  calm,  as  when  the  tumult  of  the  city 
Suddenly  ceases,  and  I  lie  and  hear 
The  silver  trumpets  of  the  Temple  blowing 
Their   welcome   to  the    Sabbath.      Still    I 

wonder, 

That  one  who  w  s  so  far  away  from  me, 
And  could  not  see  me,  by  his  thought  alone 
Had  power  to  heal  me.    Oh  that  I  could  see 

Him! 

THE  MOTHER. 

Perhaps   thou    wilt  ;  for    I   have  brought 

thee  here 

To  keep  the  holy  Passover,  and  lay 
Thine  offering  of  thanksgiving;  on  the  altar. 
Thou    mayst    both    see    and    hear    Him. 

Hark  ! 

VOICES  afar  off. 
Hosanna  ! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

A  crowd   comes  pouring  through  the  city 

gate  ! 
O  mother,  look  ! 


Of  David  ! 


VOICES  in  the  street. 

Hosanna  to  the  Son 


THE  DAUGHTER. 

A  great  multitude  of  people 
Fills  all  the  street  ;  and  riding  on  an  ass 
Comes  one  of  noble  aspect,  like  a  king  ! 
The  people  spread  their  garments  in  the 

way, 
And  scatter  branches  of  the  palm-trees  ! 

VOICES. 

Blessed 
Is  He  that   cometh   in   the   name   of   the 

Lord  ! 
Hosanna  in  the  highest  ! 


OTHER  VOICES. 


Who  is  this  ? 


VOICES. 

Jesus  of  Nazareth  ! 


THE  DAUGHTER. 

Mother,  it  is  He  ! 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


393 


VOICES. 

He  hath  called  Lazarus  of  Bethany 

Out  of  his  grave,  and  raised  him  from  the 

dead  ! 
Hosanua  in  the  highest  ! 

PHARISEES. 

Ye  perceive 
That   nothing   we    prevail.      Behold,   the 

world 
Is  all  gone  after  him  ! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

What  majesty, 

What  power  is  in  that  care-worn  counte 
nance  ! 
What  sweetness,  what  compassion  !     I  no 

longer 
Wonder  that  He  hath  healed  me  ! 


And  glory  in  the  highest ! 
PHARISEES. 

Rebuke  thy  followers  ! 


Peace  in  heaven, 


Rabbi !  Rabbi ! 


CHRISTUS. 

Should  they  hold  their  peace 
The   very  stones   beneath    us   would    cry 
out ! 

THE  DAUGHTER. 

All  hath  passed  by  me  like  a  dream  of  won 
der  ! 

But  I  have  seen  Him,  and  have  heard  his 
voice, 

And  I  am  satisfied  !     I  ask  no  more  ! 


II 


SOLOMON'S   PORCH 


GAMALIEL    THE    SCRIBE. 

When  Rabban  Simeon,  upon  whom  be 
peace  ! 

Taught  in  these  Schools,  he  boasted  that 
his  pen 

Had  written  no  word  that  he  could  call  his 
own, 

But  wholly  and  always  had  been  conse 
crated 


To  the  transcribing  of  the  Law  and  Pro 
phets. 

He  used  to  say,  and  never  tired  of  saying, 
The  world  itself  was  built  upon  the  Law. 
And  ancient  Hillel  said,  that  whosoever 
Gains  a  good  name,   gains  something   for 

himself, 

But  he  who  gains  a  knowledge  of  the  Law 
Gains   everlasting   life.     And  they    spake 

truly. 

Great  is  the  Written  Law  ;  but  greater  still 
The  Unwritten,  the  Traditions  of  the 

Elders, 

The  lovely  words  of  Levites,  spoken  first 
To  Moses  on  the  Mount,  and  handed  down 
From   mouth  to   mouth,  in   one  unbroken 

sound 

And  sequence  of  divine  authority, 
The  voice  of  God  resounding  through  the 
ages. 

The  Written  Law  is  water  ;  the  Unwritten 
Is  precious  wine  ;  the  Written  Law  is  salt, 
The  Unwritten  costly  spice  ;  the  Written 

Law 

Is  but  the  body  ;  the  Unwritten,  the  soul 
That  quickens  it  and  makes  it  breathe  and 

live. 

I  can  remember,  many  years  ago, 
A   little   bright-eyed    school-boy,   a    mere 

stripling, 

Son  of  a  Galilean  carpenter, 
From  Nazareth,  I  think,  who  came  one  day 
And  sat  here  in  the  Temple  with  the  Scribes, 
Hearing  us  speak,  and  asking  many  ques 
tions, 

And  we  were  all  astonished  at  his  quickness. 
And  when  his  mother  came,  and  said  :  Be 
hold 

Thy  father  and  I  have  sought  thee,  sorrow 
ing  ; 

He  looked  as  one  astonished,  and  made  an 
swer, 

How  is  it  that  ye  sought  me  ?   Wist  ye  not 
That  I  must  be    about  my  Father's  busi 
ness  ? 

Often  since  then  I  see  him  here  among  us, 
Or  dream  I  see  him,  with  his  upraised  face 
Intent  and  eager,  and  I  often  wonder 
Unto    what   manner   of  manhood  he   hath 

grown  ! 

Perhaps  a  poor  mechanic,  like  his  father, 
Lost  in  his  little  Galilean  village 
And  toiling  at  his  craft,  to  die  unknown 
And  be  no  more  remembered  among  men. 


394 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


CHRISTUS  in  the  outer  court. 
The  Scribes   and   Pharisees  sit  in  Moses' 

seat  ; 
All,  therefore,  whatsoever   they  command 

you, 
Observe   and   do  ;  but    follow    not    their 

works  ; 
They  say  and  do  not.     They   bind   heavy 

burdens 
And  very  grievous  to   be   borne,   and  lay 

them 
Upon  men's  shoulders,  but  they  move  them 

not 
With  so  much  as  a  finger  ! 

GAMALIEL,  looking  forth. 

Who  is  this 
Exhorting  in  the  outer  courts  so  loudly  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

Their  works  they  do  for  to  be  seen  of  men. 
They  make  broad  their  phylacteries,  and 

enlarge 
The  borders  of   their  garments,  and  they 

love 
The  uppermost   rooms  at  feasts,  and   the 

chief  seats 
In     Synagogues,    and     greetings    in     the 

markets, 
And  to  be  called  of  all  men  Rabbi,  Rabbi ! 

GAMALIEL. 

It  is  that  loud  and  turbulent  Galilean, 
That  came  here  at  the  Feast  of  Dedication, 
And  stirred   the   people  up  to  break   the 
Law  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Woe  unto  you,  ye  Scribes  and  Pharisees, 
Ye  hypocrites  !  for  ye  shut  up  the  kingdom 
Of  heaven,  and  neither  go  ye  in  yourselves 
Nor  suffer  them  that  are  entering  to  go  in  ! 

GAMALIEL. 

How  eagerly  the  people  throng  and  listen, 
As  if  his  ribald  words  were  words  of  wis 
dom  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Woe  unto  you,  ye  Scribes  and  Pharisees, 
Ye  hypocrites  !  for  ye  devour  the  houses 
Of  widows,  and  for  pretence  ye  make  long 

prayers  ; 

Therefore  shall  ye  receive  the  more  dam 
nation. 


GAMALIEL. 

This  brawler  is  no  Jew,  —  he  is  a  vile 
Samaritan,  and  hath  an  unclean  spirit ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Woe  unto  you,  ye  Scribes  and  Pharisees, 
Ye  hypocrites  !  ye  compass  sea  and  land 
To  make  one  proselyte,  and  when  he  is  made 
Ye  make  him  twofold  more  the  child  of 

hell 
Than  you  yourselves  are  ! 

GAMALIEL. 

O  my  father's  father  ! 
Hillel  of  blessed  memory,  hear  and  judge  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Woe  unto  you,  ye  Scribes  and  Pharisees, 
Ye  hypocrites  !  for  ye  pay  tithe  of  mint, 
Of  anise,  and  of  cumin,  and  omit 
The  weightier  matters  of  the  law  of  God, 
Judgment   and   faith  and  mercy  ;  and  all 

these 
Ye  ought  to  have  done,  nor  leave  undone 

the  others  ! 

GAMALIEL. 

O  Rabban  Simeon  !  how  must  thy  bones 
Stir   in   their    grave   to    hear    such   blas 
phemies  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Woe  unto  you,  ye  Scribes  and  Pharisees, 
Ye   hypocrites !   for    ye   make    clean  and 

sweet 

The  outside  of  the  cup  and  of  the  platter, 
But  they  within  are  full  of  all  excess  ! 

GAMALIEL. 

Patience   of   God !   canst   thou  endure   so 

long  ? 
Or  art  thou  deaf,  or  gone  upon  a  journey  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

Woe  unto  you,  ye  Scribes  and  Pharisees, 
Ye  hypocrites  !  for  ye  are  very  like 
To  whited  sepulchres,  which  indeed  appear 
Beautiful  outwardly,  but  are  within 
Filled  full  of  dead  men's  bones  and  all  un- 
cleanuess  ! 

GAMALIEL. 

Am  I  awake  ?     Is  this  Jerusalem  ? 
And  are  these  Jews  that  throng  and  stare 
and  listen  ? 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


395 


CHBISTUS. 

Woe  unto  you,  ye  Scribes  and  Pharisees, 
Ye  hypocrites  !  because  ye  build  the  tombs 
Of  prophets,  and  adorn  the  sepulchres 
Of  righteous   men,  and  say  :   If   we  had 

lived 
When  lived  our  fathers,  we  would  not  have 

been 

Partakers  with  them  in  the  blood  of  Pro 
phets. 

So  ye  be  witnesses  unto  yourselves, 
That  ye  are  children  of  them  that  killed  the 

Prophets  ! 

Fill  ye  up  then  the  measure  of  your  fathers. 
I  send  unto  you  Prophets  and  Wise  Men, 
And   Scribes,   and   some   ye   crucify,    and 

some 

Scourge   in  your  Synagogues,  and   perse 
cute 

From  city  to  city  ;  that  on  you  may  come 
The  righteous  blood  that  hath  been  shed  on 

earth, 
From  the  blood  of  righteous  Abel  to  the 

blood 

Of  Zacharias,  son  of  Barachias, 
Ye  slew  between  the  Temple  and  the  altar  ! 

GAMALIEL. 

Oh,  had  I  here  my  subtle  dialectician, 
My  little  Saul  of  Tarsus,  the  tent-maker, 
Whose  wit   is    sharper   than   his    needle's 

point, 

He  would  delight  to  foil  this  noisy  wran 
gler ! 

CHBISTUS. 

Jerusalem  !  Jerusalem  !  O  thou 

That  killest  the  Prophets,  and  that  stonest 

them 

Which  are  sent  unto  thee,  how  often  would  I 
Have  gathered  together  thy  children,  as  a 

hen 
Gathereth    her    chickens   underneath    her 

wing, 
And  ye  would  not !     Behold,  your  house  is 

left 
Unto  you  desolate ! 

THE  PEOPLE. 

This  is  a  Prophet  ! 
This  is  the  Christ  that  was  to  come  ! 

GAMALIEL. 

Ye  fools  ! 
Think  ye,  shall  Christ  come  out  of  Galilee  ? 


Ill 
LORD,  IS  IT  I? 

CHBISTUS. 

One  of  you  shall  betray  me. 


THE  DISCIPLES. 


Lord,  is  it  I  ? 


Is  it  I  ? 


CHEISTUS. 

One  of  the  Twelve  it  is 
That  dippeth  with  me  in  this  dish  his  hand  ; 
He  shall  betray  me.     Lo,  the  Son  of  Man 
Goeth  indeed  as  it  is  written  of  Him  ; 
But  woe  shall  be  unto  that  man  by  whom 
He   is   betrayed  !    Good   were  it  for  that 

man 
If  he  had  ne'er  been  born  ! 

JUDAS  ISCABIOT. 

Lord,  is  it  I  ? 

CHBISTUS. 

Ay,  thou  hast  said.     And  that  thou  doest, 
do  quickly. 

JUDAS  ISCABIOT,  going  out. 
Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 

CHBISTUS. 

All  ye  shall  be  offended 
Because  of  me  this  night  ;  for  it  is  written  : 
Awake,   O    sword   against   my   shepherd  ! 

Smite 
The  shepherd,  saith  the  Lord  of  hosts,  and 

scattered 
Shall   be    the    sheep  !  —  But  after  I    am 

risen 
I  go  before  you  into  Galilee. 

PETEB. 

O  Master  !   though  all  men  shall  be   of 
fended 
Because  of  thee,  yet  will  not  I  be  ! 

CHBISTUS. 

Simon, 

Behold  how  Satan  hath  desired  to  have  you, 
That  he  may  sift  you  as  one  sifteth  wheat  1 
Whither  I  go  thou  canst  not  follow  me  — 
Not  now  ;  but  thou  shalt  follow  me  here 
after. 


396 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


PETER. 

Wherefore  can  I  not  follow  thee  ?     I  am 

ready 
To  go  with  thee  to  prison  and  to  death. 

CHRISTUS. 

Verily  say  I  unto  thee,  this  night, 
Ere  the  cock  crow,  thou   shalt   deny  me 
thrice  ! 

PETER. 

Though  I  should  die,  yet  will  I  not   deny 
thee. 

CHRISTUS. 

When   first   I   sent   you    forth   without  a 

purse, 
Or  scrip,  or  shoes,  did  ye  lack  anything  ? 

THE  DISCIPLES. 

Not  anything. 

CHRISTUS. 

But  he  that  hath  a  purse, 
Now   let   him    take   it,   and   likewise    his 

scrip  ; 

And  he  that  hath  no  sword,  let  him  go  sell 
His  clothes  and  buy  one.     That  which  hath 

been  written 
Must    be    accomplished    now  :     He    hath 

poured  out 
His   soul  even  unto  death  ;  he  hath  been 

numbered 
With  the  transgressors,  and  himself  hath 

borne 

The  sin  of  many,  and  made  intercession 
For  the  transgressors.     And  here  have  an 

end 
The  things  concerning  me. 

PETER. 

Behold,  O  Lord, 
Behold,  here  are  two  swords  ! 


CHRISTUS. 


IV 


It  is  enough. 


THE   GARDEN   OF  GETHSEMANE 

CHRISTUS. 

My  spirit  is  exceeding  sorrowful 
Even    unto    death  !     Tarry  ye  here    and 
watch. 

He  goes  apart. 


Under  this  ancient  olive-tree,  that  spreads 
Its  broad  centennial  branches  like  a  tent, 
Let  us  lie  down  and  rest. 


What  are  those  torches, 
That    glimmer   on   Brook    Kedron    there 
below  us  ? 

JAMES.  - 

It  is  some  marriage  feast  ;  the  joyful  maid 
ens 
Go  out  to  meet  the  bridegroom. 

PETER. 

I  am  weary. 

The  struggles  of  this  day  have  overcome 
me. 

They  sleep. 

CHRISTUS,  falling  on  his  face. 
Father  !  all  things  are  possible  to  thee,  — 
Oh  let  this  cup  pass  from  me  !     Neverthe 
less 
Not  as  I  will,  but  as  thou  wilt,  be  done  ! 

Returning  to  the  Disciples. 
What  !  could  ye  not  watch  with  me  for  one 

hour  ? 

Oh  watch  and  pray,  that  ye  may  enter  not 
Into  temptation.     For  the  spirit  indeed 
Is  willing,  but  the  flesh  is  weak  ! 

JOHN. 

Alas! 

It  is  for  sorrow  that  our  eyes  arc  heavy.  — 
I  see  again  the  glimmer  of  those  torches 
Among  the  olives  ;  they  are  coming  hither. 

JAMES. 

Outside  the  garden  wall  the  path  divides  ; 
Surely  they  come  not  hither. 
They  sleep  again. 

CHRISTUS,  as  before. 

O  my  Father  ! 

If  tin's  cup  may  not  pass  away  from  me, 
Except  I  drink  of  it,  thy  will  be  done. 

Returning  to  the  Disciples. 
Sleep  on  ;  and  take  your  rest  ! 

JOHN. 

Beloved  Master, 

Alas  !  we  know  not  what  to  answer  thee  ! 
It  is  for  sorrow  that  our  eyes  are  heavy.  — 
Behold,  the  torches  now  encompass  us. 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


397 


JAMES. 

They  do  but  go  about  the  garden  wall, 
Seeking  for  some  one,  or  for  something  lost. 
They  sleep  again. 

CHRISTUS,  as  before. 

If  this  cup  may  not  pass  away  from  me, 
Except  I  drink  of  it,  thy  will  be  done. 

Returning  to  the  Disciples. 
It  is  en&ugh  !     Behold,  the  Son  of  Man 
Hath  been  betrayed  into  the  hands  of  sin 
ners  ! 

The  hour  is  come.     Rise  up,  let  us  be  go 
ing  ; 
For  he  that  shall  betray  me  is  at  hand. 

JOHN. 
Ah  me  !     See,  from  his  forehead,  in  the 

torchlight, 
Great  drops   of   blood    are  falling  to  the 

ground  ! 

PETER. 
What   lights    are    these  ?     What    torches 

glare  and  glisten 

Upon  the  swords  and  armor  of  these  men  ? 
And  there  among  them  Judas  Iscariot ! 

He  smites  the  servant  of  the  High-Priest  with  his 
sword. 

CHRISTUS. 

Put  up  thy  sword  into  its  sheath  ;  for  they 
That  take  the  sword  shall  perish  with  the 

sword. 

The  cup  my  Father  hath  given  me  to  drink, 
Shall  I  not  drink  it  ?     Think'st  thou  that 

I  cannot 
Pray  to  my  Father,  and  that  He  shall  give 

me 

More  than  twelve  legions  of  angels  pres 
ently  ? 

JUDAS  to  CHRISTUS,  kissing  him. 
Hail,  Master  !  hail  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Friend,  wherefore  art  thou  come  ? 
Whom  seek  ye  ? 

CAPTAIN  OF  THE  TEMPLE. 

Jesus  of  Nazareth. 

CHRISTUS. 

I  am  he. 
Are  ye  come  hither  as  against  a  thief, 


With    swords    and    staves    to    take    me  ? 

When  I  daily 
Was  with  you  in  the  Temple,  ye  stretched 

forth 
No  hands  to  take  me  !     But  this  is  your 

hour, 
And  this   the  power  of  darkness.     If  ye 

seek 

Me  only,  let  these  others  go  their  way. 
The  Disciples  depart.  CHRISTUS  is  bound  and 
led  away.  A  certain  younj  man  follows  Him, 
having  a  linen  cloth  cast  about  his  body.  They 
lay  hold  of  him,  and  the  young  man. flees  from 
them  naked. 


THE   PALACE  OF  CAIAPHAS 

PHARISEES. 

What   do   we  ?     Clearly   something  must 

we  do, 
For  this  man  worketh  many  miracles. 

CAIAPHAS. 

I  am  informed  that  he  is  a  mechanic  ; 
A  carpenter's  son  ;  a  Galilean  peasant, 
Keeping  disreputable  company. 

PHARISEES. 

The  people  say  that  here  in  Bethany 
He  hath  raised  up  a  certain  Lazarus, 
Who  had  been  dead  three  days. 

CAIAPHAS. 

Impossible  ! 

There  is  no  resurrection  of  the  dead  ; 
This  Lazarus  should  be  taken,  and  put  to 

death 

As  an  impostor.     If  this  Galilean 
Would  be  content  to  stay  in  Galilee, 
And  preach  in  country  towns,  I  should  not 

heed  him. 

But  when  he  comes  up  to  Jerusalem 
Riding  in  triumph,  as  I  am  informed, 
And  drives  the  money-changers  from  the 

Temple, 
That  is  another  matter. 


If  we  thus 

Let  him  alone,  all  will  believe  on  him, 
And    then    the    Romans   come    and  take 

away 
Our  place  and  nation. 


393 


CHRISTUS:   A    MYSTERY 


CAIAPHAS. 

Ye  know  nothing  at  all. 
Simon  Ben  Camith,  my  great  predecessor, 
On  whom  be  peace !  would  have  dealt 

presently 

With  such  a  demagogue.     I  shall  no  less. 
The  man  must  die.     Do  ye  consider  not 
It  is  expedient  that  one  man  should  die, 
Not  the  whole   nation    perish  ?     What   is 

death  ? 

It  differeth  from  sleep  but  in  duration. 
We  sleep  and  wake  again  ;  an  hour  or  two 
Later  or  earlier,  and  it  matters  not, 
And  if  we  never  wake  it  matters  not  ; 
When  we  are  in  our  graves  we  are  at  peace, 
Nothing  can  wake  us  or  disturb  us  more. 
There  is  no  resurrection. 

PHARISEES,  aside. 

O  most  faithful 

Disciple  of  Hircanus  Maccabpeus, 
Will  nothing  but  complete  annihilation 
Comfort  and  satisfy  thee  ? 

CAIAPHAS. 

While  ye  are  talking 
And  plotting,  and  contriving  how  to  take 

him, 

Fearing  the  people,  and  so  doing  naught, 
I,  who  fear  not  the  people,  have  been  act 
ing  ; 
Have  taken  this  Prophet,  this  young  Naza- 

rene, 

Who  by  Beelzebub  the  Prince  of  devils 
Casteth  out  devils,  and  doth  raise  the  dead, 
That  might  as  well  be  dead,  and  left  in 

peace. 
Annas    my   father-in-law   hath    sent    him 

hither. 

I  hear  the  guard.     Behold  your  Galilean  ! 
CHRISTUS  is  brought  in  bound. 

SERVANT,  in  the  vestibule. 
Why  art  thou  up  so  late,  my  pretty  damsel  ? 

DAMSEL. 

Why  art  thou  up  so  early,  pretty  man  ? 
It  is  not  cock-crow  yet,  and  art  thou  stir 
ring  ? 

SERVANT. 

What  brings  thee  here  ? 

DAMSEL. 

What  brings  the  rest  of  you  ? 


SERVANT. 

Come  here  and  warm  thy  hands. 

DAMSEL  tO  PETER. 

Art  thou  not  also 
One  of  this  man's  disciples  ? 

PETER. 

I  am  not. 

DAMSEL. 

Now  surely  thou  art  also  one  of  them  ; 
Thou  art  a  Galilean,  and  thy  speech 
Bewrayeth  thee. 

PETER. 
Woman,  I  know  him  not ! 

CAIAPHAS  to  CHRISTUS,  in  the  Hall. 
Who  art  thou  ?     Tell  us  plainly  of  thyself 
And  of  thy  doctrines,  and  of  thy  disciples. 

CHRISTUS. 

Lo,  I  have  spoken  openly  to  the  world, 
I  have  taught  ever  in  the  Synagogue, 
And  in  the  Temple,  where  the  Jews  resort  ; 
In  secret   have  said   nothing.     Wherefore 

then 
Askest  thou  me  of  this?     Ask  them  that 

heard  me 
What  I  have  said  to  them.     Behold,  they 

know 
What  I  have  said  ! 

OFFICER,  striking  him. 

What,  fellow  !  auswerest  thou 
The  High-Priest  so  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

If  I  have  spoken  evil, 
Bear  witness  of  the  evil  ;  but  if  well, 
Why  srnitest  thou  me  ? 

CAIAPHAS. 

Where  are  the  witnesses  ? 
Let  them  say  what  they  know. 

THE  TWO  FALSE   WITNESSES. 

We  heard  him  say  : 

I  will  destroy  this  Temple  made  with  hands, 
And  will  within  three  days  build  up  another 
Made  without  hands. 

SCRIBES  and  PHARISEES. 

He  is  o'erwhelmed  with  shame 
And  cannot  answer  ! 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


399 


CAIAPHAS. 

Dost  thou  answer  nothing  ? 
What  is  this  thing  they  witness  here  against 
thee? 

SCRIBES  and  PHARISEES. 
He  holds  his  peace. 

CAIAPHAS. 

Tell  us,  art  thou  the  Christ  ? 
I  do  adjure  thee  by  the  living  God, 
Tell  us,  art  thou  indeed  the  Christ  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

I  am. 

Hereafter  shall  ye  see  the  Son  of  Man 
Sit  on  the  right  hand  of  the  power  of  God, 
And  come  in  clouds  of  heaven  ! 

CAIAPHAS,  rending  his  clothes. 

It  is  enough. 
He  hath  spoken  blasphemy  !    What  further 

need 

Have  we  of  witnesses  ?   Now  ye  have  heard 
His  blasphemy.     What  think  ye?      Is  he 
guilty  ? 

SCRIBES  and  PHARISEES. 
Guilty  of  death  ! 

KINSMAN  OF  MALCHUS  to  PETER,  in  the  vestibule. 

Surely  I  know  thy  face, 

Did  I  not  see  thee  in  the  garden  with  him  ? 

PETER. 
How  couldst  thou  see  me  ?     I  swear  unto 

thee 
I  do  not  know  this  man  of  whom  ye  speak  ! 

The  cock  crows. 
Hark  !   the  cock  crows  !     That  sorrowful, 

pale  face 

Seeks  for  me  in  the  crowd,  and  looks  at  me, 
As  if  He  would  remind  me  of  those  words  : 
Ere  the  cock  crow  thou  shalt  deny  me 

thrice  ! 

Goes  out  weeping.    CHRISTUS  is  blindfolded  and 
buffeted. 

AN  OFFICER,  striking  him  with  his  palm. 
Prophesy    unto      us,    thou      Christ,    thou 

Prophet  ! 
Who  is  it  smote  thee  ? 

CAIAPHAS. 

Lead  him  unto  Pilate  ! 


VI 
PONTIUS   PILATE 

PILATE. 

Wholly  incomprehensible  to  me, 
Vainglorious,  obstinate,  and  given  up 
To  unintelligible  old  traditions, 
And  proud,  and   self-conceited   are   these 

Jews  ! 

Not  long  ago,  I  marched  the  legions  down 
From  Csesarea  to  their  winter-quarters 
Here  in  Jerusalem,  with  the  effigies 
Of  Caesar  on  their  ensigns,  and  a  tumult 
Arose   among   these   Jews,   because   their 

Law 

Forbids  the  making  of  all  images  ! 
They  threw  themselves  upon    the   ground 

with  wild 
Expostulations,    bared     their    necks,    and 

cried 
That  they  would  sooner  die  than  have  their 

Law 

Infringed  in  any  manner  ;  as  if  Numa 
Were  not  as  great  as  Moses,  and  the  Laws 
Of  the  Twelve  Tables  as  their  Pentateuch  ! 

And  then,  again,  when  I  desired  to  span 
Their  valley  with  an  aqueduct,  and  bring 
A  rushing  river  in  to  wash  the  city 
And  its  inhabitants,  —  they  all  rebelled 
As  if  they  had  been  herds  of  unwashed 

swine  ! 
Thousands    and    thousands    of    them    got 

together 
And  raised  so  great  a  clamor  round  my 

doors, 

That,  fearing  violent  outbreak,  I  desisted, 
And  left  them  to  their  wallowing  in  the 


And  now  here  comes  the  reverend  Sanhe 
drim 

Of  lawyers,  priests,  and  Scribes  and  Phari 
sees, 
Like  old  and  toothless   mastiffs,  that  can 

bark 

But  cannot  bite,  howling  their  accusations 
Against     a     mild     enthusiast,    who     hath 

preached 

I  know  not  what  new  doctrine,  being  King 
Of  some  vague  kingdom  in  the  other  world, 
That  hath  no  more  to  do  with  Korne  and 
Csesar 


400 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


Than  I  have  with  the  patriarch  Abra 
ham  ! 

Finding  this  man  to  be  a  Galilean 
I  sent  him  straight  to  Herod,  and  I  hope 
That  is  the  last  of  it  ;  but  if  it  be  not, 
I  still  have  power  to  pardon   and  release 

him, 

As  is  the  custom  at  the  Passover, 
And  so  accommodate  the  matter  smoothly, 
Seeming  to  yield  to  them,  yet  saving  him  ; 
A  prudent  and  sagacious  policy 
For  Roman  Governors  in  the  Provinces. 

Incomprehensible,  fanatic  people  ! 

Ye  have  a  God,  who  seemeth  like  your 
selves 

Incomprehensible,  dwelling  apart, 

Majestic,  cloud  -  encompassed,  clothed  in 
darkness  ! 

One  whom  ye  fear,  but  love  not  ;  yet  ye 
have 

No  Goddesses  to  soften  your  stern  lives, 

And  make  you  tender  unto  human  weak 
ness, 

While  we  of  Rome  have  everywhere 
around  us 

Our  amiable  divinities,  that  haunt 

The  woodlands,  and  the  waters,  and  fre 
quent 

Our  households,  with  their  sweet  and 
gracious  presence  ! 

I  will  go  in,  and  while  these  Jews  are 
wrangling, 

Read  my  Ovidius  on  the  Art  of  Love. 


VII 
BARABBAS   IN   PRISON 

BARABBAS,  to  his  fellow-prisoners. 
Barabbas  is  my  name, 
Barabbas,  the  Son  of  Shame, 

Is  the  meaning  I  suppose  ; 
I  'm  no  better  than  the  best, 
And  whether  worse  than  the  rest 

Of  my  fellow-men,  who  knows  ? 

I  was  once,  to  say  it  in  brief, 
A  highwayman,  a  robber-chief, 

In  the  open  light  of  day. 
So  much  I  am  free  to  confess  ; 
But  all  men,  more  or  less, 

Are  robbers  in  their  way. 


From  my  cavern  in  the  crags, 
From  my  lair  of  leaves  and  flags, 

I  could  see,  like  ants,  below, 
The  camels  with  their  load 
Of  merchandise,  on  the  road 

That  leadeth  to  Jericho. 

And  I  struck  them  unaware, 
As  an  eagle  from  the  air 

Drops  down  upon  bird  or  beast  ; 
And  I  had  my  heart's  desire 
Of  the  merchants  of  Sid  on  and  Tyre, 

And  Damascus  and  the  East. 

But  it  is  not  for  that  I  fear  ; 
It  is  not  for  that  I  am  here 

In  these  iron  fetters  bound  ; 
Sedition  !  that  is  the  word 
That  Pontius  Pilate  heard, 

And  he  liketh  not  the  sound. 

What  think  ye,  would  he  care 
For  a  Jew  slain  here  or  there, 

Or  a  plundered  caravan  ? 
But  Caesar  !  —  ah,  that  is  a  crime, 
To  the  utteri.iost  ead  of  time 

Shall  not  be  forgiven  to  man. 

Therefore  was  Herod  wroth 
With  Matthias  Margaloth, 

And  burned  him  for  a  show  ! 
Therefore  his  wrath  did  smite 
Judas  the  Gaulonite, 

And  his  followers,  as  ye  know. 

For  that  cause  and  no  more, 
Am  I  here,  as  I  said  before  ; 

For  one  unlucky  night, 
Jucundus,  the  captain  of  horse, 
Was  upon  us  with  all  his  force, 

And  I  was  caught  in  the  fight. 

I  might  have  fled  with  the  rest, 
But  my  dagger  was  in  the  breast 

Of  a  Roman  equerry  ; 
As  we  rolled  there  in  the  street, 
They  bound  me,  hands  and  feet  ; 

And  this  is  the  end  of  me. 

Who  cares  for  death  ?     Not  I ! 
A  thousand  times  I  would  die, 

Rather  than  suffer  wrong  ! 
Already  those  women  of  mine 
Are  mixing  the  myrrh  and  the  wine  ; 

I  shall  not  be  with  you  long. 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


401 


VIII 
ECCE   HOMO 

PILATE,  on  the  tessellated  pavement  in  front  of 
his  palace. 

Ye  have   brought   unto   me   this   man,  as 

one 

Who   doth  pervert  the   people  ;    and   be 
hold  ! 

I  have  examined  him,  and  found  no  fault 
Touching-  the  things  whereof  ye  do  accuse 

him. 

No,  nor  yet  Herod  ;  for  I  sent  you  to  him, 
And  nothing  worthy  of  death  he  findeth  in 

him. 

Ye  have  a  custom  at  the  Passover, 
That  one  condemned  to  death  shall  be  re 
leased. 

Whom  will  ye,  then,  that  I  release  to  you  ? 
Jesus  Barabbas,  called  the  Son  of  Shame, 
Or  Jesus,  Son  of  Joseph,  called  the  Christ? 

THE  PEOPLE,  shouting. 
Not  this  man,  but  Barabbas  ! 


What  then  will  ye 

That  I  should  do  with  him  that  is  called 
Christ  ? 


THE  PEOPLE. 


Crucify  him  ! 


PILATE. 

Why,  what  evil  hath  he  done  ? 
Lo,  I  have  found  no  cause  of  death  in  him  ; 
I  will  chastise  him,  and  then  let  him  go. 

THE  PEOPLE,  more  vehemently. 
Crucify  him  !  crucify  him  ! 

A  MESSENGER,  to  PILATE. 

Thy  wife  sends 
This  message  to  thee,  —  Have  thou  naught 

to  do 
With   that   just   man  ;  for  I   this    day   in 

dreams 
Have  suffered  many  things  because  of  him. 

PILATE,  aside. 
The  Gods  speak  to  us  in  our  dreams  !     I 

tremble 
At  what  I  have  to  do  !     O  Claudia, 


How   shall   I  save  him  ?     Yet  one   effort 

more, 
Or  he  must  perish  ! 

Washes  his  hands  before  them. 

I  am  innocent 

Of  the  blood  of  this  just  person  ;  see  ye  to 
it! 

THE  PEOPLE. 

Let  his  blood  be  on  us  and  on  our  children  ! 

VOICES,  within  the  palace. 
Put  on  thy  royal  robes  ;  put  on  thy  crown, 
And  take  thy  sceptre  !     Hail,  thou  King  of 
the  Jews  ! 

PILATE. 

I  bring  him  forth  to  you,  that  ye  may  know 
I  find  no  fault  in  him.     Behold  the  man  ! 

CHRISTUS  is  led  in  with  the  purple  robe  and  crown 
of  thorns. 

CHIEF  PRIESTS  and   OFFICERS. 

Crucify  him  !  crucify  him  ! 


PILATE. 


I  find  no  fault  in  him. 


Take  ye  him  ; 


CHIEF  PRIESTS. 

We  have  a  Law, 

And  by  our  Law  he  ought  to  die  ;  because 
He  made  himself  to  be  the  Son  of  God. 

PILATE,  aside. 

Ah  !  there  are  Sons  of  God,  and  demi-gods 
More   than   ye  know,   ye   ignorant   High- 
Priests  ! 

To  CHRISTUS. 

Whence  art  thou  ? 

CHIEF  PRFESTS. 

Crucify  him  !  crucify  him  ! 

PILATE,  tO  CHRISTUS. 

Dost  thou  not  answer  me  ?    Dost  thou  not 

know 

That  I  have  power  enough  to  crucify  thee  ? 
That  I  have  also  power  to  set  thee  free  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

Thou  couldest  have  no  power  at  all  against 

me 
Except  that  it  were  given  thee  from  above  ; 


402 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


Therefore  hath  he  that  sent  me  unto  thee 
The  greater  siu. 

CHIEF  PRIESTS. 

If  thou  let  this  man  go, 
Thou  art  not  Caesar's  friend.     For  whoso 
ever 

Maketh    himself   a    King,   speaks    against 
Caesar. 

PILATE. 
Ye  Jews,  behold  your  King  ! 


Crucify  him  ! 


CHIEF  PRIESTS. 

Away  with  him  ! 

PILATE. 

Shall  I  crucify  your  King  ? 


CHIEF  PRIESTS. 

We  have  no  King  but  Csesar  ! 

PILATE. 

Take  him,  then, 

Take  him,  ye  cruel  and  bloodthirsty  Priests, 
More  merciless  than  the  plebeian  mob, 
Who   pity   and   spare    the   fainting  gladi 
ator 

Blood-stained  in  Roman  amphitheatres,  — 
Take  him,  and  crucify  him  if  ye  will  ; 
But   if   the   immortal  Gods  do  ever   min- 

gle 
With  the  affairs  of  mortals,  which  I  doubt 

not, 

And  hold  the  attribute  of  justice  dear, 
They  will  commission  the  Eumenides 
To    scatter    you    to    the    four    winds    of 

heaven, 
Exacting    tear    for    tear,    and    blood    for 

blood. 
Here,  take  ye  this  inscription,  Priests,  and 

nail  it 

Upon  the  cross,  above  your  victim's  head  : 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  King  of  the  Jews. 

CHIEF  PRIESTS. 

Nay,  we   entreat !  write  not,  the  King  of 

the  Jews  ; 
But  that  he  said  :  I  am  the  King  of  the 

Jews  ! 

PILATE. 

Enough.     What   I   have   written,   I   have 
written. 


IX 
ACELDAMA 

JUDAS  ISCARIOT. 

Lost !  lost  !    Forever  lost  !  I  have  betrayed 

The  innocent  blood  1  O  God  !  if  thou  art 
love, 

Why  didst  thou  leave  me  naked  to  the 
tempter  ? 

Why  didst  thou  not  commission  thy  swift 
lightning 

To  strike  me  dead  ?  or  why  did  I  not  per 
ish 

With  those  by  Herod  slain,  the  innocent 
children 

Who  went  with  playthings  in  their  little 
hands 

Into  the  darkness  of  the  other  world, 

As  if  to  bed  ?     Or  wherefore  was  I  born, 

If  thou  in  thy  foreknowledge  didst  perceive 

All  that  I  am,  and  all  that  I  must  be  ? 

I  know  I  am  not  generous,  am  not  gentle, 

Like  other  men  ;  but  I  have  tried  to  be, 

And  I  have  failed.  I  thought  by  following 
Him 

I  should  grow  like  Him  ;  but  the  unclean 
spirit 

That  from  my  childhood  up  hath  tortured 
me 

Hath  been  too  cunning  and  too  strong  for 
me. 

Am  I  to  blame  for  this  ?     Am  I  to  blame 

Because  I  cannot  love,  and  ne'er  have 
known 

The  love  of  woman  or  the  love  of  chil 
dren  ? 

It  is  a  curse  and  a  fatality, 

A  mark,  that  hath  been  set  upon  my  fore 
head, 

That  none  shall  slay  me,  for  it  were  a 
mercy 

That  I  were  dead,  or  never  had  been  born. 

Too  late  !   too  late  !    I  shall  not  see  Him 

more 
Among   the   living.     That    sweet,   patient 

face 
Will   never   more   rebuke   me,  nor   those 

lips 
Repeat  the  words  :  One  of  you  shall  betray 

me  ! 

It  stungf  m*3!  into  madness.     How  I  loved, 
Yet  hated  Him  1     But  in  the  other  world  1 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


403 


I  will  be  there  before  Him,  and  will  wait 
Until  he    comes,    and     fall    down   on   my 

knees 

And  kiss  his  feet,  imploring  pardon,  par 
don  ! 

I   heard   Him  say :  All  sins  shall  be  for 
given, 

Except  the  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost. 

That  shall  not  be  forgiven  in  this  world, 

Nor  in  the  world   to   come.     Is    that   my 
sin? 

Have  I  offended  so  there  is  no  hope 

Here   nor   hereafter?     That   I  soon  shall 
know. 

O  God,  have  mercy  !     Christ  have  mercy 

on  me  ! 
Throws  himself  headlong  from  the  cliff. 


THE    THREE    CROSSES 

MANAHEM,  THE  ESSENIAN. 

Three  crosses   in   this  noonday   night  up 
lifted, 

Three  human  figures  that  in  mortal  pain 
Gleam  white  against  the  supernatural  dark 
ness  ; 
Two  thieves,   that   writhe  in  torture,    and 

between  them 

The  Suffering  Messiah,  the  Son  of  Joseph, 
Ay,    the    Messiah    Triumphant,     Son     of 

David  ! 
A   crown    of    thorns   on   that    dishonored 

head  ! 
Those  hands    that    healed    the  sick    now 

pierced  with  nails, 
Those  feet  that  wandered  homeless  through 

the  world 
Now  crossed  and  bleeding,  and  at  rest  for 

ever  ! 
And     the    three     faithful    Maries,     over 

whelmed 
By  this   great   sorrow,   kneeling,  praying 

weeping  ! 
0    Joseph    Caiaphas,    thou    great    High 

Priest, 

How  wilt   thou   answer   for   this  deed   o 
blood  ? 

SCRIBES  and  ELDERS. 

Thou  that  destroyest  the  Temple,  and  dos 
build  it 


n  three  days,  save  thyself  ;  and  if  thou  ho 
Ihe  Son  of  God,  come  down  now  from  the 
cross. 

CHIEF  PRIESTS. 

Others  he  saved,  himself  he  cannot  save  ! 
,et  Christ  the  King  of  Israel  descend 
.'hat  we  may  see  and  believe  1 

SCRIBES  and  ELDERS. 

In  God  he  trusted  ; 
Let  Him  deliver  him,  if  He  will  have  him, 
And  we  will  then  believe. 

CHRISTUS. 

Father  !  forgive  them  ; 
They  know  not  what  they  do. 

THE  IMPENITENT  THIEF. 

If  thou  be  Christ, 
Oh  save  thyself  and  us  ! 

THE  PENITENT  THIEF. 

Remember  me, 
Lord,  when   thou   comest  into   thine   own 
kingdom. 

CHRISTUS. 
This  day  shalt  thou  be  with  me  in  Paradise. 

MANAHEM. 

Golgotha  !  Golgotha !  Oh  the  pain  and 
darkness  ! 

Oh  the  uplifted  cross,  that  shall  forever 

Shine  through  the  darkness,  and  shall  con 
quer  pain 

By  the  triumphant  memory  of  this  hour  ! 

SIMON  MAGUS. 

0  Nazarene  !  I  find  thec  here  at  last  ! 
Thou  art  no  move  a  phantom  unto  me  ! 
This  is  the  end  of  one  who  called  himself 
The  Son  of  God  !    Sucli  is  the  fate  of  those 
Who    preach    new    doctrines.      'T  is    not 

what  he  did, 

But  what  he  said,  hath  brought  him  unto 
this. 

1  will  speak  evil  of  no  dignitaries. 
This  is  my  hour  of  triumph,  Nazarene  ! 

THE  YOUNG  RULER. 

This  is  the  end  of  him  who  said  to  me  : 
Sell  that  thou  hast,  and  give  unto  the  poor  ! 
This  is  the  treasure  in  heaven  he  promised 
ine  ! 


404 


CHRISTUS:    A    MYSTERY 


CHJRISTUS. 

Eloi,  Eloi,  lama  sabacthani ! 

A  SOLDIER,  preparing  the  hyssop. 
He  calleth  for  Elias  ! 

ANOTHER. 

Nay,  let  be  ! 
See  if  Elias  now  will  come  to  save  him  ! 


I  thirst. 


CHRISTUS. 
A   SOLDIER. 

Give  him  the  wormwood  ! 


CHRISTUS,  with  a  loud  cry,  bowing  his  head. 
It  is  finished  ! 


X] 


THE   TWO   MARIES 

MARY  MAGDALENE. 

We  have  arisen  early,  yet  the  sun 
O'ertakes  us  ere  we  reach  the  sepulchre, 
To  wrap  the  body  of  our  blessed  Lord 
With  our  sweet  spices. 

MARY,  MOTHER  OF  JAMES. 

Lo,  this  is  the  garden, 
And  yonder  is  the  sepulchre.     But  who 
Shall  roll  away  the  stone  for  us  to  enter  ? 

MARY  MAGDALENE. 

It  hath  been  rolled  away  !    The  sepulchre 
Is  open  !     Ah,  who  hath  been  here  before 

us, 
When  we  rose  early,  wishing  to  be  first  ? 

MARY,  MOTHER  OF  JAMES. 

I  am  affrighted  ! 

MARY  MAGDALENE. 

Hush  !  I  will  stoop  down 
And  look  within.     There  is  a  young  man 

sitting 
On  the  right  side,  clothed  in  a  long  white 

garment  ! 
It  is  an  angel ! 

THE  ANGEL. 

Fear  not  ;  ye  are  seeking 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  which  was  crucified. 
Why  do  ye  seek  the  living  among  the  dead  ? 
He  is  no  longer  here  ;  he  is  arisen  ! 


Come  see  the  place  where  the  Lord  lay  1 

Remember 

How  He  spake  unto  you  in  Galilee, 
Saying  :  The  Son  of  Man  must  be  delivered 
Into  the  hands  of  sinful  men  ;  by  them 
Be  crucified,  and  the  third  day  rise  again  I 
But  go  your  way,  and  say  to  his  disciples, 
He  goeth  before  you  into  Galilee  ; 
There  shall  ye  see  Him  as  He  said  to  you. 

MARY,  MOTHER  OF  JAMES. 

I  will  go  swiftly  for  them. 

MARY  MAGDALENE,  alone,  weeping. 

They  have  taken 
My  Lord  away  from  me,  and  now  I  know 

not 
Where   they   have    laid    Him!      Who  is 

there  to  tell  me  ? 
This  is  the  gardener.    Surely  he  must  know. 

CHRISTUS. 

Woman,  why  weepest  thou  ?    Whom  seek- 
est  thou  ? 

MARY  MAGDALENE. 

They  have  taken  my  Lord  away  ;  I  cannot 

find  Him. 
O  Sir,  if  thou  have  borne  him  hence,  I 

pray  thee 
Tell  me  where  thou  hast  laid  Him. 


CHRISTUS. 


MARY   MAGDALENE. 


Mary! 
Rabboni  1 


XII 

THE   SEA   OF  GALILEE 

NATHANAEL,  in  the  ship. 
All  is  now  ended. 

JOHN. 

Nay,  He  is  arisen, 
[  ran  unto  the  tomb,  and  stooping  down 
Looked  in,  and  saw  the  linen  grave-clothes 


Yet  dared  not  enter. 

PETER. 

I  went  in,  and  saw 
The  napkin  that  had  been  about  his  head, 


THE   DIVINE   TRAGEDY 


405 


Not  lying:  with  the  other  linen  clothes, 
But  wrapped  together  in  a  separate  place. 

THOMAS. 
And  I  have  seen  Him.     I  have  seen  the 

print 
Of   nails  upon  his  hands,  and   thrust   my 

hands 

Into  his  side.     I  know  He  is  arisen  ; 
But  where  are  now  the  kingdom  and  the 

glory 
He    promised    unto    us?      We    have    all 

dreamed 

That  we  were  princes,  and  we  wake  to  find 
We  are  but  fishermen. 


Fishers  of  men  ! 


PETER. 
Who  should  have  been 


JOHN. 

We  have  come  back  again 
To  the  old  life,  the  peaceful  life,  among 
The  white  towns  of  the  Galilean  lake. 

PETER. 

They  seem  to  me  like  silent  sepulchres 

In  the  gray  light  of  morning  !    The  old  life, 

Yea,  the  old  life  !  for  we  have  toiled  all 

night 
And  have  caught  nothing. 

JOHN. 

Do  ye  see  a  man 

Standing  upon  the  beach  and  beckoning  ? 
'T  is  like  an  apparition.     He  hath  kindled 
A  fire  of  coals,  and  seems  to  wait  for  us. 
He  calleth. 

CHRISTUS,  from  the  shore. 

Children,  have  ye  any  meat  ? 

PETER. 
Alas  !    We  have  caught  nothing. 

CHRISTUS. 

Cast  the  net 

On  the  right  side  of  the  ship,  and  ye  shall 
find. 

PETER. 

How  that  reminds  me  of  the  days  gone  by, 
And  one  who  said  :    Launch  out   into   the 

deep, 
And  cast  your  nets  ! 


NATHANAEL. 

We  have  but  let  them  down 
And   they   are   filled,  so   that   we   cannot 
draw  them  ! 


It  is  the  Lord  ! 


JOHN. 


PETER,  girding  his. fisher's  coat  about  him. 

He  said  :  When  I  am  risen 
I  will  go  before  you  into  Galilee  ! 
He  casts  himself  into  the  lake. 

JOHN. 

There  is  no  fear  in  love  ;  for  perfect  love 
Casteth  out  fear.    Now  then,  if  ye  are  men, 
Put  forth  your  strength  ;  we  are  not  far 

from  shore  ; 
The  net  is  heavy,  but  breaks  not.     All  is 

safe. 

PETER,  on  the  shore. 
Dear  Lord  !  I  heard  thy  voice  and  could 

not  wait. 

Let  me  behold  thy  face,  and  kiss  thy  feet ! 
Thou  art  not  dead,  thou  livest  !     Again  I 

see  thee. 

Pardon,  dear  Lord  !     I  am  a  sinful  man  ; 
I  have  denied  thee  thrice.     Have  mercy 

on  me  ! 

THE  OTHERS,  coming  to  land. 
Dear  Lord  !  stay  with  us  !  cheer  us  !  com 
fort  us  ! 

Lo  !  we  again  have  found  thee  !    Leave  us 
not  ! 

CHRISTUS. 

Bring   hither    of    the    fish   that    ye    have 

caught, 
And  come  and  eat ! 

JOHN. 

Behold  !     He  breaketh  bread 
As  He  was  wont.     From  his  own  blessed 

hands 
Again  we  take  it. 

CHRISTUS. 

Simon,  son  of  Jonas- 
Lovest  thou  me,  more  than  these  others  ? 

PETER. 

Yea, 
More,  Lord,  than  all  men  ;  even  more  than 

these. 
Thou  knowest  that  I  love  thee. 


406 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


CHRISTUS. 

Feed  my  lambs. 
THOMAS,  aside. 

How  more  than  we  do  ?    He  remaineth  ever 
Self-confident  and  boastful  as  before. 
Nothing  will  cure  him. 

CHRISTUS. 

Simon,  son  of  Jonas, 
Lovest  thou  me  ? 

PETER. 

Yea,  dearest  Lord,  I  love  thee. 
Thou  knowest  that  I  love  thee. 

CHRISTUS. 

Feed  my  sheep. 
THOMAS,  aside. 

Again,  the  selfsame  question,  and  the  an 
swer 
Repeated  with  more  vehemence.     Can  the 

Master 
Doubt  if  we  love  Him  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

Simon,  son  of  Jonas, 
Lovest  thou  me  ? 

PETER,  grieved. 

Dear  Lord  !  thou  knowest  all  things. 
Thou  knowest  that  I  love  thee. 

CHRISTUS. 

Feed  my  sheep. 

When  thou  wast  young  thou  girdedst  thy 
self,  and  walkedst 

Whither    thou   wouldst ;   but    when    thou 
shalt  be  old, 

Thou  shalt  stretch  forth    thy  hands,   and 
other  men 

Shall   gird    and  carry  thee  whither   thou 
wouldst  not. 

Follow  thou  me  ! 

JOHN,  aside. 

It  is  a  prophecy 
Of  what  death  he  shall  die. 

PETER,  pointing  to  JOHN. 

Tell  me,  O  Lord, 
And  what  shall  this  man  do  ? 

CHRISTUS. 

And  if  I  will 

He  tarry  till  I  come,  what  is  it  to  thee  ? 
Follow  thou  me  ! 


Yea,  I  will  follow  thee,  dear  Lord  and 
Master  ! 

Will  follow  thee  through  fasting  and  temp 
tation, 

Through  all  thine  agony  and  bloody  sweat, 

Thy  cross  and  passion,  even  unto  death ! 


EPILOGUE 
SYMBOLUM   APOSTOLORUM 

PETER. 

I  BELIEVE  in  God  the  Father  Almighty  ; 

JOHN. 

Maker  of  Heaven  and  Earth  ; 

JAMES. 

And  in  Jesus  Christ  his  only  Son,  our 
Lord  ; 

ANDREW. 

Who  was  conceived  by  the  Holy  Ghost, 
born  of  the  Virgin  Mary  ; 

PHILIP. 

Suffered  under  Pontius  Pilate,  was  crucified, 
dead,  and  buried  ; 

THOMAS. 

And  the  third  day  He  rose  again  from  the 
dead  ; 

BARTHOLOMEW. 

He  ascended  into  Heaven,  and  sitteth  on 
the  right  hand  of  God,  the  Father 
Almighty  ; 

MATTHEW. 

From  thence  He  shall  come  to  judge  the 
quick  and  the  dead. 

JAMES,   THE   SON  OF   ALPHEUS. 

I  believe  in  the  Holy  Ghost  ;  the  holy 
Catholic  Church  ; 

SIMON  ZELOTES. 

The  communion  of  Saints  ;  the  forgiveness 
of  sins  ; 

JUDE. 
The  resurrection  of  the  body  ; 

MATTHIAS. 

And  the  Life  Everlasting. 


THE  ABBOT   JOACHIM 


407 


FIRST   INTERLUDE 

THE  ABBOT  JOACHIM 

A   ROOM    IN    THE    CONVENT    OF     FLORA 
IN    CALABRIA.       NIGHT 


; 


JOACHIM. 

THE  wind  is  rising  ;  it  seizes  and  shakes 
The  doors  and  window-blinds  and  makes 
Mysterious  moanings  in  the  halls  ; 
The  convent-chimneys  seem  almost 
The  trumpets  of  some  heavenly  host, 
Setting  its  watch  upon  our  walls  ! 
Where  it  listeth,  there  it  bloweth  ; 
We  hear  the  sound,  but  no  man  knoweth 
Whence  it  cometh  or  whither  it  goeth, 
And  thus  it  is  with  the  Holy  Ghost. 

0  breath  of  God  !    O  my  delight 
In  many  a  vigil  of  the  night, 

Like  the  great  voice  in  Patmos  heard 
By  John,  the  Evangelist  of  the  Word, 

1  hear  thee  behind  me  saying  :  Write 
In  a  book  the  things  that  thou  hast  seen, 
The  things  that  are,  and  that  have  been, 
And  the  things  that  shall  hereafter  be  ! 

This  convent,  on  the  rocky  crest 
Of  the  Calabrian  hills,  to  me 
A  Patmos  is  wherein  I  rest  ; 
While  round  about  me  like  a  sea 
The  white  mists  roll,  and  overflow 
The  world  that  lies  unseen  below 
In  darkness  and  in  mystery. 
Here  in  the  Spirit,  in  the  vast 
Embrace  of  God's  encircling  arm, 
Am  I  uplifted  from  all  harm  ; 
The  world  seems  something  far  away, 
Something  belonging  to  the  Past, 
A  hostelry,  a  peasant's  farm, 
That  lodged  me  for  a  night  or  day, 
In  which  I  care  not  to  remain, 
Nor  having  left,  to  see  again. 

Thus,  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand 

I  dwelt  on  sacred  Tabor's  height, 

When  as  a  simple  acolyte 

I  journeyed  to  the  Holy  Land, 

A  pilgrim  for  my  master's  sake, 

And  saw  the  Galilean  Lake, 

And  walked  through  many  a  village  street 

That  once  had  echoed  to  his  feet. 

There  first  I  heard  the  great  command, 


The  voice  behind  me  saying  :  Write  1 

And  suddenly  my  soul  became 

Illumined  by  a  flash  of  flame, 

That  left  imprinted  on  my  thought 

The  image  I  in  vain  had  sought, 

And  which  forever  shall  remain  ; 

As  sometimes  from  these  windows  high, 

Gazing  at  midnight  on  the  sky 

Black  with  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain, 

I  have  beheld  a  sudden  glare 

Of  lightning  lay  the  landscape  bare, 

With  tower  and  town  and  hill  and  plain 

Distinct,  and  burnt  into  my  brain, 

Never  to  be  effaced  again  ! 

And    I    have     written.      These     volumes 

three, 

The  Apocalypse,  the  Harmony 
Of  the  Sacred  Scriptures,  new  and  old, 
And  the  Psalter  with  Ten  Strings,  enfold 
Within  their  pages,  all  and  each, 
The  Eternal  Gospel  that  I  teach. 
Well  I  remember  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven 
Hath  been  likened  to  a  little  leaven 
Hidden  in  two  measures  of  meal, 
Until  it  leavened  the  whole  mass  ; 
So  likewise  will  it  come  to  pass 
With  the  doctrines  that  I  here  conceal. 

Open  and  manifest  to  me 
The  truth  appears,  and  must  be  told  ; 
All  sacred  mysteries  are  threefold  ; 
Three  Persons  in  the  Trinity, 
Three  ages  of  Humanity, 
And  Holy  Scriptures  likewise  three, 
Of  Fear,  of  Wisdom,  and  of  Love ; 
For  Wisdom  that  begins  in  Fear 
Endeth  in  Love  ;  the  atmosphere 
In  which  the  soul  delights  to  be, 
And  finds  that  perfect  liberty 
Which  cometh  only  from  above. 

In  the  first  Age,  the  early  prime 

And  dawn  of  all  historic  time, 

The  Father  reigned  ;  and  face  to  face 

He  spake  with  the  primeval  race.   - 

Bright  Angels,  on  his  errands  sent, 

Sat  with  the  patriarch  in  his  tent  ; 

His  prophets  thundered  in  the  street ; 

His  lightnings  flashed,  his  hailstorms  beat ; 

In  earthquake  and  in  flood  and  flame, 

In  tempest  and  in  cloud  He  came  ! 

The  fear  of  God  is  in  his  Book  ; 

The  pages  of  the  Pentateuch 

Are  full  of  the  terror  of  his  name. 


408 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


Then  reigned  the  Son  ;  his  Covenant 

Was  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  man  ; 

With  Him  tha  reign  of  Law  began. 

He  was  the  Wisdom  and  the  Word, 

And  sent  his  Angels  Ministrant, 

Unterrified  and  undeterred, 

To  rescue  souls  forlorn  and  lost, 

The  troubled,  tempted,  tempest-tost 

To  heal,  to  comfort,  and  to  teach. 

The  fiery  tongues  of  Pentecost 

His  symbols  were,  that  they  should  preach 

In  every  form  of  human  speech, 

From  continent  to  continent. 

He  is  the  Light  Divine,  whose  rays 

Across  the  thousand  years  unspent 

Shine  through  the  darkness  of  our  days, 

And  touch  with  their  celestial  fires 

Our  churches  and  our  convent  spires. 

His  Book  is  the  New  Testament. 

These  Ages  now  are  of  the  Past  ; 
And  the  Third  Age  begins  at  last. 
The  coming  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
The  reign  of  Grace,  the  reign  of  Love 
Brightens  the  mountain-tops  above, 
And  the  dark  outline  of  the  coast. 
Already  the  whole  land  is  white 
With  convent  walls,  as  if  by  night 
A  snow  had  fallen  on  hill  and  height ! 
Already  from  the  streets  and  marts 
Of  town  and  traffic,  and  low  ca'res, 
Men  climb  the  consecrated  stairs 
With  weary  feet,  and  bleeding  hearts  ; 
And  leave  the  world,  and  its  delights, 
Its  passions,  struggles,  and  despairs, 
For  contemplation  and  for  prayers 
In  cloister-cells  of  coenobites. 

Eternal  benedictions  rest 

Upon  thy  name,  Saint  Benedict ! 

Founder  of  convents  in  the  West, 

Who  built  on  Mount  Cassino's  crest 

In  the  Land  of  Labor,  thine  eagle's  nest ! 

May  I  be  found  not  derelict 

In  aught  of  faith  or  godly  fear, 

If  I  have  written,  in  many  a  page, 

The  Gospel  of  the  coming  age, 

The  Eternal  Gospel  men  shall  hear. 

Oh  may  I  live  resembling  thee, 

And  die  at  last  as  thou  hast  died  ; 

So  that  hereafter  men  may  see, 

Within  the  choir,  a  form  of  air, 

Standing  with  arms  outstretched  in  prayer,, 

As  one  that  hath  been,  crucified  ! 


My  work  is  finished  ;  I  am  strong 
In  faith  and  hope  and  charity  ; 
For  I  have  written  the  things  I  see, 
The  things  that  have  been  and  shall  be, 
Conscious  of  right,  nor  fearing  wrong  ; 
Because  I  am  in  love  with  Love, 
And  the  sole  thing  I  hate  is  Hate  ; 
For  Hate  is  death  ;  and  Love  is  life, 
A  peace,  a  splendor  from  above ; 
And  Hate,  a  never-ending  strife, 
A  smoke,  a  blackness  from  the  abyss 
Where  unclean  serpents  coil  and  hiss  ! 
Love  is  the  Holy  Ghost  within  ; 
Hate  the  unpardonable  sin  ! 
Who  preaches  otherwise  than  this, 
Betrays  his  Master  with  a  kiss  ! 


PART  TWO 

THE  GOLDEN   LEGEND 
PROLOGUE 

THE    SPIRE    OF    STRASBURG    CATH-E- 
DRAL 

Night  and  storm.    LUCIFER,  with  the  Powers  oj 
the  Air,  trying  to  tear  down  the  Cross. 

LUCIFER. 

HASTEN  !  hasten  ! 

O  ye  spirits  ! 

From  its  station  drag  the  ponderous 

Cross  of  iron,  that  to  mock  us 

Is  uplifted  high  in  air  ! 

VOICES. 

Oh,  we  cannot ! 
For  around  it 

All  the  Saints  and  Guardian  Angels 
Throng  in  legions  to  protect  it ; 
They  defeat  us  everywhere  ! 

THE   BELLS. 

Laudo  Deum  verum  1 
Plebem  voco  ! 
Congrego  clerum ! 

LUCIFER. 
Lower !  lower  ! 
Hover  downward  ! 
Seize  the  loud,  vociferous  bells,  and 
Clashing,  clanging,  to  the  pavement 
Hurl  them  from  their  windy  tower  J 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


409 


VOICES. 

All  thy  thunders 

Here  are  harmless  ! 

For  these  bells  have  been  anointed, 

And  baptized  with  holy  water  ! 

They  defy  our  utmost  power. 

THE  BELLS. 

Defunctos  ploro ! 
Pestem  fugo  ! 
Festa  decoro  ! 

LUCIFER. 

Shake  the  casements  ! 
Break  the  painted 

Panes,  that  flame  with  gold  and  crimson  ; 
Scatter  them  like  leaves  of  Autumn, 
Swept  away  before  the  blast ! 

VOICES. 

Oh,  we  cannot  ! 
The  Archangel 

Michael  flames  from  every  window, 
With  the  sword  of  fire  that  drove  us 
Headlong,  out  of  heaven,  aghast ! 

THE  BELLS. 

Funera  plango  ! 
Fulgura  frango  ! 
Sabbata  pango ! 

LUCIFER. 

Aim  your  lightnings 
At  the  oaken, 

Massive,  iron-studded  portals  ! 
Sack  the  house  of  God,  and  scatter 
Wide  the  ashes  of  the  dead  ! 

VOICES. 

Oh,  we  cannot ! 
The  Apostles 

And  the  Martyrs,  wrapped  in  mantles, 
Stand  as  warders  at  the  entrance, 
Stand  as  sentinels  o'erhead  ! 

THE    BELLS. 

Excito  lentos  ! 
Dissipo  ventos  ! 
Paco  cruentos  ! 

LUCIFER. 

Baffled!  baffled! 

Inefficient, 

Craven  spirits  !  leave  this  labor 

Unto  Time,  the  great  Destroyer  I 

Come  away,  ere  night  is  gone  ! 


VOICES. 

Onward  !  onward  ! 
With  the  niglit-wind, 
Over  field  and  farm  and  forest, 
Lonely  homestead,  darksome  hamlet, 
Blighting  all  we  breathe  upon  ! 
They  sweep  away.    Organ  and  Gregorian  Chant. 

CHOIR. 

Nocte  surgentes 
Vigilemus  omnes ! 


THE  CASTLE  OF  VAUTSBERG  ON  THE 
RHJNE 

A  chamber  in  a  tower.    PRINCK  HENRY,  sitting 
alone,  ill  and  restless.  Midnight. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

I  cannot  sleep  !  my  fervid  brain 

Calls  up  the  vanished  Past  again, 

And  throws  its  misty  splendors  deep 

Into  the  pallid  realms  of  sleep  ! 

A  breath  from  that  far-distant  shore 

Comes  freshening  ever  more  and  more, 

And  wafts  o'er  intervening  seas 

Sweet  odors  from  the  Hesperides  ! 

A  wind,  that  through  the  corridor 

Just  stirs  the  curtain,  and  no  more, 

And,  touching  the  feolian  strings, 

Faints  with  the  burden  that  it  brings  ! 

Come  back  !  ye  friendships  long  departed  ! 

That  like  o'erflowing  streamlets  started, 

And  now  are  dwindled,  one  by  one, 

To  stony  channels  in  the  sun  ! 

Come  back  !  ye    friends,  whose   lives  are 

ended, 

Come  back,  with  all  that  light  attended, 
Which  seemed  to  darken  and  decay 
When  ye  arose  and  went  away  ! .  — I 

They  come,  the  shapes  of  joy  and  woe, 

The  airy  crowds  of  long  ago, 

The  dreams  and  fancies  known  of  yore, 

That  have  been,  and  shall  be  no  more. 

They  change  the  cloisters  of  the  night 

Into  a  garden  of  delight  ; 

They  make  the  dark  and  dreary  hours 

Open  and  blossom  into  flowers  ! 

I  would  not  sleep  !     I  love  to  be 

Again  in  their  fair  company  ; 

But  ere  my  lips  can  bid  chem  stay, 

They  pass  and  vanish  quite  away  ! 


4io 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


Alas  !  our  memories  may  retrace 
Each  circumstance  of  time  and  place, 
Season  and  scene  come  back  again, 
And  outward  things  unchanged  remain  ; 
The  rest  we  cannot  reinstate  ; 
Ourselves  we  cannot  re-create, 
Nor  set  our  souls  to  the  same  key 
Of  the  remembered  harmony  !      ^ 

Rest !  rest !     Oh,  give  me  rest  and  peace  ! 
The  thought  of  life  that  ne'er  shall  cease 
Has  something  in  it  like  despair, 
A  weight  I  am  too  weak  to  bear  ! 
Sweeter  to  this  afflicted  breast 
The  thought  of  never-ending  rest  ! 
Sweeter  the  undisturbed  and  deep 
Tranquillity  of  endless  sleep  ! 
A.flash  of  Lightning,  out  of  which  LUCIFER  ap 
pears,  in  the  garb  of  a  travelling  Physician. 

LUCIFER. 

All  hail,  Prince  Henry  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY,  starting. 

Who  is  it  speaks  ? 
Who  and  what  are  you  ? 

LUCIFER. 

One  who  seeks 
A  moment's  audience  with  the  Priuce. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

When  came  you  in  ? 


A  moment  since. 

I  found  your  study  door  unlocked, 
And  thought  you  answered  when  I  knocked. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

I  did  not  hear  you. 

LUCIFER. 

You  heard  the  thunder  ; 
It  was  loud  enough  to  waken  the  dead. 
And  it  is  not  a  matter  of  special  wonder 
That,  when  God  is  walking  overhead, 
You  should  not  hear  my  leeble  tread. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

What  may  your  wish  or  purpose  be  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Nothing  or  everything,  as  it  pleases 
Your  Highness.     You  behold  in  ine 


Only  a  travelling  Physician  ; 
One  of  the  few  who  have  a  mission 
To  cure  incurable  diseases, 
Or  those  that  are  called  so. 


PRINCE  HENRY. 


The  dead  to  life  ? 


Can  you  bring 


LUCIFER. 


Yes  ;  very  nearly. 

And,  what  is  a  wiser  and  better  thing, 
Can  keep  the  living  from  ever  needing 
Such  an  unnatural,  strange  procesding, 
By  showing  conclusively  and  clearly 
That  death  is  a  stupid  blunder  merely, 
And  not  a  necessity  of  our  lives. 
My  being  here  is  accidental  ; 
The   storm,   that    against  your  casement 

drives, 

In  the  little  village  below  waylaid  me. 
And  there  I  heard  with  a  secret  delight, 
Of  your  maladies  physical  and  mental, 
Which   neither  astonished    nor   dismayed 

me. 
And  I  hastened  hither,  though  late  in  the 

night, 
To  proffer  my  aid  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY,  ironically. 

For  this  you  came  1 
Ah,  how  can  I  ever  hope  to  requite 
This  honor  from  one  so  erudite  ? 

LUCIFER. 

The  honor  is  mine,  or  will  be  when 
I  have  cured  your  disease. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

But  not  till  then. 


What  is  your  illness  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

It  has  no  name. 

A  smouldering,  dull,  perpetual  flame, 
As  in  a  kiln,  burns  in  my  veins, 
Sending  up  vapors  to  the  ho  ad  ; 
My  heart  has  become  a  dull  lagoon, 
Which     a   kind    of    leprosy    drinks    and 

drains  ; 

I  am  accounted  as  one  who  is  dead, 
And,  indeed,  I  think  that  I  shall  be  soon. 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


LUCIFER. 

And  has  Gordonius  the  Divine, 
In  his  famous  Lily  of  Medicine,  — 
I  see  the  book  lies  open  before  you,  — 
No  remedy  potent  enough  to  restore  you  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

None  whatever  ! 

LUCIFER. 

The  dead  are  dead, 

And  their  oracles  dumb,  when  questioned 
Of  the  new  diseases  that  human  life 
Evolves  in  its  progress,  rank  and  rife. 
Consult  the  dead  upon  things  that  were, 
But  the  living  only  on  things  that  are. 
Have  you  done  this,  by  the  appliance 
And  aid  of  doctors  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Ay,  whole  schools 

Of  doctors,  with  their  learned  rules  ; 
But  the  case  is  quite  beyond  their  science. 
Even  the  doctors  of  Salern 
Send  me  back  word  they  can  discern 
No  cure  for  a  malady  like  this, 
Save  one  which  in  its  nature  is 
Impossible  and  cannot  be  ! 

LUCIFER. 
That  sounds  oracular  ! 

PK1NCE    HENRY. 

Unendurable ! 

LUCIFER. 

What  is  their  remedy  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY, 

You  shall  see  ; 
Writ  in  this  scroll  is  the  mystery. 

LUCIFER,  reading. 

"  Not  to  be  cured,  yet  not  incurable  ! 
The  only  remedy  that  remains 
Is  the   blood   that  flows  from  a  maiden's 

veins, 

Who  of  her  own  free  will  shall  die, 
And  give  her  life  as  the  price  of  yours  1 " 

That  is  the  strangest  of  all  cures, 
And  one,  I  think,  you  will  never  try  ; 
The  prescription  you  may  well  put  by, 
As  something  impossible  to  find 


Before  the  world  itself  shall  end  ! 
And  yet  who  knows  ?     One  cannot  say 
That  into  some  maiden's  brain  that  kind 
Of  madness  will  not  find  its  way. 
Meanwhile  permit  me  to  recommend, 
As  the  matter  admits  of  no  delay, 
My  wonderful  Catholicon, 
Of  very  subtile  and  magical  powers  ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Purge  with  your  nostrums  and  drugs  infer 
nal 

The  spouts  and  gargoyles  of  these  towers, 
Not  me  !     My  faith  is  utterly  gone 
In  every  power  but  the  Power  Supernal  I 
Pray  tell  me,  of  what  school  are  you  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Both  of  the  Old  and  of  the  New  ! 
The  school  of  Hermes  Trismegistus, 
Who  uttered  his  oracles  sublime 
Before  the  Olympiads,  in  the  dew 
Of  the  early  dusk  and  dawn  of  time, 
The  reign  of  dateless  old  Hephaestus  ! 
As  northward,  from  its  Nubian  springs, 
The  Nile,  forever  new  and  old, 
Among  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Its  mighty,  mystic  stream  has  rolled  j 
So,  starting  from  its  fountain-head 
Under  the  lotus-leaves  of  Isis, 
From  the  dead  demigods  of  eld, 
Through  long,  unbroken  lines  of  kings 
Its  course  the  sacred  art  has  held, 
Unchecked,  unchanged  by  man's  devices. 
This  art  the  Arabian  Geber  taught, 
And  in  alembics,  finely  wrought, 
Distilling  herbs  and  flowers,  discovered 
The  secret  that  so  long  had  hovered 
Upon  the  misty  verge  of  Truth, 
The  Elixir  of  Perpetual  Youth, 
Called  Alcohol,  in  the  Arab  speech  ! 
Like  him,  this  wondrous  lore  I  teach  I 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

What !  an  adept  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Nor  less,  nor  more  I 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

I  am  a  reader  of  your  books, 
A  lover  of  that  mystic  lore  ! 
With  such  a  piercing  glance  it  looks 
Into  great  Nature's  open  eye, 
And  sees  within  it  trembling  lie 


412 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


The  portrait  of  the  Deity  ! 
And  yet,  alas  !  with  all  my  pains, 
The  secret  and  the  mystery 
Have  baffled  and  eluded  me, 
Uuseeii  the  grand  result  remains  ! 

LUCIFER,  showing  a  .flask. 
Behold  it  here  !  this  little  flask 
Contains  the  wonderful  quintessence, 
The  perfect  flower  and  efflorescence, 
Of  all  the  knowledge  man  can  ask  ! 
Hold  it  up  thus  against  the  light ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

How  limpid,  pure,  and  crystalline, 
How  quick,  and  tremulous,  and  bright 
The  little  wavelets  dance  and  shine, 
As  were  it  the  Water  of  Life  in  sooth ! 


It  is  !     It  assuages  every  pain, 
Cures  all  disease,  and  gives  again 
To  age  the  swift  delights  of  youth. 
Inhale  its  fragrance. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

It  is  sweet. 

A  thousand  different  odorc  meet 
And  mingle  in  its  rare  perfume, 
Such  as  the  winds  of  summer  waft 
At  open  windows  through  a  room  J 

LUCIFER. 

Will  you  not  taste  it  ? 


Suffice  ? 


PRINCE  HENRY. 

Will  one  draught 

LUCIFER. 

If  not,  you  can  drink  more. 


PRINCE   HENRY. 

Into  this  crystal  goblet  pour 
So  much  as  safely  I  may  drink. 

•  LUCIFER,  pouring. 
Let  not  the  quantity  alarm  you  ; 
You  may  drink  all ;  it  will  not  harm  you, 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

I  am  as  one  who  on  the  brink 
Of  a  dark  river  stands  and  sees 
The  waters  flow,  the  landscape  dim 
Around  him  waver,  wheel,  and  swim, 
And,  ere  he  plunges,  stops  to  think 


Into  what  whirlpools  he  may  sink  ; 
One  moment  pauses,  and  no  more, 
Then  madly  plunges  from  the  shore  1 
Headlong  into  the  mysteries 
Of  life  and  death  I  boldly  leap, 
Nor  fear  the  fateful  current's  sweep, 
Nor  what  in  ambush  lurks  below  ! 
For  death  is  better  than  disease  ! 
An  ANGEL  with  an  atolian  harp  hovers  in  the 
air. 

ANGEL. 

Woe  !  woe !  eternal  woe  ! 

Not  only  the  whispered  prayer 

Of  love, 

But  the  imprecations  of  hate, 

Reverberate 

For  ever  and  ever  through  the  air 

Above  ! 

This  fearful  curse 

Shakes  the  great  universe  ! 

LUCIFER,  disappearing. 
Drink  !  drink  ! 
And  thy  soul  shall  sink 
Down  into  the  dark  abyss, 
Into  the  infinite  abyss, 
From  which  no  plummet  nor  rope 
Ever  drew  up  the  silver  sand  of  hope  I 

PRINCE  HENRY,  drinking. 
It  is  like  a  draught  of  fire  ! 
Through  every  vein 
I  feel  again 

The  fever  of  youth,  the  soft  desire  ; 
A  rapture  that  is  almost  pain 
Throbs  in  my  heart  and  fills  my  brain  I 
O  joy  !  O  joy  !  I  feel 
The  band  of  steel 

That  so  long  and  heavily  has  pressed 
Upon  my  breast 
Uplifted,  and  the  malediction 
Of  my  affliction 

Is  taken  from  me,  and  my  weary  breast 
At  length  finds  rest. 

THE    ANGEL. 

It  is  but  the  rest  of  the  fire,  from  which 

the  air  has  been  taken  ! 
It  is  but  the  rest  of  the  sand,  when  the 

hour-glass  is  not  shaken  ! 
It  is  but  the  rest  of  the  tide  between  the 

ebb  and  the  flow  ! 
It  is  but  the  rest  of  the  wind  between  the 

flaws  that  blow  ! 


THE  GOLDEN   LEGEND 


413 


With  fiendish  laughter, 

Hereafter, 

This  false  physician 

Will  mock  thee  ill  thy  perdition. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Speak  !  speak  ! 

Who  says  that  I  am  ill  ? 

I  am  not  ill  !     I  am  not  weak  ! 

The  trance,  the  swoon,  the  dream,  is  o'er  I 

I  feel  the  chill  of  death  uo  more  ! 

At  length, 

I  stand  renewed  in  all  my  strength  ! 

Beneath  me  I  can  feel 

The  great  earth  stagger  and  reel, 

As  if  fhe  feet  of  a  descending  God 

Upon  its  surface  trod, 

And  like  a  pebble  it  rolled  beneath  his 

heel! 

This,  O  brave  physician  !  this 
Is  thy  great  Palingenesis  ! 
Drinks  again. 

THE  ANGEL. 

Touch  the  goblet  no  more  ! 

It  will  make  thy  heart  sore 

To  its  very  core  ! 

Its  perfume  is  the  breath 

Of  the  Angel  of  Death, 

And  the  light  that  within  it  lies 

Is  the  flash  of  his  evil  eyes. 

Beware  !     Oh,  beware  ! 

For  sickness,  sorrow,  and  care 

All  are  there  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY,  sinking  back. 

0  thou  voice  within  my  breast ! 
Why  entreat  me,  why  upbraid  me, 
When  the  steadfast  tongues  of  truth 
And  the  flattering  hopes  of  youth 
Have  all  deceived  me  and  betrayed  me  ? 
Give  me,  give  me  rest,  oh  rest  ! 
Golden  visions  wave  and  hover, 
Golden  vapors,  waters  streaming, 
Landscapes  moving,  changing,  gleaming  ! 

1  am  like  a  happy  lover, 

Who  illumines  life  with  dreaming  ! 
Brave  physician  !  Rare  physician  ! 
Well  hast  thou  fulfilled  thy  mission  ! 
His  head  falls  on  his  book. 

THE  ANGEL,  receding. 
Alas  !  alas  ! 

Like  a  vapor  the  golden  vision 
Shall  fade  and  pass, 


And  thou  wilt  find  in  thy  heart  again 

Only  the  blight  of  pain, 

And  bitter,  bitter,  bitter  contrition  1 


COURT-YARD   OF  THE   CASTLE. 
HUBERT  standing  by  the  gateway. 

HUBERT. 

How  sad  the  grand  old  castle  looks  I 
O'erhead,  the  unmolested  rooks 
Upon  the  turret's  windy  top 
Sit,  talking  of  the  farmer's  crop  ; 
Here  in  the  court-yard  springs  the  grass, 
So  few  are  now  the  feet  that  pass  ; 
The  stately  peacocks,  bolder  grown, 
Come  hopping  down  the  steps  of  stone, 
As  if  the  castle  were  their  own  ; 
And  I,  the  poor  old  seneschal, 
Haunt,  like  a  ghost,  the  banquet-hall. 
Alas  !  the  merry  guests  no  more 
Crowd  through  the  hospitable  door  ; 
No  eyes  with  youth  and  passion  shine, 
No  cheeks  glow  redder  than  the  wine  ; 
No  song,  no  laugh,  no  jovial  din 
Of  drinking  wassail  to  the  pin  ; 
But  all  is  silent,  sad,  and  drear, 
And  now  the  only  sounds  I  hear 
Are  the  hoarse  rooks  upon  the  walla, 
And  horses  stamping  in  their  stalls  1 

A.  horn  sounds. 

What  ho  !  that  merry,  sudden  blast 
Reminds  me  of  the  days  long  past  ! 
And,  as  of  old  resounding,  grate 
The  heavy  hinges  of  the  gate, 
And,  clattering  loud,  with  iron  clank, 
Down  goes  the  sounding  bridge  of  plank, 
As  if  it  were  in  haste  to  greet 
The  pressure  of  a  traveller's  feet  ! 

Enter  WALTER  the  Minnesinger. 

WALTER. 

How  now,  my  friend  !    This   looks  quite 

lonely  ! 

No  banner  flying  from  the  walls, 
No  pages  and  no  seneschals, 
No  warders,  and  one  porter  only  I 
Is  it  you,  Hubert  ? 

HUBERT. 

Ah  !  Master  Walter  J 

WALTER. 

Alas  !  how  forms  and  faces  alter  ! 


414 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


I  did  not  know  you.     You  look  older  ! 
Your    hair  has    grown  much    grayer    and 

thinner, 
And  you  stoop  a  little  in  the  shoulder  ! 


Alack  !     I  am  a  poor  old  sinner, 

And,  like  these  towers,  begin  to  moulder  ; 

And  you  have  been  absent  many  a  year  ! 

WALTER. 
How  is  the  Prince  ? 

HUBERT. 

He  is  not  here  ; 
He  has  been  ill  :  and  now  has  fled. 

WALTER. 

Speak  it  out  frankly  :  say  he  's  dead  1 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

HUBERT. 

No  ;  if  you  please, 
A  strange,  mysterious  disease 
Fell  on  him  with  a  sudden  blight. 
Whole  hours  together  he  would  stand 
Upon  the  terrace,  in  a  dream, 
Resting  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
Best  pleased  when  he  was  most  alone, 
Like  Saint  John  Nepomuck  in  stone, 
Looking  down  into  a  stream. 
In  the  Round  Tower,  night  after  night, 
He  sat  and  bleared  his  eyes  with  books  ; 
Until  one  morning  we  found  him  there 
Stretched  on  the  floor,  as  if  in  a  swoon 
He  had  fallen  from  hi*  chair. 
We  hardly  recognized  his  sweet  looks  1 


WALTER. 


Poor  Prince  ! 


HUBERT. 

I  think  he  might  have  mended  ; 
And  he  did  mend  ;  but  very  soon 
The  priests  came  flocking  in,  like  rooks, 
With  all  their  crosiers  and  their  crooks, 
And  so  at  last  the  matter  ended. 

WALTER. 
How  did  it  end  ? 

HUBERT. 

Why,  in  Saint  Rochus 

They  made  him  stand,  and  wait  his  doom  ; 
And,  as  if  he  were  condemned  to  the  tomb, 


Began  to  mutter  their  hocus-pocus. 

First,  the  Mass  for  the  Dead  they  chanted, 

Then  three  times  laid  upon  his  head 

A  shovelful  of  churchyard  clay, 

Saying  to  him,  as  he  stood  undaunted, 

"  This  is  a  sign  that  thou  art  dead, 

So  in  thy  heart  be  penitent ! " 

And  forth  from  the  chapel  door  he  went 

Into  disgrace  and  banishment, 

Clothed  in  a  cloak  of  hodden  gray, 

And  bearing  a  wallet,  and  a  bell, 

Whose  sound  should  be  a  perpetual  knell 

To  keep  all  travellers  away. 

WALTER. 

Oh,  horrible  fate  !     Outcast,  rejected*, 
As  one  with  pestilence  infected  ! 

HUBERT. 

Then  was  the  family  tomb  unsealed, 
And  broken  helmet,  sword,  and  shield, 
Buried  together,  in  common  wreck, 
As  is  the  custom,  when  the  last 
Of  any  princely  house  has  passed, 
And  thrice,  as  with  a  trumpet -blast, 
A  herald  shouted  down  the  stair 
The  words  of  warning  and  despair,  — 
"  O  Hoheneck  !     O  Hoheneck  ! " 

WALTER. 

Still  in  my  soul  that  cry  goes  on,  — 

Forever  gone  !  forever  gone  ! 

Ah,  what  a  cruel  sense  of  loss, 

Like  a  black  shadow,  would  fall  across 

The  hearts  of  all,  if  he  should  die  ! 

His  gracious  presence  upon  earth 

Was  as  a  fire  upon  a  hearth  ; 

As  pleasant  songs,  at  morning  sung, 

The  words  that  dropped   from   his   sweet 

tongue 

Strengthened  our  hearts  ;  or  heard  at  night, 
Made  all  our  slumbers  soft  and  light, 
Where  is  he  ? 

HUBERT. 

In  the  Odenwald. 
Some  of  his  tenants,  unappalled 
By  fear  of  death,  or  priestly  word,  — 
A  holy  family,  that  make 
Fach  meal  a  Supper  of  the  Lord,  — 
Have  him  beneath  their  watch  and  ward, 
For  love  of  him,  and  Jesus'  sake  ! 
Pray  you  come  in.     For  why  should  I 
With  out-door  hospitality 
My  prince's  friend  thus  entertain  ? 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


WALTER. 

I  would  a  moment  here  remain. 
But  you,  good  Hubert,  go  b3fore, 
Fill  me  a  goblet  of  May-drink, 
As  aromatic  as  the  May 
From  which  it  steals  the  breath  away, 
And  which  he  loved  so  well  of  yore  ; 
It  is  of  him  that  I  would  think. 
You  shall  attend  me,  when  I  call, 
In  the  ancestral  banquet-hall. 
Unseen  companions,  guests  of  air, 
You  cannot  wait  on,  will  be  there  ; 
They  taste  not  food,  they  drink  not  wine, 
But  their  soft  eyes  look  into  mine, 
And  their  lips  speak  to  me,  and  all 
The  vast  and  shadowy  banquet-hall 
Is  full  of  looks  and  words  divine  ! 

Leaning  over  the  parapet. 

The  day  is  done  ;  and  slowly  from  the 
scene 

The  stooping  sun  up-gathers  his  spent 
shafts, 

And  puts  them  back  into  his  golden 
quiver  ! 

Below  me  in  the  valley,  deep  and  green 

As  goblets  are,  from  which  in  thirsty 
draughts 

We  drink  its  wine,  the  swift  and  mantling 
river 

Flows  on  triumphant  through  these  lovely 
regions, 

Etched  with  the  shadows  of  its  sombre 
margent, 

And  soft,  reflected  clouds  of  gold  and  ar 
gent  ! 

Yes,  there  it  flows,  forever,  broad  and 
still 

As  when  the  vanguard  of  the  Roman 
legions 

First  saw  it  from  the  top  of  yonder 
hill! 

How  beautiful  it  is  !  Fresh  fields  of 
wheat, 

Vineyard,  and  town,  and  tower  with  flutter 
ing  flag, 

The  consecrated  chapel  on  the  crag, 

And  the  white  hamlet  gathered  round  its 
base, 

Like  Mary  sitting  at  her  Saviour's  feet, 

And  looking  up  at  his  beloved  face  ! 

O  friend  !  O  best  of  friends  !  Thy  absence 
more 

Than  the  impending  night  darkens  the  land 
scape  o'er  ! 


A   FARM   IN   THE  ODENWALD 

A  garden ;  morning ;  PRINCE  HENRY  seated, 
with  a  book.  ELSIE  at  a  distance  gathering 
flowers. 

PRINCE  HENRY,  reading. 
One  morning,  all  alone, 
Out  of  his  convent  of  gray  stone, 
Into  the  forest  older,  darker,  graj'er, 
His  lips  moving  as  if  in  prayer, 
His  head  sunken  upon  his  breast 
As  in  a  dream  of  rest, 
Walked  the  Monk  Felix.     All  about 
The  broad,  sweet  sunshine  lay  without, 
Filling  the  summer  air  ; 
And  within  the  woodlands  as  he  trod, 
The  dusk  was  like  the  Truce  of  God 
With  worldly  woe  and  care  ; 
Under  him  lay  the  golden  moss  ; 
And  above  him  the  boughs  of  hoary  trees 
Waved,  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
And  whispered  their  Benedicites  ; 
And  from  the  ground 
Rose  an  odor  sweet  and  fragrant 
Of  the  wild-flowers  and  the  vagrant 
Vines  that  wandered, 
Seeking  the  sunshine,  round  and  round. 

These  he  heeded  not,  but  pondered 

On  the  volume  in  his  hand, 

Wherein  amazed  he  read  : 

"  A  thousand  years  in  thy  sight 

Are  but  as  yesterday  when  it  is  past, 

And  as  a  watch  in  the  night  !  " 

And  with  his  eyes  downcast 

In  humility  he  said  : 

"  I  believe,  O  Lord, 

What  is  written  in  thy  Word, 

But  alas  !  I  do  not  understand  ! " 

And  lo  !  he  heard 

The  sudden  singing  of  a  bird, 

A  snow-white  bird,  that  from  a  cloud 

Dropped  down, 

And  among  the  branches  brown 

Sat  singing, 

So  sweet,  and  clear,  and  loud, 

It  seemed  a  thousand  harp-strings  ringing. 

And  the  Monk  Felix  closed  his  book, 

And  long,  long, 

With  rapturous  look, 

He  listened  to  the  song, 


416 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


And  hardly  breathed  or  stirred, 

Until  lie  saw,  as  in  a  vision, 

The  land  Eljsian, 

And  in  the  heavenly  city  heard 

Angelic  feet 

Fall  on  the  golden  flagging  of  the  street. 

And  he  would  fain 

Have  caught  the  wondrous  bird, 

But  strove  in  vain  ; 

For  it  Hew  away,  away, 

Far  over  hill  and  dell, 

And  instead  of  its  sweet  singing 

He  heard  the  convent  bell 

Suddenly  in  the  silence  ringing 

For  the  service  of  noonday. 

And  he  retraced 

His  pathway  homeward  sadly  and  in  haste. 

In  the  convent  there  was  a  change  ! 
He  looked  for  each  well-known  face, 
But  the  faces  were  new  and  strange  ; 
New  figures  sat  in  the  oaken  stalls, 
New  voices  chanted  in  the  choir  ; 
Yet  the  place  was  the  same  place, 
The  same  dusky  walls 
Of  cold,  gray  stone, 
The  same  cloisters  and  belfry  and  spire. 

A  stranger  and  alone 

Among  that  brotherhood 

The  Monk  Felix  stood. 

"  Forty  years,"  said  a  Friar, 

"  Have  I  been  Prior 

Of  this  convent  in  the  wood, 

But  for  that  space 

Never  have  I  beheld  thy  face  ! " 

The  heart  of  the  Monk  Felix  fell  : 

And  he  answered,  with  submissive  tone, 

"  This  morning,  after  the  hour  of  Prime, 

I  left  my  cell, 

And  wandered  forth  alone, 

Listening  all  the  time 

To  the  melodious  singing 

Of  a  beautiful  white  bird, 

Until  I  heard 

The  bells  of  the  convent  ringing 

Noon  from  their  noisy  towers. 

It  was  as  if  I  dreamed  ; 

For  what  to  me  had  seemed 

Moments  only,  had  been  hours  !  " 

"Years  !  "  said  a  voice  close  by. 
It  was  an  aged  monk  who  spoke, 
From  a  bench  of  oak 


Fastened  against  the  wall ;  — 

He  was  the  oldest  monk  of  all. 

For  a  whole  century 

Had  he  been  there, 

Serving  God  in  prayer, 

The  meekest  and  humblest  of  his  creatures. 

He  remembered  well  the  features 

Of  Felix,  and  he  said, 

Speaking  distinct  and  slow  : 

"  One  hundred  years  ago, 

When  I  was  a  novice  in  this  place, 

There   was    here   a   monk,   full   of   God's 

grace, 

Who  bore  the  name 
Of  Felix,  and  this  man  must  be  the  same." 

And  straightway 

They  brought  forth  to  the  light  of  day 

A  volume  old  and  brown, 

A  huge  tome,  bound 

In  brass  and  wild- boar's  hide, 

Wherein  were  written  down 

The  names  of  all  who  had  died 

In  the  convent,  since  it  was  edified. 

And  there  they  found, 

Just  as  the  old  monk  said, 

That  on  a  certain  day  and  date, 

One  hundred  years  before, 

Had  gone  forth  from  the  convent  gate 

The  monk  Felix,  and  never  more 

Had  entered  that  sacred  door. 

He  had  been  counted  among  the  dead  ! 

And  they  knew,  at  last, 

That,  such  had  been  the  power 

Of  that  celestial  and  immortal  song, 

A  hundred  years  had  passed, 

And  had  not  seemed  so  long 

As  a  single  hour  ! 

ELSIE  comes  in  with  flowers. 

ELSIE. 

Here  are  flowers  for  you, 
But  they  are  not  all  for  you. 
Some  of  them  are  for  the  Virgin 
And  for  Saint  Cecilia. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

As  thou  standest  there, 
Thou  seemest  to  me  like  the  angel 
That  brought  the  immortal  roses 
To  Saint  Cecilia's  bridal  chamber. 


But  these  will  fade. 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


417 


PRINCE   HENRY. 

Themselves  will  fade, 

But  not  their  memory, 

And  memory  has  the  power 

To  re-create  them  from  the  dust. 

They  remind  me,  too, 

Of  martyred  Dorothea, 

Who  from  celestial  gardens  sent 

Flowers  as  her  witnesses 

To  him  who  scoffed  and  doubted. 


Do  you  know  the  story 

Of  Christ  and  the  Sultan's  daughter  ? 

That  is  the  prettiest  legend  of  them  all. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Then  tell  it  to  me. 

But  first  come  hither. 

Lay  the  flowers  down  beside  me, 

And  put  both  thy  hands  in  mine. 

Now  tell  me  the  story. 


Early  in  the  morning 
The  Sultan's  daughter 
Walked  in  her  father's  garden, 
Gathering  the  bright  flowers, 
All  full  of  dew. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Just  as  thou  hast  been  doing 
This  morning,  dearest  Elsie. 


And  as  she  gathered  them 

She  wondered  more  and  more 

Who  was  the  Master  of  the  Flowers, 

And  made  them  grow 

Out  of  the  cold,  dark  earth. 

"In  my  heart,"  she  said, 

"  I  love  him  ;  and  for  him 

Would  leave  my  father's  palace, 

To  labor  in  his  garden." 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Dear,  innocent  child  ! 

How  sweetly  thou  recallest 

The  long-forgotten  legend, 

That  in  my  early  childhood 

My  mother  told  me  ! 

Upon  my  brain 

It  reappears  once  more, 

As  a  birth-mark  on  the  forehead 


When  a  hand  suddenly 

Is  laid  upon  it,  and  removed ! 


And  at  midnight, 

As  she  lay  upon  her  bed, 

She  heard  a  voice 

Call  to  her  from  the  garden, 

And,  looking  forth  from  her  window, 

She  saw  a  beautiful  youth 

Standing  among  the  flowers. 

It  was  the  Lord  Jesus  ; 

And  she  went  down  to  Him, 

And  opened  the  door  for  Him  ; 

And  He  said  to  her,  "  O  maiden  ! 

Thou  hast  thought  of  me  with  love, 

And  for  thy  sake 

Out  of  my  Father's  kingdom 

Have  I  come  hither  : 

I  am  the  Master  of  the  Flowers. 

My  garden  is  in  Paradise, 

And  if  thou  wilt  go  with  me, 

Thy  bridal  garland 

Shall  be  of  bright  red  flowers." 

And  then  He  took  from  his  finger 

A  golden  ring, 

And  asked  the  Sultan's  daughter 

If  she  would  be  his  bride. 

And  when  she  answered  Him  with  love, 

His  wounds  began  to  bleed, 

And  she  said  to  him, 

"  O  Love  !  how  red  thy  heart  is, 

And  thy  hands  are  lull  of  roses." 

"  For  thy  sake,"  answered  He, 

"  For  thy  sake  is  my  heart  so  red, 

For  thee  I  bring  these  roses  ; 

I  gathered  them  at  the  cross 

Whereon  I  died  for  thee  ! 

Come,  for  my  Father  calls. 

Thou  art  my  elected  bride  !  " 

And  the  Sultan's  daughter 

Followed  Him  to  his  Father's  garden. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Wouldst  thou  have  done  so,  Elsie  ? 


Yes,  very  gladly. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Then  the  Celestial  Bridegroom 
Will  come  for  thee  also. 
L7pon  thy  forehead  He  will  place, 
Not  his  crown  of  thorns, 
But  a  crown  of  roses. 


418 


CHRISTUS  :    A   MYSTERY 


In  thy  bridal  chamber, 

Like  Saint  Cecilia, 

Thou  shalt  hear  sweet  music, 

And  breathe  the  fragrance 

Of  flowers  immortal  ! 

Go  now  and  place  these  flowers 

Before  her  picture. 

A    ROOM    IN    THE    FARM-HOUSE. 

Twilight.    URSULA  spinning.     GOTTLIEB 
asleep  in  his  chair. 

URSULA. 

Darker  and  darker  !     Hardly  a  glimmer 
Of  light  comes  in  at  the  window-pane  ; 
Or  is  it  my  eyes  are  growing  dimmer? 
I  cannot  disentangle  this  skein, 
Nor  wind  it  rightly  upon  the  reel. 
Elsie  ! 

GOTTLILB,  starting. 
The  stopping  of  thy  wheel 
Has  awakened  me  out  of  a  pleasant  dream. 
I  thought  I  was  sitting  beside  a  stream, 
And  heard  the  grinding  of  a  mill, 
"When  suddenly  the  wheels  stood  still, 
And  a  voice  cried  "  Elsie  "  in  my  ear  ! 
It  startled  me,  it  seemed  so  near. 

URSULA. 

I  was  calling  her  :  I  want  a  light. 

I  cannot  see  to  spin  my  flax. 

Bring  the  lamp,  Elsie.     Dost  thou  hear  ? 

ELSIE,  within. 
In  a  moment  ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

Where  are  Bertha  and  Max  ? 

URSULA. 

They  are  sitting  with  Elsie  at  the  door. 
She  is  telling  them  stories  of  the  wood, 
And  the  Wolf,  and  little  Red  Ridiughood. 

GOTTLIEB. 

And  where  is  the  Prince  ? 

URSULA 

In  his  room  overhead  ; 
I  heard  him  walking  across  the  floor, 
As  he  always  does,  with  a  heavy  tread. 

ELSIE  comes  in  with  a  lamp.  MAX  and  BERTHA 
follow  hf-r  ;  and  they  ail  sing  the  Evening  tiong 
on  the  lighting  of  the  lamps. 


Amen  ! 


EVENING  SONG 
O  gladsome  light 
Of  the  Father  Immortal, 
And  of  the  celestial 
Sacred  and  blessed 
Jesus,  our  Saviour  I 

Now  to  the  sunset 
Again  hast  thou  brought  us  ; 
And,  seeing  the  evening 
Twilight,  we  bless  thee, 
Praise  thee,  adore  thee  ! 

Father  omnipotent ! 
Son,  the  Life-giver  ! 
Spirit,  the  Comforter ! 
Worthy  at  all  times 
Of  worship  and  wonder ! 

PRINCE  HENRY,  at  the  door. 
URSULA. 

Who  was  it  said  Amen  ? 


It  was  the  Prince  :  he  stood  at  the  door. 
And  listened  a  moment,  as  we  chanted 
The  evening  song.     He  is  gone  again. 
I  have  often  seen  him  there  before. 


Poor  Prince  ! 


URSULA. 


GOTTLIEB. 

I  thought  the  house  was  haunted  1 
Poor  Prince,  alas  !  and  yet  as  mild 
And  patient  as  the  gentlest  child  ! 

MAX. 

I  love  him  because  he  is  so  good, 
And   makes   me   such   fine   bows   and  ar 
rows, 

To  shoot  at  the  robins  and  the  sparrows, 
And  the  red  squirrels  in  the  wood  1 


I  love  him,  too  ! 


BERTHA. 


GOTTLIEB. 

Ah,  yes  !  we  all 

Love  him,  from  the  bottom  of  our  hearts  ; 
He  gave  us  the  farm,  the  house,  and  the 

grange, 

He  gave  ns  the  horses  and  the  carts, 
And  the  great  oxen  in  the  stall, 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


419 


The  vineyard,  and  the  forest  range  ! 
We    have  nothing    to   give  him    but  our 
love  ! 


BERTHA. 


Did  he  give  us  the  beautiful  stork  above 
On  the  chimney-top,  with  its  large,  round 
nest? 


GOTTLIEB. 


No,  not  the  stork  ;  by  God  in  heaven, 

As  a  blessing,  the  dear  white   stork  was 

given, 

But  the  Prince  has  given  us  all  the  rest. 
God  bless  him,  and  make  him  well  again. 

ELSIE. 

Would  I  could  do  something  for  his  sake, 
Something  to  cure  his  sorrow  and  pain  ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

That  no  one  can  ;  neither  thou  nor  I, 
Nor  any  one  else. 

ELSIE. 
And  must  he  die  ? 

URSULA. 

Yes  ;  if  the  dear  God  does  not  take 
Pity  upon  him,  in  his  distress, 
And  work  a  miracle  ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

Or  unless 

Some  maiden,  of  her  own  accord, 
Offers  her  life  for  that  of  her  lord, 
And  is  willing  to  die  in  his  stead. 


ELSIE. 


I  will ! 


URSULA. 

Prithee,  thou  foolish  child,  be  still  ! 
Thou  shouldst  not  say  what  thou  dost  not 
mean  ! 


ELSIE. 


I  mean  it  truly  ! 


O  father  !  this  morning, 
Down  by  the  mill,  in  the  ravine, 
Hans  killed  a  wolf,  the  very  same 
That  in  the  night  to  the  sheepfold  came, 
And   ate  up  my  lamb,  that  was  left  out 
side. 

GOTTLIEB. 

I  am  glad  he  is  dead.     It  will  be  a  warning 
To  the  wolves  in  the  forest,  far  and  wide. 


MAX. 

And  I  am  going  to  have  his  hide ! 

BERTHA. 

I  wonder  if  this  is  the  wolf  that  ate 
Little  Red  Ridinghood  ! 

URSULA. 

Oh,  no ! 

That  wolf  was  killed  a  long  while  ago. 
Come,  children,  it  is  growing  late. 

MAX. 

Ah,  how  I  wish  I  were  a  man, 
As  stout  as  Hans  is,  and  as  strong ! 
I  would  do  nothing  else,  the  whole  day 

long, 
But  just  kill  wolves. 

GOTTLIEB. 

Then  go  to  bed, 

And  grow  as  fast  as  a  little  boy  can. 
Bertha  is  half  asleep  already. 
See  how  she  nods  her  heavy  head, 
And  her  sleepy  feet  are  so  unsteady 
She  will  hardly  be  able  to  creep  upstairs. 

URSULA. 
Good    night,  my  children.       Here  's    the 

light. 

And  do  not  forget  to  say  your  prayers 
Before  you  sleep. 

GOTTLIEB. 

Good  night  ! 

MAX  and  BERTHA. 

Good  night ! 

They  go  out  with  ELSIE. 

URSULA,  spinning. 

She  is  a  stn  nge  and  wayward  child, 
That  Elsie  of  ours.     She  looks  so  old, 
And  thoughts  and  fancies  weird  and  wild 
Seem  of  late  to  have  taken  hold 
Of  her  heart,  that  was  once  so  docile  and 
mild! 

GOTTLIEB. 

She  is  like  all  girls. 

URSULA. 

Ah  no,  forsooth  ! 
Unlike  all  I  have  ever  seen. 


420 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


For  she  has  visions  and  strange  dreams, 
And  in  all  her  words  and  ways,  she  seems 
Much  older  than  she  is  in  truth. 
Who  would  think  her  but  fifteen  ? 
And  there  has  been  of  late  such  a  change  ! 
My  heart  is  heavy  with  fear  and  doubt 
That  she  may  not  live  till  the  year  is  out. 
She     is    so    strange,  —  so    strange,  —  so 
strange  ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

I  am  not  troubled  with  any  such  fear  ; 
She  will  live  and  thrive  for  many  a  year. 

ELSIE'S  CHAMBER. 
Night.    ELSIE  praying. 

ELSIE. 

My  Redeemer  and  my  Lord, 
I  beseech  thee,  I  entreat  thee, 
Guide  me  in  each  act  and  word, 
That  hereafter  I  may  meet  thee, 
Watching,  waiting,  hoping,  yearning, 
With  my  lamp  well  trimmed  and  burning  ! 

Interceding 

With  these  bleeding 

Wounds  upon  thy  hands  and  side, 

For  all  who  have  lived  and  erred 

Thou  hast  suffered,  thou  hast  died, 

Scourged,  and  mocked,  and  crucified, 

And  iii  the  grave  hast  thou  been  buried  ! 

If  my  feeble  prayer  can  reach  thee, 

O  my  Saviour,  I  beseech  thee, 

Even  as  thou  hast  died  for  me, 

More  sincerely 

Let  me  follow  where  thou  leadest, 

Let  me,  bleeding  as  thou  bleedest, 

Die,  if  dying  I  may  give 

Life  to  one  who  asks  to  live, 

And  more  nearly, 

Dying  thus,  resemble  thee  ! 

THE  CHAMBER  OF  GOTTLIEB  AND  URSULA. 

Midnight.     ELSIE    standing  by   their  bedside, 
weeping. 

GOTTLIEB. 

The  wind  is  roaring  ;  the  rushing  rain 
Is  loud  upon  roof  and  window-pane, 
As  if  the  Wild  Huntsman  of  Rodenstein, 
Boding  evil  to  me  and  mine, 
Were    abroad    to-night    with    his    ghostly 
train ! 


In  the  brief  lulls  of  the  tempest  wild, 
The  dogs  howl  in  the  yard  ;  and  hark  1 
Some  one  is  sobbing  iu  the  dark, 
Here  in  the  chamber  ! 

ELSIE. 

It  IS  I. 

URSULA. 

Elsie  !  what  ails  thee,  my  poor  child  ? 

ELSIE. 

I  am  disturbed  and  much  distressed, 
In  thinking  our  dear  Prince  must  die  ; 
I  cannot  close  mine  eyes,  nor  rest. 

GOTTLIEB. 

What  wouldst  thou  ?    In  the  Power  Divine 
His  healing  lies,  not  in  our  own  ; 
It  is  in  the  hand  of  God  alone. 

ELSIE. 

Nay,  He  has  put  it  into  mine, 
And  into  my  heart  ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

Thy  words  are  wild  ! 

URSULA. 

What  dost    thou   mean  ?    my   child !    my 
child  ! 

ELSIE. 

That  for  our  dear  Prince  Henry's  sake 
I  will  myself  the  offering  make, 
And  give  my  life  to  purchase  his. 

URSULA. 

Am  I  still  dreaming,  or  awake  ? 
Thou  speakest  carelessly  of  death, 
And  yet  thou  knowest  not  what  it  is. 

ELSIE. 

'T  is  the  cessation  of  our  breath. 
Silent  and  motionless  we  lie  ; 
And  no  one  knoweth  more  than  this. 
I  saw  our  little  Gertrude  die  ; 
She  left  off  breathing,  and  no  more 
I  smoothed  the  pillow  beneath  her  head. 
She  was  more  beautiful  than  before. 
Like  violets  faded  were  her  eyes  ; 
By  this  we  knew  that  she  was  dead. 
Through  the  open  window  looked  the  skies 
Into  the  chamber  where  she  lay, 
And  the  wind  was  like  the  sound  of  wings, 
As  if  angels  came  to  bear  her  away. 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


421 


Ah  !  when  I  saw  and  felt  these  things, 
I  found  it  dimcult  to  stay  ; 
I  longed  to  die,  as  she  had  died, 
And  go  forth  with  her,  side  hy  side. 
The  Saints  are  dead,  the  Martyrs  dead, 
And  Mary,  and  our  Lord  ;  and  I 
Would  follow  in  humility 
The  way  by  them  illumined  ! 

URSULA. 
My  child  !  my  child  1  thou  must  not  die  ! 

ELSIE. 

Why  should  I  live  ?     Do  I  not  know 
The  life  of  woman  is  full  of  woe  ? 
Toiling  on  and  on  and  on, 
With  breaking  heart,  and  tearful  eyes, 
And  silent  lips,  and  in  the  soul 
Thj  secret  longings  that  arise, 
Which  this  world  never  satisfies  ! 
Some  more,  some  less,  but  of  the  whole 
Not  one  quite  happy,  no,  not  one  ! 

URSULA. 
It  is  the  malediction  of  Eve  1 

'ELSIE. 

In  place  of  it,  let  me  receive 
The  benediction  of  Mary,  then. 

GOTTLIEB. 

Ah,  woe  is  me  !     Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
Most  wretched  am  I  among  men  I 

URSULA. 

Alas  !  that  I  should  live  to  see 
Thy  death,  beloved,  and  to  stand 
Above  thy  grave  !     Ah,  woe  the  day  ! 

ELSIE. 

Thou  wilt  not  see  it.     I  shall  lie 

Beneath  the  flowers  of  another  land, 

For  at  Salerno,  far  away 

Over  the  mountains,  over  the  sea, 

It  is  appointed  me  to  die  ! 

And  it  will  seem  no  more  to  thee 

Than  if  at  the  village  on  market-day 

I  should  a  little  longer  stay 

Than  I  am  wont. 


Even  as  thou  sayest ! 

And  how  my  heart  beats,  when  thou  stayest ! 
I  cannot  rest  until  my  sight 


Is  satisfied  with  seeing  thee. 
What  then,  if  thou  wert  dead  ? 

GOTTLIEB. 

Ah  me  ! 

Of  our  old  eyes  thou  art  the  light ! 
The  joy  of  our  old  hearts  art  thou  ! 
And  wilt  thou  die  ? 

URSULA. 

Not  now  !  not  now  ! 

ELSIE. 

Christ  died  for  me,  and  shall  not  I 
Be  willing  for  my  Prince  to  die  ? 
You  both  are  silent ;  you  cannot  speak. 
This  said  I  at  our  Saviour's  feast 
After  confession,  to  the  priest, 
And  even  he  made  no  reply. 
Does  he  not  warn  us  all  to  seek 
The  happier,  better  land  on  high, 
Where  flowers  immortal  never  wither  ; 
And  could  he  forbid  me  to  go  thither  ? 

GOTTLIEB. 

In  God's  own  time,  my  heart's  delight  1 
When  He  shall  call  thee,  not  before  ! 

ELSIE. 

I  heard  Him  call.     When  Christ  ascended 
Triumphantly,  from  star  to  star, 
He  left  the  gates  of  heaven  ajar. 
I  had  a  vision  in  the  night, 
And  saw  Him  standing  at  the  door 
Of  his  Father's  mansion,  vast  and  splen 
did, 

And  beckoning  to  me  from  afar. 
I  cannot  stay  ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

She  speaks  almost 
As  if  it  were  the  Holy  Ghost 
Spake  through  her  lips,  and  in  her  stead  ' 
What  if  this  were  of  God  ? 


URSULA. 


Gainsay  it  dare  we  not. 


Ah,  then 


GOTTLIEB. 

Amen  ! 

Elsie  !  the  words  that  thou  hast  said 
Are  strange  and  new  for  us  to  hear, 
And  fill  our  hearts  with  doubt  and  fear. 
Whether  it  he  a  dark  temptation 
Of  the  Evil  One,  or  God's  inspiration, 


422 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


We  in  our  blindness  cannot  say. 
We  must  think  upon  it,  and  pray  ; 
For  evil  and  good  it  both  resembles. 
If  it  be  of  God,  his  will  be  done  ! 
May  He  guard  us  from  the  Evil  One  ! 
How  hot  thy  hand  is  !  how  it  trembles  ! 
Go  to  thy  bed,  and  try  to  sleep. 

URSULA. 
Kiss  me.     Good  night  ;  and  do  not  weep  ! 

ELSIE  (joes  out. 

Ah,  what  an  awful  thing  is  this  ! 
I  almost  shuddered  at  her  kiss, 
As  if  a  ghost  had  touched  my  cheek, 
I  am  so  childish  and  so  weak  ! 
As  soon  as  I  see  the  earliest  gray 
Of  morning  glimmer  in  the  east, 
I  will  go  over  to  the  priest, 
And  hear  what  the  good  man  has  to  say  ! 

A   VILLAGE   CHURCH. 
A.  woman  kneeling  at  the  confessional. 

THE  PARISH  PRIEST,  from  within. 
Go,  sin  no  more  !     Thy  penance  o'er, 
A  new  and  better  life  begin  ! 
God  maketh  thce  forever  free 
From  the  dominion  of  thy  sin  ! 
Go,  sin  no  more  !     He  will  restore 
The  peace  that  rilled  thy  heart  before, 
And  pardon  thine  iniquity  ! 
The  woman  goes  out.     The  Priest  comes  forth, 
and  walk's  slowly  up  and  down  the  church. 

0  blessed  Lord  !  how  much  I  need 
Thy  light  to  guide  me  on  my  way  ! 
So  many  hands,  that,  without  heed, 

Still   touch    thy  wounds,  and   make   them 

bleed  ! 

So  many  feet,  that,  day  by  day, 
Still  wander  from  thy  fold  astray  ! 
Unless  thou  fill  me  with  thy  light, 

1  cannot  lead  thy  Hock  aright  ; 
Nor,  without  thy  support,  can  bear 
The  burden  of  so  great  a  care, 
But  am  myself  a  castaway  ! 

A  pause. 

The  day  is  drawing  to  its  close  ; 
And  what  good  deeds,  since  first  it  rose, 
Have  I  presented,  Lord,  to  thee, 
As  offerings  of  my  ministry  ? 
What  wrong  repressed,   what  right  main 
tained, 

What  struggle  passed,  what  victory  gained, 
What  good  attempted  and  attained  ? 


Feeble,  at  best,  is  my  endeavor  ! 
I  see,  but  cannot  reach,  the  height 
That  lies  forever  in  the  light, 
And  yet  forever  and  forever, 
When  seeming  just  within  my  grasp, 
I  feel  my  feeble  hands  unclasp, 
And  sink  discouraged  into  night ! 
For  thine  own  purpose,  thou  hast  sent 
The  strife  and  the  discouragement  ! 

A  pause. 

Why  stayest  thon,  Prince  of  Hoheneck  ? 
Why  keep  me  pacing  to  and  fro 
Amid  these  aisles  of  sacred  gloom, 
Counting  my  footsteps  as  1  go, 
And  marking  with  each  step  a  tomb  ? 
Why  should  the  world  for  thee  make  room, 
And  wait  thy  leisure  and  thy  beck  ? 
Thou  cornest  in  the  hope  to  hear 
Some  word  of  comfort  and  of  cheer. 
What  can  I  say  ?     I  cannot  give 
The  counsel  to  do  this  and  live  ; 
But  rather,  firmly  to  deny 
The  tempter,  though  his  power  be  strong. 
And,  inaccessible  to  wrong, 
Still  like  a  martyr  live  and  die  ! 

A  pause. 

The  evening  air  grows  dusk  and  brown  ; 
I  must  go  forth  into  the  town, 
To  visit  beds  of  pain  and  death, 
Of  restless  limbs,  and  quivering  breath, 
And  sorrowing  hearts,  and  patient  eyes 
That  see,  through  tears,  the  sun  go  down, 
But  never  more  shall  see  it  rise. 
The  poor  in  body  and  estate, 
The  sick  and  the  disconsolate, 
Must  not  on  man's  convenience  wait. 
Goes  out. 

Enter  LUCIFER,  as  a  Priest. 

LUCIFER,  with  a  genuflexion,  mocking. 
This  is  the  Black  Pater-noster. 
God  was  my  foster, 
He  fostered  me 

Under  the  book  of  the  Palm-tree ! 
St.  Michael  was  my  dame. 
He  was  born  at  Bethlehem, 
He  was  made  of  flesh  and  blood. 
God  send  me  my  right  food, 
My  right  food,  and  shelter  too, 
That  I  may  to  yon  kirk  go, 
To  read  upon  yon  sweet  book 
Which  the  mighty  God  of  heaven  shook. 
Open,  open,  hell's  gates  ! 
Shut,  shut,  heaven's  gates  ! 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


423 


All  the  devils  in  the  air 
The    stronger    be,  that    hear    the    Black 
Prayer  ! 

Looking  round  the  church. 
What  a  darksome  and  dismal  place  I 
I  wonder  that  any  man  has  the  face 
To  call  such  a  hole  the  House  of  the  Lord, 
And  the  Gate  of  Heaven,  —  yet  such  is  the 

word. 

Ceiling,  and  walls,  and  windows  old, 
Covered    with    cobwebs,   blackened    with 

mould  ; 

Dust  on  the  pulpit,  dust  on  the  stairs, 
Dust  on  the  benches,  and  stalls,  and  chairs  ! 
The  pulpit,  from  which  such  ponderous  ser 
mons 

Have  fallen  down  on  the  brains  of  the  Ger 
mans, 

With  about  as  much  real  edification 
As  if  a  great  Bible,  bound  in  lead, 
Had  fallen,  and  struck  them  on  the  head  ; 
And  I  ought  to  remember  that  sensation  ! 
Here  stands  the  holy-water  stoup  ! 
Holy-water  it  may  be  to  many, 
But  to  me,  the  veriest  Liquor  Gehennse  ! 
It  smells  like  a  filthy  fast-day  soup  ! 
Near  it  stands  the  box  for  the  poor, 
With  its  iron  padlock,  safe  and  sure. 
I  and  the  priest  of  the  parish  know 
Whither  all  these  charities  go  ; 
Therefore,  to  keep  up  the  institution, 
I  will  add  my  little  contribution  ! 

He  puts  in  money. 

Underneath  this  mouldering  tomb,     ' 
With  statue    of    stone,  and    scutcheon  of 

brass, 

Slumbers  a  great  lord  of  the  village. 
All  his  life  was  riot  and  pillage, 
But   at  length,  to  escape   the   threatened 

doom 

Of  the  everlasting  penal  fire, 
He  died  in  the  dress  of  a  mendicant  friar, 
And  bartered  his  wealth  for  a  daily  mass. 
But  all  that  afterwards  came  to  pass, 
And  whether  he  finds  it  dull  or  pleasant, 
Is  kept  a  secret  for  the  present, 
At  his  own  particular  desire. 

And  here,  in  a  corner  of  the  wall, 

Shadowy,  silent,  apart  from  all, 

With  Ls  awful  portal  open  wide, 

And  its  latticed  windows  on  either  side, 

And   its    step    well    worn    by  the    bended 

knees 
Of  one  or  two  pious  centuries, 


Stands  the  village  confessional  ! 
Within  it,  as  an  honored  guest, 
I  will  sit  down  awhile  and  rest  ! 

Seats  himself  in  the  conftssional. 
Here  sits  the  priest ;  and  faint  and  low, 
Like  the  sighing  of  an  evening  breeze, 
Comes  through  these  painted  lattices 
The  ceaseless  sound  of  human  woe  ; 
Here,  while  her  bosom  aches  and  throbs 
With  deep  and  agonizing  sobs, 
That  half  are  passion,  half  contrition, 
The  luckless  daughter  of  perdition 
Slowly  confesses  her  secret  shame  ! 
The  time,  the  place,  the  lover's  name  ! 
Here  the  grim  murderer,  with  a  groan, 
From  his  bruised  conscience  rolls  the  stone. 
Thinking  that  thus  he  can  atone 
For  ravages  of  sword  and  flame  ! 

Indeed,  I  marvel,  and  marvel  greatly, 
How  a  priest  can  sit  here  so  sedately, 
Reading,  the  whole  year  out  and  in, 
Naught  but  the  catalogue  of  sin, 
And  still  keep  any  faith  whatever 
In  human  virtue  I     Never  !  never  ! 

I  cannot  repeat  a  thousandth  part 

Of  the   horrors  and  crimes  and  sins    and 

woes 

That  arise,  when  with  palpitating  throes 
The  graveyard  in  the  human  heart 
Gives    up  its   dead,   at    the   voice    of   the 

priest, 

As  if  he  were  an  archangel,  at  least. 
It  makes  a  peculiar  atmosphere, 
This  odor  of  earthly  passions  and  crimes, 
Such  as  I  like  to  breathe,  at  times, 
And  such  as  often  brings  me  here 
In  the  hottest  and  most  pestilential  sea 
son. 

To-day,  I  come  for  another  reason  ; 
To  foster  and  ripen  an  evil  thought 
In  a  heart  that  is  almost  to  madness 

wrought, 

And  to  make  a  murderer  out  of  a  prince, 
A  sleight  of  hand  I  learned  long  since  ! 
He  comes.     In  the  twilight  he  will  not  see 
The  difference  between  his  priest  and  me  ! 
In  the  same  net  was  the  mother  caught  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY,    entering  and   kneeling  at   the 
confessional. 

Remorseful,  penitent,  and  lowly, 
I  come  to  crave,  O  Father  holy, 
Thy  benediction  on  my  head» 


424 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


LUCIFER. 

The  benediction  shall  be  said 

After  confession,  not  before  ! 

*T  is  a  God-speed  to  the  parting  guest, 

Who  stands  already  at  the  door, 

Sandalled  with  holiness,  and  dressed 

In  garments  pure  from  earthly  stain. 

Meanwhile,   hast  thou    searched  well    thy 

breast  ? 

Does  the  same  madness  fill  thy  brain  ? 
Or  have  thy  passion  and  unrest 
Vanished  forever  from  thy  mind  ? 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

By  the  same  madness  stiil  made  blind, 

By  the  same  passion  still  possessed, 

I  come  again  to  the  house  of  prayer, 

A  man  afflicted  and  distressed  ! 

As  in  a  cloudy  atmosphere, 

Through  unseen  sluices  of  the  air, 

A  sudden  and  impetuous  wind 

Strikes  the  great  forest  white  with  fear, 

And  every  branch,  and  bough,  and  sprav 

Points  all  its  quivering  leaves  one  way, 

And  meadows  of  grass,  and  fields  of  grain, 

And  the  clouds    above,  and  the    slanting 

rain, 

And  smoke  from  chimneys  of  the  town, 
Yield  themselves  to  it,  and  bow  down, 
So  does  this  dreadful  purpose  press 
Onward,  with  irresistible  stress, 
And  all  my  thoughts  and  faculties, 
Struck  level  by  the  strength  of  this, 
From  their  true  inclination  turn, 
And  all  stream  forward  to  Salern  ! 

LUCIFER. 

Alas  !  we  are  but  eddies  of  dust, 
Uplifted  by  the  blast,  and  whirled 
Along  the  highway  of  the  world 
A  moment  only,  then  to  fall 
Back  to  a  common  level  all, 
At  the  subsiding  of  the  gust ! 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

O  holy  Father  !  pardon  in  me 
The  oscillation  of  a  mind 
Unsteadfast,  and  that  cannot  find 
Its  centre  of  rest  and  harmony  ! 
For  evermore  before  mine  eyes 
This  ghastly  phantom  flits  and  flies, 
And  as  a  madman  through  a  crowd, 
With  frantic  gestures  and  wild  cries, 
It  hurries  onward,  and  aloud 
Repeats  its  awful  prophecies  1 


Weakness  is  wretchedness  !     To  be  strong 
Is  to  be  happy  !     I  am  weak, 
And  cannot  find  the  good  I  seek, 
Because  I  feel  and  fear  the  wrong  ! 

LUCIFER. 

Be  not  alarmed  !     The  Church  is  kind, 
And  in  her  mercy  and  her  meekness 
She  meets  half-way  her  children's  weaknesss 
Writes  their  transgressions  in  the  dust  ! 
Though  in  the  Decalogue  we  find 
The   mandate    written,    "Thou    shalt  not 

kill  !  " 

Yet  there  are  cases  when  we  must. 
In  war,  for  instance,  or  from  scathe 
To  guard  and  keep  the  one  true  Faith 
We  must  look  at  the  Decalogue  in  the  light 
Of  an  ancient  statute,  that  was  meant 
For  a  mild  and  general  application, 
To  be  understood  with  the  reservation 
That  in  certain  instances  the  Right 
Must  yield  to  the  Expedient  I 
Thou  art  a  Prince.     If  thou  shouldst  die, 
What  hearts  and  hopes  would  prostrate  lie  ! 
What  noble  deeds,  what  fair  renown, 
Into  the  grave  with  thee  go  do\vii ! 
What  acts  of  valor  and  courtesy 
Remain  undone,  and  die  with  thee  ! 
Thou  art  the  last  of  all  thy  race  ! 
With  thee  a  noble  name  expires, 
And  vanishes  from  the  earth's  face 
The  glorious  memory  of  thy  sires  ! 
She  is  a  peasant.     In  her  veins 
Flows  common  and  plebeian  blood  ; 
It  is  such  as  daily  and  hourly  stains 
The  dust  and  the  turf  of  battle  plains, 
By  vassals  shed,  in  a  crimson  flood, 
Without  reserve,  and  without  reward, 
At  the  slightest  summons  of  their  lord  ! 
But  thine  is  precious  ;  the  fore-appointed 
Blood  of  kings,  of  God's  anointed  ! 
Moreover,  what  has  the  world  in  store 
For  one  like  her,  but  tears  and  toil  ? 
Daughter  of  sorrow,  serf  of  the  soil, 
A  peasant's  child  and  a  peasant's  wife, 
And  her  soul  within  her  sick  and  sore 
With  the  roughness  and  barrenness  of  life  ! 
I  marvel  not  at  the  heart's  recoil 
From  a  fate  like  this,  in  one  so  tender, 
Nor  at  its  eagerness  to  surrender 
All  the  wretchedness,  want,  and  woe 
That  await  it  in  this  world  below, 
Nor  the  unutterable  splendor 
Of  the  world  of  rest  beyond  the  skies. 
So  the  Church  sanctions  the  sacrifice  : 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


425 


Therefore  inhale  this  healing  balm, 

And  breathe  this  fresh  life  into  thine  ; 

Accept  the  comfort  and  the  calm 

She  offers,  as  a  gift  divine  ; 

Let  her  fall  down  and  anoint  thy  feet 

With  the  ointment  costly  and  most  sweet 

Of  her  young  blood,  and  thou  shalt  live. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

And  will  the  righteous  Heaven  forgive  ? 

No  action,  whether  foul  or  fair, 

Is  ever  done,  but  it  leaves  somewhere 

A  record,  written  by  fingers  ghostly, 

As  a  blessing  or  a  curse,  and  mostly 

In  the  greater  weakness  or  greater  strength 

Of  the  acts  which  follow  it,  till  at  length 

The  wrongs  of  ages  are  redressed, 

And  the  justice  of  God  made  manifest ! 

LUCIFER. 

In  ancient  records  it  is  stated 
That,  whenever  an  evil  deed  is  done, 
Another  devil  is  created 
To  scourge  and  torment  the  offending  one  ! 
But  evil  is  only  good  perverted, 
And  Lucifer,  the  bearer  of  Light, 
But  an  angel  fallen  and  deserted, 
Thrust  from  his  Father's  house  with  a  curse 
Into  the  black  and  endless  night. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

If  justice  rules  the  universe, 
From  the  good  actions  of  good  men 
Angels  of  light  should  be  begotten, 
And  thus  the  balance  restored  again. 

LUCIFER. 

Yes  ;  if  the  world  were  not  so  rotten, 
And  so  given  over  to  the  Devil ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

But  this  deed,  is  it  good  or  evil  ? 

Have  I  thine  absolution  free 

To  do  it,  and  without  restriction  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Ay  ;  and  from  whatsoever  sin 
Lieth  around  it  and  within, 
From  all  crimes  in  which  it  may  involve 

thee, 
I  now  release  thee  and  absolve  thee  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Give  me  thy  holy  benediction. 


LUCIFER,  stretching  forth  his  hand  and  muttering. 

Maledictione  perpetua 
Maledicat  vos 
Pater  eternus  ! 

THE  ANGEL,  with  the  ceoHan  harp. 

Take  heed  !  take  heed  ! 

Noble  art  thou  in  thy  birth, 

By  the  good  and  the  great  of  earth 

Hast  thou  been  taught ! 

Be  noble  in  every  thought 

And  in  every  deed  ! 

Let  not  the  illusion  of  thy  senses 

Betray  thee  to  deadly  offences. 

Be  strong  !  be  good  !  be  pure  ! 

The  right  only  shall  endure, 

All  things  else  are  but  false  pretences. 

I  entreat  thee,  I  implore, 

Listen  no  more 

To  the  suggestions  of  an  evil  spirit, 

That  even  now  is  there, 

Making  the  foul  seem  fair, 

And  selfishness  itself  a  virtue  and  a  merit ! 


A   ROOM   IN   THE   FARM-HOUSE. 
GOTTLIEB. 

It  is  decided  !     For  many  days, 

And  nights  as  many,  we  have  had 

A  nameless  terror  in  our  breast, 

Making  us  timid,  and  afraid 

Of  God,  and  his  mysterious  ways  ! 

We  have  been  sorrowful  and  sad  ; 

Much  have  we  suffered,  much  have  prayed 

That  he  would  lead  us  as  is  best, 

And  show  us  what  his  will  required. 

It  is  decided  ;  and  we  give 

Our  child,  O  Prince,  that  you  may  live  ! 

URSULA. 

It  is  of  God.     He  has  inspired 
This  purpose  in  her  ;  and  through  pain, 
Out  of  a  world  of  sin  and  woe, 
He  takes  her  to  Himself  again. 
The  mother's  heart  resists  no  longer  ; 
With  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  in  vain 
It  wrestled,  for  he  was  the  stronger. 

GOTTLIEB. 

As  Abraham  offered  long  ago 
His  son  unto  the  Lord,  and  even 
The  Everlasting  Father  in  heaven 


426 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


Gave  bis,  as  a  lamb  unto  the  slaughter, 
So  do  I  offer  up  my  daughter  ! 
URSULA  hides  her  face. 

ELSIE. 

My  life  is  little, 
Only  a  cup  of  water, 
But  pure  and  limpid. 
Take  it,  O  my  Prince  ! 
Let  it  refresh  you, 
Let  it  restore  you. 
It  is  given  willingly, 
It  is  given  freely  ; 
May  God  bless  the  gift  I 


PRINCE  HENRY. 


And  the  giver  ! 


GOTTLIEB. 


Amen! 


I  accept  it ! 


PRINCE  HENRY. 


GOTTLIEB. 

Where  are  the  children  ? 

URSULA. 
They  are  already  asleep. 

GOTTLIEB. 

What  if  they  were  dead  ? 

IN   THE   GARDEN. 
ELSIE. 

I  have  one  thing  to  ask  of  you. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

It  is  already  granted. 

ELSIE. 

Promise  me, 
When  we  are  gone  from  here,  and  on  our 

way 

Are  journeying  to  Salerno,  you  will  not, 
By  word  or  deed,  endeavor  to  dissuade  me 
And  turn  me  from  my  purpose  ;  but  re 
member 

That  as  a  pilgrim  to  the  Holy  City 
Walks   unmolested,  and  with  thoughts  of 

pardon 
Occupied  wholly,  so  would  I  approach 


What  is  it  ? 


The  gates  of  Heaven,  in  this  great  jubi 
lee, 

With  my  petition,  putting  off  from  me 

All  thoughts  of  earth,  as  shoes  from  off 
my  feet. 

Promise  me  this. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Thy  words  fall  from  thy  lips 
Like  roses  from  the  lips  of  Angelo  :  and 

angels 
Might  stoop  to  pick  them  up  ! 

ELSIE. 

Will  you  not  promise  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

If  ever  we  depart  upon  this  journey, 
So  long  to  one  or  both  of  us,  I  promise. 

ELSIE. 

Shall  we  not  go,  then  ?     Have  you  lifted 

me 

Into  the  air,  only  to  hurl  me  back 
Wounded  upon  the  ground  ?    and  offered 

me 

The  waters  of  eternal  life,  to  bid  me 
Drink  the  polluted  puddles  of  this  world  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

O  Elsie  !  what  a  lesson  thou  dost  teach 
me  ! 

The  life  which  is,  and  that  which  is  to 
come, 

Suspended  hang  in  such  nice  equipoise 

A  breath  disturbs  the  balance  ;  and  that 
scale 

In  which  we  throw  our  hearts  preponder 
ates, 

And  the  other,  like  an  empty  one,  flies 
up, 

And  is  accounted  vanity  and  air  ! 

To  me  the  thought  of  death  is  terrible, 

Having  such  hold  on  life.  To  thee  it  is 
not 

So  much  even  as  the  lifting  of  a  latch  ; 

Only  a  step  into  the  open  air 

Out  of  a  tent  already  luminous 

With  light  that  shines  through  its  trans 
parent  walls  ! 

O  pure  in  heart  !  from  thy  sweet  dust 
shall  grow 

Lilies,  upon  whose  petals  will  be  written 

"  Ave  Maria  "  in  characters  of  gold  1 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


427 


in 

A  STREET  IN   STRASBURG 

Night.    PRINCE  HENRY  wandering  alone, 
wrapped  in  a  cloak. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Still  is  the  night.     The  sound  of  feet 

Has  died  away  from  the  empty  street, 

And  like  an  artisan,  bending  down 

His  head  on  his  anvil,  the  dark  town 

Sleeps,  with  a  slumber  deep  and  sweet. 

Sleepless  and  restless,  I  alone, 

In  the  dusk  and  damp  of   these  walls  of 

stone, 
Wander  and  weep  in  my  remorse  ! 

CRIER  OF  THE  DEAD,  ringing  a  bell. 

Wake  !  wake  ! 
All  ye  that  sleep  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Hark  I  with  what  accents  loud  and  hoarse 
This  warder  on  the  walls  of  death 
Sends  forth  the  challenge  of  his  breath  ! 
I  see  the  dead  that  sleep  in  the  grave  ! 
They  rise  up  and  their  garments  wave, 
Dimly  and  spectral,  as  they  rise, 
With   the  light  of  another  world  in  their 
eyes  ! 

CRIER  OF  THE  DEAD. 

Wake  !  wake  ! 
All  ye  that  sleep  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Why  for  the  dead,  who  are  at  rest  ? 
Pray  for  the  living,  in  whose  breast 
The  struggle  between  right  and  wrong 
Is  raging  terrible  and  strong, 
As  when  good  angels  war  with  devils  ! 
This  is  the  Master  of  the  Revels, 
Who,  at  Life's  flowing  feast,  proposes 
The  health  of  absent  friends,  and  pledges, 
Not  in  bright  goblets  crowned  with  roses, 
And  tinkling  as  we  touch  their  edges, 
But  with  his  dismal,  tinkling  bell, 
That    mocks    and    mimics    their    funeral 
knell! 


CRIER  OF  THE    DEAD. 

Wake  !  wake  ! 
All  ye  that  sleep  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Wake  not,  beloved  !  be  thy  sleep 
Silent  as  night  is,  and  as  deep  ! 
There  walks  a  sentinel  at  thy  gate 
Whose  heart  is  heavy  and  desolate, 
And  the  heavings  of  whose  bosom  number 
The  respirations  of  thy  slumber, 
As  if  some  strange,  mysterious  fate 
Had  linked  two  hearts  in  one,  and  mine 
Went  madly  wheeling  about  thine, 
Only  with  wider  and  wilder  sweep  ! 

CRIER  OF  THE  DEAD,  at  a  distance. 
Wake  !  wake  ! 
All  ye  that  sleep  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Lo  !  with  what  depth  of  blackness  thrown 
Against  the  clouds,  far  up  the  skies 
The  walls  of  the  cathedral  rise, 
Like  a  mysterious  grove  of  stone, 
With  fitful  lights  and  shadows  blending, 
As  from  behind,  the  moon,  ascending, 
Lights  its  dim  aisles  and  paths  unknown  ! 
The  wind  is  rising  ;  but  the  boughs 
Rise  not  and  fall  not  with  the  wind, 
That    through     their     foliage     sobs    and 

soughs  ; 

Only  the  cloudy  rack  behind, 
Drifting  onward,  wild  and  ragged, 
Gives  to  each  spire  and  buttress  jagged 
A  seeming  motion  undefined. 
Below  on  the  square,  an  armed  knight, 
Still  as  a  statue  and  as  white, 
Sits    on    his    steed,    and   the    moonbeams 

quiver 

Upon  the  points  of  his  armor  bright 
As  on  the  ripples  of  a  river. 
He  lifts  the  visor  from  his  cheek, 
And    beckons,   and    makes    as    he   would 

speak. 

WALTER  the  Minnesinger, 
Friend  !  can  you  tell  me  where  alight 
Thuringia's  horsemen  for  the  night  ? 
For  I  have  lingered  in  the  rear, 
And  wander  vainly  up  and  down. 


428 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


PRINCE    HENRY. 

I  am  a  stranger  in  the  town, 
As  thou  art  ;  but  the  voice  I  hear 
Is  not  a  stranger  to  mine  ear. 
Thou  art  Walter  of  the  Vogelweid  ! 


WALTER. 


Thou  hast  guessed  rightly  ;  and  thy  name 
Is  Heury  of  Hoheneck  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Ay,  the  same. 
WALTER,  embracing  him. 
Come  closer,  closer  to  my  side  ! 
What  brings  thee  hither  ?     What  potent 

charm 

Has  drawn  thee  from  thy  German  farm 
Into  the  old  Alsatian  city  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

A  tale  of  wonder  and  of  pity  ! 

A  wretched  man,  almost  by  stealth 

Dragging  my  body  to  Salern, 

In  the  vain  hope  and  search  for  health, 

And  destined  never  to  return. 

Already  thou  hast  heard  the  rest. 

But  what  brings  thee,  thus  armed  and  dight 

In  the  equipments  of  a  knight  ? 


Dost  thou  not  see  upon  my  breast 
The  cross  of  the  Crusaders  shine  ? 
My  pathway  leads  to  Palestine. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Ah,  would  th*t  way  were  also  mine  ! 

0  noble  poet  !  thou  whose  heart 
Is  like  a  nest  of  singing-birds 
Rocked  on  the  topmost  bough  of  life, 
Wilt  thou,  too,  from  our  sky  depart, 
And  in  the  clangor  of  the  strife 
Mingle  the  music  of  thy  words  ? 

WALTER. 

My  hopes  are  high,  my  heart  is  proud, 
And  like  a  trumpet  long  and  loud, 
Thither  my  thoughts  all  clang  and  ring  ! 
My  life  is  in  my  hand,  and  lo  ! 

1  grasp  and  bend  it  as  a  bow, 

And  shoot  forth  from  its  trembling  string 
An  arrow,  that  shall  be,  perchance, 
Like  the  arrow  of  the  Israelite  king 
Shot  from  the  window  toward  the  east, 
That  of  the  Lord's  deliverance  ! 


PRINCE  HENRY. 

My  life,  alas  !  is  what  thou  seest ! 

0  enviable  fate  !  to  be 

Strong,  beautiful,  and  armed  like  thee 

With  lyre  and  sword,  with  song  and  steel ; 

A  hand  to  smite,  a  heart  to  feel  ! 

Thy  heart,  thy  hand,  thy  lyre,  thy  sword, 

Thou  givest  all  unto  thy  Lord  ; 

While  I,  so  mean  and  abject  grown, 

Am  thinking  of  myself  alone. 

WALTER. 

Be  patient  :  Time  will  reinstate 
Thy  health  and  fortunes. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

T  is  too  late! 

1  cannot  strive  against  my  fate  ! 

WALTER. 

Come  with  me  ;  for  my  steed  is  weary  ; 
Our  journey  has  been  long  and  dreary, 
And,  dreaming  of  his  stall,  he  dints 
With  his  impatient  hoofs  the  flints. 

PRINCE  HENRY,  aside. 
I  am  ashamed,  in  my  disgrace, 
To  look  into  that  noble  face  1 
To-morrow,  Walter,  let  it  be. 


To-morrow,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
I  shall  again  be  on  my  way. 
Come  with  me  to  the  hostelry, 
For  I  have  many  things  to  say. 
Our  journey  into  Italy 
Perchance  together  we  may  make  ; 
Wilt  thou  not  do  it  for  my  sake  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

A  sick  man's  pace  would  but  impede 
Thine  eager  and  impatient  speed. 
Besides,  my  pathway  leads  me  round 
To  Hirschau,in  the  forest's  bound, 
Where  I  assemble  man  and  steed, 
And  all  things  for  my  journey's  need. 
They  go  out. 

LUCIFER,  .flying  over  the  city. 
Sleep,  sleep,  O  city  !  till  the  light 
Wake  you  to  sin  and  crime  again, 
Whilst  on  your  dreams,  like  dismal  rain, 
I  scatter  downward  through  the  night 
My  maledictions  dark  and  deep. 
I  have  xnore  martyrs  in  your  walls 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


429 


Than  God  has  ;  and  they  cannot  sleep  ; 
They  are  my  bondsmen  and  my  thralls  ; 
Their  wretched  lives  are  full  of  pain, 
Wild  agonies  of  nerve  and  brain  ; 
And  every  heart-beat,  every  breath, 
Is  a  convulsion  worse  than  death  ! 
Sleep,  sleep,  O  city  !  though  within 
The  circuit  of  your  walls  there  be 
No  habitation  free  from  sin, 
And  all  its  nameless  misery  ; 
The  aching  heart,  the  aching  head, 
Grief  for  the  living  and  the  dead, 
And  foul  corruption  of  the  time, 
Disease,  distress,  and  want,  and  woe, 
And  crimes,  and  passions  that  may  grow 
Until  they  ripen  into  crime  ! 

SQUARE  IN  FRONT  OF  THE  CATHEDRAL. 

Easter  Sunday.  FRIAR  CUTHBERT  preaching 
to  the  crowd  from  a  pulpit  in  the  open  air. 
PRINCE  HENRY  and  ELSIE  crossing  the  square. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

This  is  the  day,  when  from  the  dead 
Our  Lord  arose  ;  and  everywhere, 
Out  of  their  darkness  and  despair, 
Triumphant  over  fears  and  foes, 
The  hearts  of  his  disciples  rose, 
When  to  the  women,  standing  near, 
The  Angel  in  shining  vesture  said, 
"  The  Lord  is  risen  ;  he  is  not  here  !  " 
And,  mindful  that  the  day  is  come, 
On  all  the  hearths  in  Christendom 
The  fires  are  quenched,  to  be  again 
Rekindled  from  the  sun,  that  high 
Is  dancing  in  the  cloudless  sky. 
The  churches  are  all  decked  with  flowers, 
The  salutations  among  men 
Are  but  the  Angel's  words  divine, 
"  Christ  is  arisen  !  "  and  the  bells 
Catch  the  glad  murmur,  as  it  swells, 
And  chant  together  in  their  towers. 
All  hearts  are  glad  ;  and  free  from  care 
The  faces  of  the  people  shine. 
See  what  a  crowd  is  in  the  square, 
Gayly  and  gallantly  arrayed  ! 

ELSIE. 

Let  us  go  back  ;  I  am  afraid  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Nay,  let  us  mount  the  church-steps  here, 
Under  the  doorway's  sacred  shadow  ; 
We  can  see  all  things,  and  be  freer 
From  the  crowd   that  madly  heaves   and 
presses  ! 


ELSIE. 

What  a  gay  pageant !  what  bright  dresses  ! 
It  looks  like  a  flower-besprinkled  meadow. 
What  is  that  yonder  on  the  square  ? 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

A  pulpit  in  the  open  air, 

And  a  Friar,  who  is  preaching  to  the  crowd 

In  a  voice  so  deep  and  clear  and  loud, 

That,  if  we  listen,  and  give  heed, 

His  lowest  words  will  reach  the  ear. 


and  cracking  a 


FRIAR  CUTHBERT,  gesticulating 
postilion's  whip. 

What  ho  !  good  people  !  do  you  not  hear  ? 
Dashing  along  at  the  top  of  his  speed, 
Booted  and  spurred,  on  his  jaded  steed, 
A  courier  comes  with  words  of  cheer. 
Courier  !  what  is  the  news,  I  pray  ? 
"  Christ  is  arisen  !  "     Whence  come  you  ? 

"  From  court." 
Then  I  do  not  believe  it  ;    you   say  it  in 

sport. 

Cracks  his  whip  again. 

Ah,  here  comes  another,  riding  this  way  ; 
We  soon  shall  know  what  he  has  to  say. 
Courier  !  what  are  the  tidings  to-day  ? 
"  Christ  is  arisen  !  "     Whence  come  you  ? 

"  From  town." 
Then  I  do  not  believe  it ;  away  with  you, 

clown. 

Cracks  his  whip  more  violently. 
And  here  comes  a  third,  who  is  spurring 

amain  ; 

What  news  do  you  bring,  with  your  loose- 
hanging  rein, 
Your  spurs  wet  with  blood,  and  your  bridle 

with  foam  ? 
"  Christ  is  arisen !  "      Whence  come  you  ? 

"  From  Rome." 

Ah,  now  I  believe.  He  is  risen,  indeed. 
Ride  on  with  the  news,  at  the  top  of  your 

speed  ! 

Great  applause  among  the  crowd. 
To   come   back  to   my  text !      When   the 

news  was  first  spread 
That  Christ  was  arisen  indeed   from  the 

dead, 
Very  great  was  the  joy  of  the  angels  in 

heaven  ; 
And  as  great  the  dispute  as  to  who  should 

carry 

The  tidings  thereof  to  the  Virgin  Mary, 
Pierced  to  the  heart  with  sorrows  seven. 
Old  Father  Adam  was  first  to  propose, 


430 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


As  being  the  author  of  all  our  woes  ; 
But  he  was  refused,  for  fear,  said  they, 
He  would  stop  to  eat  apples  on  the  way  ! 
Abel  came  next,  but  petitioned  in  vain, 
Because  he   might  meet  with  his  brother 

Cain  ! 
Noah,  too,  was  refused,  lest  his  weakness 

for  wine 

Should  delay  him  at  every  tavern-sign  ; 
And  John  the  Baptist  could  not  get  a  vote, 
On  account  of  his  old-fashioned   camel's- 

hair  coat  ; 
And  the  Penitent  Thief,  who  died  on  the 

cross, 
Was    reminded    that   all   his   bones   were 

broken  ! 

Till  at  last,  when  each  in  turn  had  spoken, 
The  company  being  still  at  loss, 
The  Angel,  who  rolled  away  the  stone, 
Was  sent  to  the  sepulchre,  all  alone. 
And  filled  with  glory  that  gloomy  prison, 
And   said   to  the   Virgin,    "  The  Lord   is 

arisen  ! " 

The  Cathedral  bells  ring. 
But    hark  !    the  bells    are    beginning    to 

chime  ; 

And  I  feel  that  I  am  growing  hoarse. 
I  will  put  an  end  to  my  discourse, 
And  leave  the  rest  for  some  other  time. 
For   the   bells  themselves  are  the  best  of 

preachers  ; 

Their  brazen  lips  are  learned  teachers, 
From  their  pulpits  of  stone,  in  the  upper  air, 
Sounding  aloft,  without  crack  or  flaw, 
Shriller  than  trumpets  under  the  Law, 
Now  a  sermon,  and  now  a  prayer. 
The  clangorous  hammer  is  the  tongue, 
This  way,  that  way,  beaten  and  swung, 
That  from  mouth  of  brass,  as  from  Mouth 

of  Gold, 
May  be  taught  the  Testaments,  New  and 

Old. 

And  above  it  the  great  cross-beam  of  wood 
Representeth  the  Holy  Rood, 
Upon  which,  like   the  bell,  our  hopes   are 

hung. 
And  the  wheel  wherewith  it  is  swayed  and 

rung 

Is  the  mind  of  man,  that  round  and  round 
Sways,  and  maketh  the  tongue  to  sound  ! 
And  the  rope,  with  its  twisted  cordage  three, 
Denoteth  the  Scriptural  Trinity 
Of  Morals,  and  Symbols,  and  History  ; 
And  the  upward  and  downward  motion  show 
That  we  touch  upon  matters  high  and  low  ; 


And  the  constant  change  and  transmutation 
Of  action  and  of  contemplation, 
Downward,  the  Scripture  brought  from  on 

high, 

Upward,  exalted  again  to  the  sky  ; 
Downward,  the  literal  interpretation, 
Upward,  the  Vision  and  Mystery  ! 

And  now,  my  hearers,  to  make  an  end, 

I  have  only  one  word  more  to  say  ; 

In  the  church,  in  honor  of  Easter  day 

Will  be  presented  a  Miracle  Play  ; 

And  I  hope  you  will  all  have  the  grace  to 

attend. 

Christ  bring  us  at  last  to  his  felicity  ! 
Pax  vobiscuni  !  et  Benedicite  ! 


IN   THE   CATHEDRAL, 
CHANT. 

Kyrie  Eleison  ! 
Christe  Eleison ! 

ELSIE. 

I  am  at  home  here  in  my  Father's  house  ! 
These  paintings  of  the  Saints  upon  the  walls 
Have  all  familiar  and  benignant  faces. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

The  portraits  of  the  family  of  God  ! 
Thine  own  hereafter  shall  be  placed  among 
them. 

ELSIE. 

How  very  grand  it  is  and  wonderful ! 
Never  have  I  beheld  a  church  so  splendid ! 
Such  columns,  and  such  arches,  and  such 

windows, 

So  many  tombs  and  statues  in  the  chapels, 
And  under  them  so  many  confessionals. 
They  must  be  for  the  rich.     I  should  not 

like 

To  tell  my  sins  in  such  a  church  as  this. 
Who  built  it  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

A  great  master  of  his  craft, 
Erwin  von  Steinbach  ;  but  not  he  alone, 
For  many  generations  labored  with  him. 
Children  that  came  to  see  these  Saints  in 

stone, 

As  day  by  day  out  of  the  blocks  they  rose, 
Grew  old  and  died,  and  still  the  work  went 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


43i 


And  on,  and  on,  and  is  not  yet  completed. 
The  generation  that  succeeds  our  own 
Perhaps  may  finish  it.     The  architect 
Built  his  great  heart  into  these  sculptured 

stones, 
And  with  him  toiled  his  children,  and  their 

lives 

Were  huilded,  with  his  own,  into  the  walls, 
As  offerings  unto  God.    You  see  that  statue 
Fixing  its  joyous,  but  deep-wrinkled  eyes 
Upon  the  Pillars  of  the  Angels  yonder. 
That  is  the  image  of  the  master,  carved 
By  the  fair  hand  of  his  own  child,  Sabina. 

ELSIE. 

How  beautiful  is  the  column  that  he  looks 
at! 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

That,  too,  she  sculptured.     At  the  base  of 

it 

Stand  the  Evangelists  ;  above  their  heads 
Four  Angels  blowing  upon  marble  trumpets, 
And  over   them    the    blessed   Christ,  sur 
rounded 

By  his  attendant  ministers,  upholding 
The  instruments  of  his  passion. 

ELSIE. 

O  my  Lord  ! 

Would  I  could  leave  behind  me  upon  earth 
Some  monument  to  thy  glory,  such  as  this  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

A  greater  monument  than  this  thou  leavest 
In  thine  own  life,  all  purity  and  love  ! 
See,  too,  the  Rose,  above  the  western  portal 
Resplendent    with    a   thousand    gorgeous 

colors, 
The  perfect  flower  of  Gothic  loveliness  ! 


And,  in  the  gallery,  the  long  line  of  statues, 
Christ  with  his  twelve  Apostles  watching 
us  ! 

A  BISHOP  in  armor,  booted  and  spurred,  passes 
with  his  train. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

But  come  away  ;  we  have  not  time  to  look. 
The   crowd   already   fills  the  church,   and 

yonder 

Upon  a  stage,  a  herald  with  a  trumpet, 
Clad  like  the  Angel  Gabriel,  proclaims 
The  Mystery  that  will  now  be  represented. 


THE  NATIVITY 

A    MIRACLE-PLAY 

INTROITUS 

PRJSCO. 

Come,  good  people,  all  and  each, 
Come  and  listen  to  our  speech  ! 
In  your  presence  here  I  stand, 
With  a  trumpet  in  my  hand, 
To  announce  the  Easter  Play, 
Which  we  represent  to-day  ! 
First  of  all  we  shall  rehearse, 
In  our  action  and  our  verse, 
The  Nativity  of  our  Lord, 
As  written  in  the  old  record 
Of  the  Protevangelion, 
So  that  he  who  reads  may  run  ! 
Blows  his  trumpet. 


I.      HEAVEN. 

MERCY,  at  the  feet  of  God. 
Have  pity,  Lord  !  be  not  afraid 
To  save  mankind,  whom  thou  hast  made, 
Nor  let  the  souls  that  were  betrayed 
Perish  eternally  ! 

JUSTICE. 

It  cannot  be,  it  must  not  be  ! 
When  in  the  garden  placed  by  thee, 
The  fruit  of  the  forbidden  tree 
He  ate,  and  he  must  die  J 


Have  pity,  Lord  !  let  penitence 
Atone  for  disobedience, 
Nor  let  the  fruit  of  man's  offence 
Be  endless  misery  ! 


What  penitence  proportionate 
Can  e'er  be  felt  for  sin  so  great  ? 
Of  the  forbidden  fruit  he  ate, 
And  damned  must  he  be  ! 


GOD. 

He  shall  be  saved,  if  that  within 
The  bounds  of  earth  one  free  from  sin 
Be  found,  who  for  his  kith  and  kin 
Will  suffer  martyrdom. 


432 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


THE   FOUR  VIRTUES. 


Lord  !  we  have  searched  the  world  around, 
From  centre  to  the  utmost  bound, 
But  no  such  mortal  can  be  found ; 
Despairing,  back  we  come. 


No  mortal,  but  a  God  made  man, 
Can  ever  carry  out  this  plan, 
Achieving  what  none  other  can, 
Salvation  unto  all ! 

GOD. 

Go,  then,  O  my  beloved  Son  I 
It  can  by  thee  alone  be  done  ; 
By  thee  the  victory  shall  be  won 
O'er  Satan  and  the  Fall  ! 

Here  the  ANGEL  GABRIEL  shall  leave  Paradise 
and  fly  towards  the  earth ;  the  jaws  of  Hell 
open  below,  and  the  Devils  walk  about,  making 
a  great  noise. 


II.      MARY   AT   THE   WELL. 
MARY. 

Along  the  garden  walk,  and  thence 
Through  the  wicket  in  the  garden  fence, 

I  steal  with  quiet  pace, 
My  pitcher  at  the  well  to  fill, 
That  lies  so  deep  and  cool  and  still 

In  this  sequestered  place. 

These  sycamores  keep  guard  around  ; 
I  see  no  face,  I  hear  no  sound, 

Save  bubblings  of  the  spring, 
And  my  companions,  who,  within, 
The  threads  of  gold  and  scarlet  spin, 

And  at  their  labor  sing. 

THE  ANGEL  GABRIEL. 

Hail,  Virgin  Mary,  full  of  grace  ! 

Here  MARY  looketh  around  her,  trembling,  and 
then  saith : 

MARY. 

Who  is  it  speaketh  in  this  place, 
With  such  a  gentle  voice  ? 

GABRIEL. 

The  Lord  of  heaven  is  with  thee  now  ! 
Blessed  among  all  women  thou, 
Who  art  his  holy  choice  ! 


MARY,  setting  down  the  pitcher. 
What  can  this  mean  ?     No  one  is  near, 
And  yet,  such  sacred  words  I  hear, 
I  almost  fear  to  stay. 
Here  the  ANGEL,  appearing  to  her,  shall  say  : 

GABRIEL. 

Fear  not,  O  Mary  !  but  believe  ! 
For  thou,  a  Virgin,  shalt  conceive 
A  child  this  very  day. 

Fear  not,  O  Mary  !  from  the  sky 
The  majesty  of  the  Most  High 
Shall  overshadow  thee  ! 

MARY. 

Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord  ! 
According  to  thy  holy  word, 
So  be  it  unto  me  ! 

Here  the  Devils  shall  again  make  a  great  noise, 
under  the  stage. 


III.      THE    ANGELS  OF  THE  SEVEN   PLANETS, 
BEARING   THE    STAR   OF   BETHLEHEM. 

THE  ANGELS. 

The  Angels  of  the  Planets  Seven, 
Across  the  shining  fields  of  heaven 

The  natal  star  we  bring  ! 
Dropping  our  sevenfold  virtues  down 
As  priceless  jewels  in  the  crown 

Of  Christ,  our  new-born  King. 

RAPHAEL. 

I  am  the  Angel  of  the  Sun, 
Whose  flaming  wheels  began  to  run 

When  God's  almighty  breath 
Said  to  the  darkness  and  the  Night, 
Let  there  be  light !  and  there  was  light  ! 

I  bring  the  gift  of  Faith. 


I  am  the  Angel  of  the  Moon, 
Darkened  to  be  rekindled  soon 

Beneath  the  azure  cope  ! 
Nearest  to  earth,  it  is  my  ray 
That  best  illumes  the  midnight  way  ; 

I  bring  the  gift  of  Hope  ! 

ANAEL. 

The  Angel  of  the  Star  of  Love, 
The  Evening  Star,  that  shines  above 
The  place  where  lovers  be, 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


433 


Above  all  happy  hearths  and  homes, 
On  roofs  of  thatch,  or  golden  domes, 
I  give  him  Charity  ! 

ZOBIACHEL. 

The  Planet  Jupiter  is  mine  ! 
The  mightiest  star  of  all  that  shine, 

Except  the  sun  alone  ! 
He  is  the  High  Priest  of  the  Dove, 
And  sends,  from  his  great  throne  above, 

Justice,  that  shall  atone  ! 

MICHAEL. 

The  Planet  Mercury,  whose  place 
Is  nearest  to  the  sun  in  space, 

Is  my  allotted  sphere  ! 
And  with  celestial  ardor  swift 
I  bear  upon  my  hands  the  gift 

Of  heavenly  Prudence  here  ! 

URIEL. 

I  am  the  Minister  of  Mars, 
The  strongest  star  among  the  stars  ! 

My  songs  of  power  prelude 
The  march  and  battle  of  man's  life, 
And  for  the  suffering  and  the  strife, 

I  give  him  Fortitude  ! 

ORIFEL. 

The  Angel  of  the  uttermost 
Of  all  the  shining,  heavenly  host, 

From  the  far-off  expanse 
Of  the  Saturnian,  endless  space 
I  bring  the  last,  the  crowning  grace, 

The  gift  of  Temperance  ! 
A  sudden  light  shines  from   the  windows  of  the 
stable  in  the  village  below. 


IV.       THE   WISE   MEN   OF   THE   EAST. 

The  stable  of  the  Inn.  The  VIRGIN  and  CHILD. 
Three  Gypsy  Kings,  GASPAR,  MELCHIOR,  and 
BELSHAZZAR,  shall  come  in. 

CASPAR. 

Hail  to  thee,  Jesus  of  Nazareth  ! 
Though  in  a  manger  thou  draw  breath, 
Thou  art  greater  than  Life  and  Death, 

Greater  than  Joy  or  Woe  ! 
This  cross  upon  the  line  of  life 
Portendeth  struggle,  toil,  and  strife, 
And  through  a  region  with  peril  rife 

In  darkness  shalt  thou  go  ! 


MELCHIOR. 

Hail  to  thee,  King  of  Jerusalem  ! 
Though  humbly  born  in  Bethlehem, 
A  sceptre  and  a  diadem 

Await  thy  brow  and  hand  ! 
The  sceptre  is  a  simple  reed, 
The  crown  will  make  thy  temples  bleed, 
And  in  thine  hour  of  greatest  need, 

Abashed  thy  subjects  stand  ! 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Hail  to  thee,  Christ  of  Christendom  ! 
O'er  all  the  earth  thy  kingdom  come  ! 
From  distant  Trebizond  to  Rome 

Thy  name  shall  men  adore  ! 
Peace  and  good-will  among  all  men, 
The  Virgin  has  returned  again, 
Returned  the  old  Saturnian  reign 

And  Golden  Age  once  more. 

THE   CHILD  CHRIST. 

Jesus,  the  Son  of  God,  am  I, 
Born  here  to  suffer  and  to  die 
According  to  the  prophecy, 
That  other  men  may  live  ! 

THE  VIRGIN. 

And  now  these  clothes,  that  wrapped  Him, 

take 

And  keep  them  precious,  for  his  sake  ; 
Our  benediction  thus  we  make, 
Naught  else  have  we  to  give. 

She  gives  them  swaddling-clothes,  and  they  de 
part. 

V.      THE   FLIGHT   INTO   EGYPT. 

Here  JOSEPH  shall  come  in,  leading  an  ass,  on 
which  are  seated  MARY  and  the  CHILD. 

MARY. 

Here  will  we  rest  us,  under  these 
O'erhanging  branches  of  the  trees, 
Where  robins  chant  their  Litanies 
And  canticles  of  joy. 


My  saddle-girths  have  given  way 
With  trudging  through  the  heat  to-day  ; 
To  you  I  think  it  is  but  play 
To  ride  and  hold  the  boy. 

MARY. 

Hark  !  how  the  robins  shout  and  sing, 
As  if  to  hail  their  infant  King  ! 


434 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


I  will  alight  at  yonder  spring 
To  wash  his  little  coat. 

JOSEPH. 

And  I  will  hobble  well  the  ass, 
Lest,  being  loose  upon  the  grass, 
He  should  escape  ;  for,  by  the  mass, 
He 's  nimble  as  a  goat. 

Here  MARY  shall  alight  and  go  to  the  spring. 

MARY. 

0  Joseph  !  I  am  much  afraid, 

For  men  are  sleeping  in  the  shade  ; 

1  fear  that  we  shall  be  waylaid, 
And  robbed  and  beaten  sore  ! 

Here  a  band  of  robbers  shall  be  seen  sleeping,  two 
of  whom  shall  rise  and  come  forward. 

DUMACHUS. 

Cock's  soul !  deliver  up  your  gold  ! 

JOSEPH. 

I  pray  you,  Sirs,  let  go  your  hold  ! 
You  see  that  I  am  weak  and  old, 
Of  wealth  I  have  no  store. 

DUMACHUS. 

Give  up  your  money  ! 

TITUS. 

Prithee  cease. 
Let  these  people  go  in  peace. 

DUMACHUS. 

First  let  them  pay  for  their  release, 
And  then  go  on  their  way. 

TITUS. 

These  forty  groats  I  give  in  fee, 
If  thou  wilt  only  silent  be. 

MARY. 

May  God  be  merciful  to  thee 
Upon  the  Judgment  Day  ! 


When  thirty  years  shall  have  gone  by, 

I  at  Jerusalem  shall  die, 

By  Jewish  hands  exalted  high 

On  the  accursed  tree, 
Then  on  my  right  and  on  my  left  side, 
These  thieves  shall  both  be  crucified, 


And  Titus  thenceforth  shall  abide 
In  paradise  with  me. 

Here  a  great  rumor  of  trumpets  and  horses,  like 
the  noise  of  a  king  with  his  army,  and  the  rob 
bers  shall  take  flight. 


VI.       THE    SLAUGHTER   OF  THE   INNOCENTS. 
KING  HEROD. 

Potz-tausend  !     Himmel-sacrament  ! 
Filled  am  I  with  great  wonderment 

At  this  unwelcome  news  ! 
Am  I  not  Herod  ?     Who  shall  dare 
My  crown  to  take,  my  sceptre  bear, 

As  king  among  the  Jews  ? 

Here  he  shall  stride  up  and  down  and  flourish 
his  sword. 

What  ho  !     I  fain  would  drink  a  can 
Of  the  strong  wine  of  Canaan  ! 

The  wine  of  Helbon  bring 
I  purchased  at  the  Fair  of  Tyre, 
As  red  as  blood,  as  hot  as  fire, 

And  fit  for  any  king  ! 

He  quaffs  great  goblets  of  wine. 
Now  at  the  window  will  I  stand, 
While  in  the  street  the  armed  band 

The  little  children  slay  ; 
The  babe  just  born  in  Bethlehem 
Will  surely  slaughtered  be  with  them, 

Nor  live  another  day  ! 

Here  a  voice  of  lamentation  shall  be  heard  in  the 
street. 

RACHEL. 

0  wicked  king  !     O  cruel  speed  ! 
To  do  this  most  unrighteous  deed  ! 
My  children  all  are  slain  ! 

HEROD. 

Ho  seneschal  !  another  cup  ! 

With  wine  of  Sorek  fill  it  up  ! 

I  would  a  bumper  drain  ! 

RAHAB. 

May  maledictions  fall  and  blast 
Thyself  and  lineage,  to  the  last 
Of  all  thy  kith  and  kin  ! 


Another  goblet  I  quick  !  and  stir 
Pomegranate  juice  and  drops  of  myrrh 
And  calamus  therein  ! 


THE   GOLDEN    LEGEND 


435 


SOLDIERS,  in  the  street. 
Give  up  thy  child  into  our  hands  ! 
It  is  King  Herod  who  commands 
That  he  should  thus  be  slain  t 

THE  NURSE  MEDUSA. 

O  monstrous  men  !     What  have  ye  done  ! 
It  is  King  Herod's  only  son 
That  ye  have  cleft  in  twain  ! 

HEROD. 

Ah,  luckless  day  !     What  words  of  fear 
Are  these  that  smite  upon  my  ear 

With  such  a  doleful  sound  ! 
What  torments  rack  my  heart  and  head  ! 
Would  I  were  dead !  would  I  were  dead, 

And  buried  in  the  ground  ! 
He  falls  down  and  writhes  as  though  eaten  by 

worms.     Hell  opens,  and  SATAN  and  ASTA- 

ROTH  comefortn,  and  drag  him  down. 

VII.      JESUS    AT    PLAY   WITH   HIS    SCHOOL 
MATES. 

JESUS. 

The  shower  is  over.     Let  us  play, 
And  make  some  sparrows  out  of  clay, 
Dowii  by  the  river's  side. 

JUDAS. 

See,  how  the  stream  has  overflowed 
Its  banks,  and  o'er  the  meadow  road 
Is  spreading  far  and  wide  ! 

They  draw  water  out  of  the  river  by  channels,  and 
form  little  pools.  JESUS  makes  twelve  sparrows 
of  clay,  and  the  other  boys  do  the  same. 

JESUS. 

Look  !  look  how  prettily  I  make 
These  little  sparrows  by  the  lake 

Bend  down  their  necks  and  drink  ! 
Now  will  I  make  them  sing  and  soar 
So  far,  they  shall  return  no  more 

Unto  this  river's  brink. 

JUDAS. 

That  canst  thou  not  !     They  are  but  clay, 
They  cannot  sing,  nor  fly  away 
Above  the  meadow  lands  ! 

JESUS. 

Fly,  fly  !  ye  sparrows  !  you  are  free  ! 
And  while  you  live,  remember  me, 

Who  made  you  with  my  hands. 
Here  JESUS  shall  clap  his  hands,  and  the  spar 
rows  shall  Jty  away,  chirruping. 


JUDAS. 

Thou  art  a  sorcerer,  I  know  ; 
Oft  has  my  mother  told  me  so, 
I  will  not  play  with  thee  ! 

He  strikes  JESUS  in  the  right  side. 

JESUS. 

Ah,  Judas  !  thou  hast  smote  my  side, 
And  when  I  shall  be  crucified, 
There  shall  I  pierced  be  ! 

Here  JOSEPH  shall  come  in  and  say: 

JOSEPH. 

Ye  wicked  boys  !  why  do  ye  play, 
And  break  the  holy  Sabbath  day  ? 
What,  think  ye,  will  your  mothers  say 

To  see  you  in  such  plight ! 
In  such  a  sweat  and  such  a  heat, 
With  all  that  mud  upon  your  feet ! 
There  's  not  a  beggar  in  the  street 

Makes  such  a  sorry  sight ! 


VIII.      THE   VILLAGE   SCHOOL. 

The  RABBI  BEN  ISRAEL,  sitting  on  a  high  stool, 
with  a  long  beard,  and  a  rod  in  his  hand. 

RABBI. 

I  am  the  Rabbi  Ben  Israel, 
Throughout  this  village  known  full  well, 
And,  as  my  scholars  all  will  tell, 

Learned  in  things  divine  ; 
The  Cabala  and  Talmud  hoar 
Than  all  the  prophets  prize  I  more, 
For  water  is  all  Bible  lore, 

But  Mishna  is  strong  wine. 

My  fame  extends  from  West  to  East, 
And  always,  at  the  Purim  feast, 
I  am  as  drunk  as  any  beast 

That  wallows  in  his  sty  ; 
The  wine  it  so  elateth  me, 
That  I  no  difference  can  see 
Between  "  Accursed  Haman  be  !  " 

And  "  Blessed  be  Mordecai !  " 

Come  hither,  Judas  Iseariot  ; 
Say,  if  thy  lesson  thou  hast  got 
From  the  Rabbinical  Book  or  not. 
Why  howl  the  dogs  at  night  ? 

JUDAS. 

In  the  Rabbinical  Book,  it  saith 
The  dogs  howl,  when  with  icy  breath 


436 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


Great  Sammael,  the  Angel  of  Death, 
Takes  through  the  town  his  flight  ! 

RABBI. 

Well,  boy  !  now  say,  if  thou  art  wise, 
When  the  Angel  of  Death,  who  is  full  of 

eyes, 

Comes  where  a  sick  man  dying  lies, 
What  doth  he  to  the  wight  ? 

JUDAS. 

He  stands  beside  him,  dark  and  tall, 
Holding  a  sword,  from  which  doth  fall 
Into  his  mouth  a  drop  of  gall, 
And  so  he  turneth  white. 

RABBI. 

And  now,  my  Judas,  say  to  me 
What  the  great  Voices  Four  may  be, 
That  quite  across  the  world  do  flee, 
And  are  not  heard  by  men  ? 

JUDAS. 

The  Voice  of  the  Sun  in  heaven's  dome, 
The  Voice  of  the  Murmuring  of  Rome, 
The  Voice  of  a  Soul  that  goeth  home, 
And  the  Angel  of  the  Rain  ! 

RABBI. 

Right  are  thine  answers  every  one  ! 
Now  little  Jesus,  the  carpenter's  son, 
Let  us  see  how  thy  tapk  is  done  ; 
Canst  thou  thy  letters  say  ? 

JESUS. 
Aleph. 

RABBI. 

What  next  ?     Do  not  stop  yet ! 
Go  on  with  all  the  alphabet. 
Come,  Aleph,  Beth  ;  dost  thou  forget  ? 
Cock's  soul  !  thou  'dst  rather  play  ! 

JESUS. 

What  Aleph  means  I  fain  would  know, 
Before  I  any  farther  go  ! 

RABBI. 
Oh,  by  Saint  Peter  !  wouldst  thou  so  ? 

Come  hither,  boy,  to  me. 
As  surely  as  the  letter  Jod 
Once  cried  aloud,  and  spake  to  God, 
So  surely  shalt  thou  feel  this  rod, 

And  punished  shalt  thou  be  ! 
Here  RABBI  BEN  ISRAEL  shall  lift  up  his  rod  to 
strike  JESUS,  and  his  right  arm  shall  be  par 
alyzed. 


IX.      CROWNED   WITH    FLOWERS. 

JESUS  sitting  among  his  playmates  crowned  with 
.flowers  as  their  King. 

BOYS. 

We  spread  our  garments  on  the  ground  ! 
With  fragrant  flowers  thy  head  is  crowned 
While  like  a  guard  we  stand  around, 

And  hail  thee  as  our  King  ! 
Thou  art  the  new  King  01  the  Jews  ! 
Nor  let  the  passers-by  refuse 
To  bring  that  homage  which  men  use 

To  majesty  to  bring. 

Here  a  traveller  shall  go  by,  and  the  boys  shall 
lay  hold  of  his  garments  and  say: 

BOYS. 

Come  hither  !  and  all  reverence  pay 
Unto  our  monarch,  crowned  to-day  ! 
Then  go  rejoicing  on  your  way, 
In  all  prosperity  ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Hail  to  the  King  of  Bethlehem, 
Who  weareth  in  his  diadem 
The  yellow  crocus  for  the  gem 
Of  his  authority  ! 

lie  passes  by ;  and  others  come  in,  bearing  on  a 
litter  a  sick  child. 

BOYS. 

Set  down  the  litter  and  draw  near  1 
The  King  of  Bethlehem  is  here  ! 
What  ails  the  child,  who  seems  to  fear 
That  we  shall  do  him  harm  ? 

THE   BEARERS. 

He  climbed  up  to  the  robin's  nest, 
And  out  there  darted,  from  his  rest, 
A  serpent  with  a  crimson  crest, 
And  stung  him  in  the  arnii 

JESUS. 

Bring  him  to  me,  and  let  me  feel 

The  wounded  place  ;  my  touch  can  heal 

The  sting  of  serpents,  and  can  steal 

The  poison  from  the  bite  ! 
He  touches  the  wound,  and  the  boy  begins  to  cry. 
Cease  to  lament  !  I  can  foresee 
That  thou  hereafter  known  shalt  be, 
Among  the  men  who  follow  me, 

As  Simon  the  Canaanite  ! 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


437 


EPILOGUE. 

In  the  after  part  of  the  day 
Will  be  represented  another  play, 
Of  the  Passion  of  our  Blessed  Lord, 
Beginning  directly  after  Nones  ! 
At  the  close  of  which  we  shall  accord, 
By  way  of  benison  and  reward, 
The  sight  of  a  holy  Martyr's  bones  ! 


IV 
THE   ROAD   TO   HIRSCHAU 

PRINCE  HENRY  and  ELSIE,  with  their  attend  ants 
on  horseback. 


Onward  and  onward  the  highway  runs  to 
the  distant  city,  impatiently  bearing 

Tidings  of  human  joy  and  disaster,  of  love 
and  of  hate,  of  doing  and  daring  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

This  life  of  ours  is  a  wild  seolian  harp  of 
many  a  joyous  strain, 

But  under  them  all  there  runs  a  loud  per 
petual  wail,  as  of  souls  in  pain. 


Faith  alone  can  interpret  life,  and  the  heart 
that  aches  and  bleeds  with  the  stigma 

Of  pain,  alone  bears  the  likeness  of  Christ, 
and  can  comprehend  its  dark  enigma. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Man  is  selfish,  and  seeketh  pleasure  with 
little  care  of  what  may  betide, 

Else  why  am  I  travelling  here  beside  thee, 
a  demon  that  rides  by  an  angel's 
side? 


All  the  hedges  are  white  with  dnst,  and  the 
great  dog  under  the  creaking  wain 

Hangs  his  head  in  the  lazy  heat,  while  on 
ward  the  horses  toil  and  strain. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Now  they  stop  at  the  wayside  inn,  and  the 

wagoner  laughs  with  the  landlord's 

daughter, 
While  out  of  the  dripping  trough  the  horses 

distend   their    leathern    sides   with 

water. 


ELSIE. 
All    through   life    there  are  wayside  inns, 

where  man  may  refresh  his  soul  with 

love  ; 
Even  the  lowest  may  quench  his  thirst  at 

rivulets  fed  by  springs  from  above. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Yonder,  where  rises  the  cross  of  stone,  our 
journey  along  the  highway  ends, 

And  over  the  fields,  by  a  bridle  path,  down 
into  the  broad  green  valley  de 
scends. 

ELSIE. 

I  am  not  sorry  to  leave  behind  the  beaten 
road  with  its  dust  and  heat  ; 

The  air  will  be  sweeter  far,  and  the  turf 
will    be   softer    under   our    horses' 
feet. 
They  turn  down  a  green  lane, 

ELSIE. 

Sweet  is  the  air  with  the  budding  haws, 
and  the  valley  stretching  for  miles 
below 

Is  white  with  blossoming  cherry-trees,  as  if 
just  covered  with  lightest  snow. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Over  our  heads  a  white  cascade  is  gleam 
ing  against  the  distant  hill  ; 

We  cannot  hear  it,  nor  see  it  move,  but  it 
hangs  like  a  banner  when  winds  arc 
still. 

ELSIE. 

Damp  and  cool  is  this  deep  ravine,  and 
cool  the  sound  of  the  brook  by  our 
side  ! 

What  is  this  castle  that  rises  above  us,  and 
lords  it  over  a  land  so  wide  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

It  is  the  home  of  the  Counts  of  Calva  ;  well 
have  I  known  these  scenes  of  old, 

Well  I  remember  each  tower  and  turret, 
remember  the  brooklet,  the  wood, 
and  the  wold. 

ELSIE. 

Hark  !  from  the  little  village  below  us  the 

bells  of  the  church  are  ringing  for 

rain  ! 
Priests   and    peasants   in   long   procession 

come  forth   and  kneel  on   the   arid 

plain. 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


PRINCE  HENRY. 

They  have  not  long  to  wait,  for  I  see  in 
the  south  uprising  a  little  cloud, 

That  before  the  sun  shall  be  set  will  cover 
the  sky  above  us  as  with  a  shroud. 
They  pass  on. 

THE  CONVENT  OF  HIRSCHAU  IN  THE  BLACK 
FOREST. 

The   Convent  cellar.      FRIAR  CLAUS  comes  in 
with  a  light  and  a  basket  of  empty  flagons. 

FRIAR  CLAUS. 

I  always  enter  this  sacred  place 

With  a   thoughtful,  solemn,  and  reverent 

pace, 

Pausing  long  enough  on  each  stair 
To  breathe  an  ejaculatory  prayer, 
And  a  benediction  on  the  vines 
That     produce      these    various     sorts     of 

wines  ! 

For  my  part,  I  am  well  content 
That  we  have  got  through  with  the  tedious 

Lent  ! 

Fasting  is  all  very  well  for  those 
Who  have  to  contend  with  invisible  foes  ; 
But  I  am  quite  sure  it  does  not  agree 
With  a  quiet,  peaceable  man  like  me, 
Who  am  not  of  that  nervous  and  meagre 

kind, 
That   are  always  distressed  in    body  and 

mind  ! 

And  at  times  it  really  does  me  good 
To  come  down  among  tin's  brotherhood, 
Dwelling  forever  underground, 
Silent,  contemplative,  round  and  sound  ; 
Each  one  old,  and  brown  with  mould, 
But  filled    to   the    lips  with   the   ardor  of 

youth, 

With  the  latent  power  and  love  of  truth, 
And  v/ith  virtues  fervent  and  manifold. 

I  have  heard  it  said,  that  at  Easter-tide 
When  buds  are  swelling  on  every  side, 
And  the  sap  begins  to  move  in  the  vine, 
Then  in  all  cellars,  far  and  wide, 
The  oldest  as  well  as  the  newest  wine 
Begins  to  stir  itself,  and  ferment, 
With  a  kind  of  revolt  and  discontent 
At  being  so  long  in  darkness  pent, 
And  fain  would  burst  from  its  sombre  tun 
To  bask  on  the  hillside  in  the  sun  ; 
As  in  the  bosom  of  us  poor  friars, 
The  tumult  of  half-subdued  desires 


For  the  world  that  we  have  left  behind 

Disturbs  at  times  all  peace  of  mind  ! 

And  now  that  we  have  lived  through  Lent. 

My  duty  it  is,  as  often  before, 

To  open  awhile  the  prison-door, 

And  give  these  restless  spirits  vent. 

Now  here  is  a  cask  that  stands  alone, 
And  has  stood  a  hundred  years  or  more, 
Its  beard  of  cobwebs,  long  and  hoar, 
Trailing  and  sweeping  along  the  floor, 
Like  Barbarossa,  who  sits  in  his  cave, 
Taciturn,  sombre,  sedate,  and  grave, 
Till  his  beard  has  grown  through  the  table 

of  stone  ! 

It  is  of  the  quick  and  not  of  the  dead  ! 
In  its  veins  the  blood  is  hot  and  red, 
And  a  heart  still  beats  in  those  ribs  of  oak 
That   time  may   have  tamed,  but  has  not 

broke  ! 

It  comes  from  Bacharach  on  the  Hhine, 
Is  one  of  the  three  best  kinds  of  wine, 
And  costs  some  hundred  florins  the  ohm  ; 
But  that  I  do  not  consider  dear, 
When  I  remember  that  every  year 
Four  butts  are  sent  to  the  Pope  of  Rome. 
And  \vhenever  a  goblet  thereof  I  drain, 
The  old  rhyme  keeps  running  in  my  brain  : 

At  Bacharach  on  the  Rhine, 
At  Hochheim  on  the  Main, 
And  at  Wiirzburg  on  the  Stein, 
Grow  the  three  best  kinds  of  wine  ! 

They  are  all  good  wines,  and  better  far 
Than  those  of  the  Neckar,  or  those  of  the 

Ahr. 

In  particular,  Wiirzburg  well  may  boast 
Of  its  blessed  wine  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
Which  of  all  wines  I  like  the  most. 
This  I  shall  draw  for  the  Abbot's  drink 
ing* 

Who  seems  to  be  much  of  my  \vay  of  think 
ing. 

Fills  a  flagon. 

Ah  !  how  the  streamlet  laughs  and  sings  ! 
What  a  delicious  fragrance  springs 
From  the  deep  flagon,  while  it  fills, 
As  of  hyacinths  and  daffodils  ! 
Between  this  cask  and  the  Abbot's  lips 
Many  have  been  the  sips  and  slips  ; 
Many  have  been  the  draughts  of  wine, 
On  their  way  to  his,  that  have  stopped  at 

mine  ; 
And  many  a  time  my  soul  has  hankered 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


439 


For  a  deep  draught  out  of  his  silver  tan 
kard, 

When  it  should  have  been  busy  with  other 
affairs, 

Less  with  its  longings  and  more  with  its 
prayers. 

But  now  there  is  no  such  awkward  con 
dition, 

No  danger  of  death  and  eternal  perdition  ; 

So  here  's  to  the  Abbot  and  Brothers  all, 

Who  dwell  in  this   convent  of   Peter  and 
Paul ! 

He  drinks. 

0  cordial  delicious  !     O  soother  of  pain  ! 
It  flashes  like  sunshine  into  my  brain  ! 

A  benison  rest  on  the  Bishop  who  sends 
Such  a  fudder  of  wine  as  this  to  his  friends  ! 
And  now  a  flagon  for  such  as  may  ask 
A  draught  from  the  noble  Bacharach  cask, 
And  I  will  be  gone,  though  I  know  full  well 
The  cellar 's  a  cheerf  uller  place  than   the 

cell. 

Behold  where  he  stands,  all  sound  and  good, 
Brown  and  old  in  his  oaken  hood  ; 
Silent  he  seems  externally 
As  any  Carthusian  monk  may  be  ; 
But  within,  what  a  spirit  of  deep  unrest ! 
What   a   seething   and    simmering   in   his 

breast  ! 

As  if  the  heaving  of  his  great  heart 
Would  burst  his  belt  of  oak  apart  ! 
Let  me  unloose  this  button  of  wood, 
And  quiet  a  little  his  turbulent  mood. 

Sets  it  running. 

See  !  how  its  currents  gleam  and  shine, 
As  if  they  had  caught  the  purple  hues 
Of  autumn  sunsets  on  the  Rhine, 
Descending  and  mingling  with  the  dews  ; 
Or  as  if  the  grapes  were  stained  with  the 

blood 

Of  the  innocent  boy,  who,  some  years  back, 
Was  taken  and  crucified  by  the  Jews, 
In  that  ancient  town  of  Bacharach  ; 
Perdition  upon  those  infidel  Jews, 
In  that  ancient  town  of  Bacharach  ! 
The  beautiful  town,  that  gives  us  wine 
With  the  fragrant  odor  of  Muscadine  ! 

1  should  deem  it  wrong  to  let  this  pass 
Without  first  touching  my  lips  to  the  glass, 
For  here  in  the  midst  of  the  current  I  stand 
Like  the  stone  Pfalz  in  the  midst  of   the 

river, 

Taking  toll  upon  either  hand, 
And  much  more  grateful  to  the  giver. 
He  drinks. 


Here,  now,  is  a  very  inferior  kind, 
Such  as  in  any  town  you  may  find, 
Such  as  one  might  imagine  would  suit 
The  rascal  who  drank  wine  out  of  a  boot. 
And,  after  all,  it  was  not  a  crime, 
For  he  won  thereby  Dorf  Hiiffelsheim. 
A  jolly  old  toper  !  who  at  a  pull 
Could  drink  a  postilion's  jack-boot  full, 
And   ask  with    a   laugh,    when    that   was 

done, 

If  the  fellow  had  left  the  other  one  ! 
This  wine  is  as  good  as  we  can  afford 
To  the  friars,  who  sit  at  the  lower  board, 
And  cannot  distinguish  bad  from  good, 
And  are  far  better  off  than  if  they  could, 
Being  rather  the  rude  disciples  of  beer 
Than  of  anything  more  refined  and  dear  ! 
Fills  the  flagon  and  departs. 

THE   SCRIPTORIUM. 
FRIAR  PACIFICUS  transcribing  and  illuminating. 

FRIAR  PACIFICUS. 

It  is  growing  dark  !     Yet  one  line  more, 
And  then  my  work  for  to-day  is  o'er. 
I  come  again  to  the  name  of  the  Lord ! 
Ere  I  that  awful  name  record, 
That  is  spoken  so  lightly  among  men, 
Let  me  pause  awhile,  and  wash  my  pen  ; 
Pure  from  blemish  and  blot  must  it  be 
When  it  writes  that  word  of  mystery  ! 

Thus  have  I  labored  on  and  on, 

Nearly  through  the  Gospel  of  John. 

Can  it  be  that  from  the  lips 

Of  this  same  gentle  Evangelist, 

That  Christ  himself  perhaps  has  kissed, 

Came  the  dread  Apocalypse  ! 

It  has  a  very  awful  look, 

As  it  stands  there  at  the  end  of  the  book, 

Like  the  sun  in  an  eclipse. 

Ah  me  !  when  I  think  of  that  vision  divine, 

Think  of  writing  it,  line  by  line, 

I  stand  in  awe  of  the  terrible  curse, 

Like  the  trump  of   doom,  in   the   closing 

verse  ! 

God  forgive  me  !  if  ever  I 
Take  aught  from  the  book  of  that  Prophecy, 
Lest  my  part  too  should  be  taken  away 
From  the  Book  of  Life  on  the  Judgment 

Day. 

This  is  well  written,  though  I  say  it  ! 
I  should  not  be  afraid  to  display  it 
In  open  day,  on  the  selfsame  shelf 


440 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


With  the  writings  of  St.  Thecla  herself, 

Or  of  Theodosius,  who  of  old 

Wrote  the  Gospels  in  letters  of  gold  ! 

That  goodly  folio  standing  yonder, 

Without  a  single  blot  or  blunder, 

Would   not    bear    away    the    palm    from 

mine, 
If  we  should  compare  them  line  for  line. 

There,  now,  is  an  initial  letter  ! 

Saint  Ulric  himself  never  made  a  better  ! 

Finished  down  to  the  leaf  and  the  snail, 

Down  to  the  eyes  on  the  peacock's  tail  ! 

And  now,  as  I  turn  the  volume  over, 

And  see  what  lies  between  cover  and  cover, 

What  treasures  of  art  these  pages  hold, 

All  ablaze  with  crimson  and  gold, 

God  forgive  me  !  I  seem  to  feel 

A  certain  satisfaction  steal 

Into  my  heart,  and  into  my  brain, 

As  if  my  talent  had  not  lain 

Wrapped  in  a  napkin,  and  all  in  vain. 

Yes,  I  might  almost  say  to  the  Lord, 

Here  is  a  copy  of  thy  Word, 

Written  out  with  much  toil  and  pain  ; 

Take  it,  O  Lord,  and  let  it  be 

As  something  I  have  done  for  thee  ! 

He  looks  from  the  window. 
How    sweet    the    air  is  !      How    fair  the 

scene  ! 

I  wish  I  had  as  lovely  a  green 
To  paint  my  landscapes  and  my  leaves  ! 
How  the  swallows  twitter  under  the  eaves  ! 
There,  now,  there  is  one  in  her  nest  ; 
I  can  just  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  head  and 

breast, 
And  will  sketch    her    thus,  in   her    quiet 

nook, 
For  the  margin  of  my  Gospel  book. 

He  makes  a  sketch. 
I  can  see  no  more.     Through  the  valley 

yonder 

A  shower  is  passing  ;  I  hear  the  thunder 
Mutter  its  curses  in  the  air, 
The  devil's  own  and  only  prayer  ! 
The  dusty  road  is  brown  with  rain, 
And,  speeding  on  with  might  and  main, 
Hitherward  rides  a  gallant  train. 
They  do  not  parley,  they  cannot  wait, 
But  hurry  in  at  the  convent  gate. 
What  a  fair  lady  !  and  beside  her 
What  a  handsome,  graceful,  noble  rider  ! 
Now  she  gives  him  her  hand  to  alight  ; 
They  will  beg  a  shelter  for  the  night. 
I  will  go  down  to  the  corridor, 


And  try  to  see  that  face  once  more  ; 

It  will  do  for  the  face  of  some  beautiful 

Saint, 
Or  for  one  of  the  Maries  I  shall  paint. 

Goes  out. 


THE   CLOISTERS. 


The  ABBOT  ERNESTUS  pacing  to  and  fro- 


Slowly,  slowly  up  the  wall 
Steals  the  sunshine,  steals  the  shade  ; 
Evening  damps  begin  to  fall, 
Evening  shadows  are  displayed. 
Round  me,  o'er  me,  everywhere, 
All  the  sky  is  grand  with  clouds, 
And  athwart  the  evening  air 
Wheel  the  swallows  home  in  crowds. 
Shafts  of  sunshine  from  the  west 
Paint  the  dusky  windows  red  ; 
Darker  shadows,  deeper  rest, 
Underneath  and  overhead. 
Darker,  darker,  and  more  wan, 
In  my  breast  the  shadows  fall ; 
Upward  steals  the  life  of  man, 
As  the  sunshine  from  the  wall. 
From  the  wall  into  the  sky, 
From  the  roof  along  the  spire  ; 
Ah,  the  souls  of  those  that  die 
Are  but  sunbeams  lifted  higher. 
Enter  PRINCE  HENRY. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Christ  is  arisen  ! 

ABBOT. 

Amen  !     He  is  arisen  I 
His  peace  be  with  you  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Here  it  reigns  forever  ! 
The  peace  of  God,  that  passeth  understand- 

in£> 

Reigns  in  these  cloisters   and  these  corri 
dors. 

Are  you  Ernestus,  Abbot  of  the  convent  ? 

ABBOT. 
I  am. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

And  I  Prince  Henry  of  Hoheneck, 
Who  crave  your  hospitality  to-night. 


THE   GOLDEN    LEGEND 


441 


ABBOT. 

You    are  thrice  welcome    to  our    humble 

walls. 

You  do  us  honor  ;  and  we  shall  requite  it, 
I  fear,  but  poorly,  entertaining  you 
With  Paschal  eggs,  and  our  poor  convent 

wine, 
The  remnants  of  our  Easter  holidays. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

How  fares  it  with  the  holy  monks  of  Hir- 

schau  ? 
Are  all  things  well  with  them  ? 

ABBOT. 

All  things  are  well. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

A  noble  convent !     I  have  known  it  long 
By  the  report  of  travellers.     I  now  see 
Their  commendations  lag  behind  the  truth. 
You  lie  here  in  the  valley  of  the  Nagold 
As  in  a  nest  :  and  the  still  river,  gliding 
Along  its  bed,  is  like  an  admonition 
How  all  things  pass.     Your  lands  are  rich 

and  ample, 

And  your  revenues  large.     God's  benedic 
tion 
Rests  on  your  convent. 

ABBOT. 

By  our  charities 

We  strive  to  merit  it.     Our  Lord  and  Mas 
ter, 

When  He  departed,  left  us  in  his  will, 

As  our  best  legacy  on  earth,  the  poor  ! 

These  we  have  always  with  us  ;   had   we 
not, 

Our  hearts  would  grow  as  hard  as  are  these 
stones. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

If  I  remember  right,  the  Counts  of  Calva 
Founded  your  convent. 

ABBOT. 

Even  as  you  say. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

And,  if  I  err  not,  it  is  very  old. 

ABBOT. 

Within  these  cloisters  lie  already  buried 
Twelve    holy    Abbots.       Underneath   the 


On  which    we  stand,  the  Abbot   William 

lies, 
Of  blessed  memory. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

And  whose  tomb  is  that, 
Which  bears  the  brass  escutcheon  ? 

ABBOT. 

A  benefactor's. 

Conrad,  a  Count  of  Calva,  he  who  stood 
Godfather  to  our  bells. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Your  monks  are  learned 
And  holy  men,  I  trust. 


There  are  among  them 
Learned  and  holy  men.     Yet  in  this  age 
We  need  another  Hildebrand,  to  shake 
And  purify  us  like  a  mighty  wind. 
The  world  is  wicked,  and  sometimes  I  won 
der 
God   does   not    lose  his    patience  with    it 

wholly, 
And  shatter  it  like  glass  !     Even  here,  at 

times, 
Within  these  walls,  where  all  should  be  at 

peace, 

I  have  my  trials.     Time  has  laid  his  hand 
Upon  my  heart,  gently,  not  smiting  it, 
But  as  a  harper  lays  his  open  palm 
Upon  his  harp,  to  deaden  its  vibrations. 
Ashes  are  on  my  head,  and  on  my  lips 
Sackcloth,  and  in  my  breast  a  heaviness 
And  weariness  of  life,  that  makes  me  ready 
To  say  to  the  dead  Abbots  under  us, 
"  Make  room  for  me  ! "     Only  I  see   the 

dusk 

Of  evening  twilight  coming,  and  have  not 
Completed  half  my  task  ;  and  so  at  times 
The  thought  of  my  shortcomings  in  this 

life 
Falls  like  a  shadow  on  the  life  to  come. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

We  must  all  die,  and  not  the  old  alone  ; 
The  young  have  no   exemption  from  that 
doom. 

ABBOT. 
Ah,  yes  !  the  young  may  die,  but  the  old 

must ! 
That  is  the  difference. 


442 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


PRINCE   HENRY. 

I  have  heard  much  laud 
Of  your  transcribers.     Your  Scriptorium 
Is  famous  among  all  ;  your  manuscripts 
Praised  for  their  beauty  and  their  excel 
lence. 

ABBOT. 
That  is  indeed  our  boast.      If  you  desire 

it, 
You   shall   behold    these    treasures.     And 

meanwhile 

Shall  the  Refectorarius  bestow 
Your  horses  and  attendants  for  the  night. 
They  go  in.     The  Vesper-bell  rings. 


THE    CHAPEL. 

Vespers ;  after  ivhich  the  monks  retire,  a  chorister 
leading  an  old  monk  who  is  blind. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

They  are  all  gone,  save  one  who  lingers, 
Absorbed  in  deep  and  silent  prayer. 
As  if  his  heart  could  find  no  rest, 
At  times  he  beats  his  heaving  breast 
With  clenched  and  convulsive  fingers, 
Then  lifts  them  trembling  in  the  air. 
A  chorister,  with  golden  hair, 
Guides  hitherward  his  heavy  pace. 
Can  it  be  so  ?     Or  does  my  sight 
Deceive  me  in  the  uncertain  light  ? 
Ah  no  !     I  recognize  that  face, 
Though  Time  has  touched  it  in  his  flight, 
And  changed  the  auburn  hair  to  white. 
It  is  Count  Hugo  of  the  Rhine, 
The  deadliest  foe  of  all  our  race, 
And  hateful  unto  me  and  mine  ! 

THE  BLIND  MONK. 

Who  is  it  that  doth  stand  so  near 

His  whispered  words  I  almost  hear  ?     . 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

i  am  Prince  Henry  of  Hoheneck, 
And  you,  Count  Hugo  of  the  Rhine  ) 
I  know  you,  and  I  see  the  scar, 
The  brand  upon  your  forehead,  shine 
And  redden  like  a  baleful  star  ! 

THE  BLIND   MONK. 

Count  Hugo  once,  but  now  the  wreck 
Of  what  I  was.     O  Hoheneck  ! 


The  passionate  will,  the  pride,  the  wrath 

That  bore  me  headlong  on  my  path, 

Stumbled  and  staggered  into  fear, 

And  failed  me  in  my  mad  career, 

As  a  tired  steed  some  evil-doer, 

Alone  upon  a  desolate  moor, 

Bewildered,  lost,  deserted,  blind, 

And  hearing  loud  and  close  behind 

The  o'ertaking  steps  of  his  pursuer. 

Then  suddenly  from  the  dark  there  came 

A  voice  that  called  me  by  my  name, 

And  said  to  me,  "  Kneel  down  and  pray  1 " 

And  so  my  terror  passed  away, 

Passed  utterly  away  forever. 

Contrition,  penitence,  remorse, 

Came  on  me,  with  o'er  whelm  ing  force  ; 

A  hope,  a  longing,  an  endeavor, 

By  days  of  penance  and  nights  of  prayer, 

To  frustrate  and  defeat  despair  ! 

Calm,  deep,  and  still  is  now  my  heart, 

With  tranquil  waters  overflowed  ; 

A  lake  whose  unseen  fountains  start, 

Where  once  the  hot  volcano  glowed. 

And  you,  O  Prince  of  Hoheneck  ! 

Have  known  me  in  that  earlier  time, 

A  man  of  violence  and  crime, 

Whose  passions  brooked  no  curb  nor  check 

Behold  me  now,  in  gentler  mood, 

One  of  this  holy  brotherhood. 

Give  me  your  hand  ;  here  let  me  kneel ; 

Make  your  reproaches  sharp  as  steel  ; 

Spurn  me,  and  smite  me  on  each  cheek  ; 

No  violence  can  harm  the  meek, 

There  is  no  wound  Christ  cannot  heal  ! 

Yes  ;  lift  your  princely  hand,  and  take 

Revenge,  if  't  is  revenge  you  seek  ; 

Then  pardon  me,  for  Jesus'  sake  ! 


PRINCE    HENRY. 

Arise,  Count  Hugo  !  let  there  be 
No  further  strife  nor  enmity 
Between  us  twain  ;  we  both  have  erred  ! 
Too  rash  in  act,  too  wroth  in  word, 
From  the  beginning  have  we  stood 
In  fierce,  defiant  attitude, 
Each  thoughtless  of  the  other's  right, 
And  each  reliant  on  his  might. 
But  now  our  souls  are  more  subdued  ; 
The  hand  of  God,  and  not  in  vain, 
Has  touched  us  with  the  fire  of  pain. 
Let  us  kneel  down  and  side  by  side 
Pray,  till  our  souls  are  purified, 
And  pardon  will  not  be  denied  ! 
They  kneel. 


THE   GOLDEN    LEGEND 


443 


THE     REFECTORY. 

Gaudiolum  of  Monks  at  midnight.     LUCIFER 
disguised  as  a  Friar. 

FRIAR  PAUL  sings. 

Ave  !  color  vini  clari, 
Dulcis  potus,  nou  amari, 
Tua  nos  iuebriari 
Digneris  potentia  ! 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

Not  so  much  noise,  my  worthy  freres, 
You  '11  disturb  the  Abbot  at  his  prayers. 

FRIAR  PAUL  sings. 

O  !  quani  placens  in  colore  ! 

O  !  quani  fragrans  in  odore  ! 

O  !  quam  sapidum  in  ore  ! 

Dulce  linguae  vinculum  ! 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

I  should  think  your  tongue  had  broken  its 
chain ! 

FRIAR  PAUL  sings. 

Felix  venter  quern  intrabis  ! 
Felix  guttur  quod  rigabis  ! 
Felix  os  quod  tu  lavabis  ! 
Et  beata  labia  ! 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

Peace  !  I  say,  peace  ! 
Will  you  never  cease  ! 
You  will  rouse  up  the  Abbot,  I  tell  you 
again  ! 

FRIAR  JOHN. 

No  danger  !  to-night  he  will  let  us  'alone, 
As  I  happen  to  know  he  has  guests  of  his 
own. 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

Who  are  they  ? 

FRIAR  JOHN. 

A  German  Prince  and  his  train, 
Who  arrived  here  just  before  the  rain. 
There  is  with  him  a  damsel  fair  to  see, 
As  slender  and  graceful  as  a  reed  ! 
When  she  alighted  from  her  steed, 
It    seemed  like  a  blossom  blown  from  a 
tree. 


FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 


None  of  your  pale-faced  girls  for  me  ! 
None  of  your  damsels  of  high  degree  ! 


FRIAR  JOHN. 

Come,  old  fellow,  drink  down  to  your  peg  ! 
But  do  not  drink  any  further,  I  beg  ! 

FRIAR  PAUL,  sings. 

In  the  days  of  gold, 
The  days  of  old, 
Crosier  of  wood 
And  bishop  of  gold  ! 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

What  an  infernal  racket  and  riot  ! 
Can  you  not  drink  your  wine  in  quiet  ? 
Why  fill  the  convent  with  such  scandals, 
As  if  we  were  so  many  drunken  Vandals  ? 

FRIA.R  PAUL,  continues. 
Now  we  have  changed 
That  law  so  good 
To  crosier  of  gold 
And  bishop  of  wood  ! 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

Well,  then,  since  you  are  in  the  mood 

To  give  your  noisy  humors  vent, 

Sing  and  howl  to  your  heart's  content  ! 

CHORUS  OF  MONKS. 

Funde  vinum.  funde  ! 
Tanquam  sint  flumiuis  undse, 
Nee  quseras  unde, 
Sed  fundas  semper  abunde  ! 

FRIAR  JOHN. 

What  is  the  name  of  yonder  friar, 

With  an  eye  that  glows  like  a  coal  of  fire, 

And  such  a  black  mass  of  tangled  hair  ? 

FRIAR  PAUL. 

He  who  is  sitting  there, 
With  a  rollicking, 
Devil  may  care, 
Free  and  easy  look  and  air, 
As  if  he  were  used  to  such  feasting  and 
frolicking  ? 

FRIAR  JOHN. 

The  same. 

1  For  the  reading  of  this  portion  of  the  scene  in  the 
first  edition,  see  the  notes  at  the  end  of  the  volume. 


444 


CHR1STUS:    A   MYSTERY 


FRIAR  PAUL. 

He  's  a  stranger.     You  had  better  ask   his 

name, 
And  where  he  is  going  and  whence  he  came. 

FRIAK  JOHN. 

Hallo  !  Sir  Friar  ! 

FRIAR  PAUL. 

You  must  raise  your  voice  a  little  higher, 
He  does  not  seem  to  hear  what  you  say. 
Now,  try  again  !     He  is  looking  this  way. 

FRIAR  JOHN. 

Hallo  !   Sir  Friar, 

We  wish  to  inquire 

Whence  you  came,  and  where  you  are  go 
ing, 

And  anything  else  that  is  worth  the  know 
ing. 

So  be  so  good  as  to  open  your  head. 

LUCIFER. 

I  am  a  Frenchman  born  and  bred, 

Going  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Rome. 

My  home 

Is  the  convent  of  St.  Gildas  dc  Rhuys, 

Of  which,  very  like,  you  uever  have  heard. 


Never  a  word  ! 


MONKS. 


LUCIFER. 

You  must  know,  then,  it  is  in  the  diocese 

Called  the  Diocese  of  Vannes, 

In  the  province  of  Brittany. 

From  the  gray  rocks  of  Morbihan 

It  overlooks  the  angry  sea  ; 

The  very  sea-shore  where, 

In  his  great  despair, 

Abbot  Abelard  walked  to  and  fro, 

Filling  the  night  with  woe, 

And  wailing  aloud  to  the  merciless  seas 

The  name  of  his  sweet  Heloise, 

Whilst  overhead 

The  convent  windows  gleamed  as  red 

As  the  fiery  eyes  of  the  monks  within, 

VV  ho  with  jovial  din 

Gave  themselves  up  to  all  kinds  of  sin  ! 

Ha  !  that  is  a  convent !  that  is  an  abbey  ! 

Over  the  doors, 

None  of  your  death-heads  carved  in  wood, 

None    of    your    Saints  looking   pious  and 

good, 
None  of  your  Patriarchs  old  and  shabby  ! 


But  the  heads  and  tusks  of  boars, 

And  the  cells 

Hung  all  round  with  the  fells 

Of  the  fallow-deer. 

And  then  what  cheer  ! 

What  jolly,  fat  friars, 

Sitting  round  the  great,  roaring  fires, 

Roaring  louder  than  they, 

With  their  strong  wines, 

And  their  concubines, 

And  never  a  bell, 

With  its  swagger  and  swell, 

Calling  you  up  with  a  start  of  affright 

In  the  dead  of  night, 

To  send  you  grumbling  down  dark  stairs, 

To  mumble  your  prayers  ; 

But  the  cheery  crow 

Of  cocks  in  the  yard  below, 

After  daybreak,  an  hour  or  so, 

And  the  barking  of  deep-mouthed  hounds, 

These  are  the  sounds 

That,  instead  of  bells,  salute  the  ear. 

And  then  all  day 

Up  and  away 

Through  the  forest,  hunting  the  deer  ! 

Ah,  my  friends  !     I  'm  afraid  that  here 

You  are  a  little  too  pious,  a  little  too  tame, 

And  the  more  is  the  shame. 

T  is  the  greatest  folly 

Not  to  be  jolly  ; 

That's  what  I  think  ! 

Come,  drink,  drink, 

Drink,  and  die  game  ! 

MONKS. 
And  your  Abbot  What  's-his-name  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Abelard  ! 

MONKS. 

Did  he  drink  hard  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Oh,  no  !     Not  he  ! 

He  was  a  dry  old  fellow, 

Without   juice    enough  to  get   thoroughly 

mellow. 

There  he  stood, 

Lowering  at  us  in  sullen  mood, 
As  if  he  had  come  into  Brittany 
Just  to  reform  our  brotherhood  ! 

A  roar  of  laughter. 
But  you  see 
It  never  would  do  ! 
For  some  of  us  knew  a  thing  or  two? 


THE   GOLDEN    LEGEND 


445 


In  the  Abbey  of  St.  Gildas  de  Rhuys  ! 
For  instance,  the  great  ado 
With  old  Fulbert's  niece, 
The  young  and  lovely  Heloise. 

FRIAR  JOHN. 

Stop  there,  if  you  please, 

Till  we  drink  to  the  fair  Heloise. 

ALL,  drinking  and  shouting. 
Heloise  !     Heloise  ! 

The  Chapel-bell  tolls. 

LUCIFER,  starting. 

What  is  that  bell  for  ?    Are  you  such  asses 
As   to   keep   up  the    fashion  of   midnight 
masses  ? 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

It  is  only  a  poor,  unfortunate  brother, 
Who  is  gifted  with  most  miraculous  powers 
Of  getting  up  at  all  sorts  of  hours, 
And,   by   way   of   penance   and   Christian 

meekness, 

Of  creeping  silently  out  of  his  cell 
To  take  a  pull  at  that  hideous  bell  ; 
So  that  all  the  monks  who  are  lying  awake 
May  murmur  some  kind  of  prayer  for  his 

sake, 
And  adapted  to  his  peculiar  weakness  ! 

FRIAR  JOHN. 

From  frailty  and  fall  — 

ALL. 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us  all ! 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

And  before  the  bell  for  matins  sounds, 

He  takes  his  lantern,  and  goes  the  rounds, 

Flashing  it  into  our  sleepy  eyes, 

Merely  to  say  it  is  time  to  arise. 

But  enough  of  that.     Go  on,  if  you  please, 

With  your  story  about  St.  Gildas  de  Rhuys. 


Well,  it  finally  came  to  pass 

That,  half  in  fun  and  half  in  malice, 

One  Sunday  at  Mass 

We  put  some  poison  into  the  chalice. 

But,  either  by  accident  or  design, 

Peter  Abelard  kept  away 

From  the  chapel  that  day, 

And  a  poor  young  friar,  who  in  his  stead 

Drank  the  sacramental  wine, 


Fell  on  the  steps  of  the  altar,  dead  ! 
But  look  !  do  you  see  at  the  window  there 
That  face,  with  a  look  of  grief  and  despair, 
That  ghastly  face,  as  of  one  in  pain  ? 


MONKS. 


Who?  where? 


LUCIFER. 

As  I  spoke,  it  vanished  away  again. 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

It  is  that  nefarious 

Siebald  the  Refectorarius. 

That  fellow  is  always  playing  the  scout, 

Creeping  and  peeping  and  prowling  about ; 

And  then  he  regales 

The  Abbot  with  scandalous  tales. 

LUCIFER. 

A  spy  in  the  convent  ?    One  of  the  brothers 
Telling  scandalous  tales  of  the  others  ? 
Out  upon  him,  the  lazy  loon  ! 
I  would  put  a  stop  to  that  pretty  soon, 
In  a  way  he  should  rue  it. 

MONKS. 
How  shall  we  do  it  ? 


Do  you,  brother  Paul, 

Creep  under  the  window,  close  to  the  wall, 

And  open  it  suddenly  when  I  call. 

Then  seize  the  villain  by  the  hair, 

And  hold  him  there, 

And  punish  him  soundly,  once  for  all. 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

As  St.  Dunstan  of  old, 

We  are  told, 

Once  caught  the  Devil  by  the  nose  ! 

LUCIFER. 

Ha  !  ha  !  that  story  is  very  clever, 
But  has  no  foundation  whatsoever* 
Quick  !  for  I  see  his  face  again 
Glaring  in  at  the  window-pane  ; 
Now  !  now  !  and  do  not  spare  your  blows. 

FRIAR   PAUL  opens  the  window  suddenly,  and 

seizes  SIEBALD. 

They  beat  him. 

FRIAR   SIEBALD. 

Help  \  help  !  are  you  going  to  slay  me  V 


446 


CHRISTUS  .    A    MYSTERY 


FRIAR   PAUL. 

That  will  teach  you  again  to  betray  me  ! 

FRIAR   SIEBALD. 

Mercy  !  mercy  ! 

FRIAR  PAUL,  shouting  and  beating, 
Rumpas  bellorum  lorum 
Vim  confer  amorum 
Morum  verorum  rorum 
Tu  plena  polorum  ! 

LUCIFER. 

Who  stands  in  the  doorway  yonder, 
Stretching  out  his  trembling  hand, 
Just  as  Abelard  used  to  stand, 
The  flash  of  his  keen,  black  eyes 
Forerunning  the  thunder  ? 

THE  MONKS,  in  confusion. 
The  Abbot !  the  Abbot ! 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

And  what  is  the  wonder  ! 
He  seems  to  have  taken  you  by  surprise. 

FRIAR   FRANCIS. 

Hide  the  great  flagon 

From  the  eyes  of  the  dragon  ! 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

Pull  the  brown  hood  over  your  face  ! 
This  will  bring  us  into  disgrace  ! 

ABBOT. 

What  means  this  revel  and  carouse  ? 
Is  this  a  tavern  and  drinking-house  ? 
Are  you  Christian  monks,  or  heathen  devils, 
To  pollute  this  convent  with  your  revels? 
Were  Peter  Damian  still  upon  earth, 
To  be  shocked  by  such  ungodly  mirth, 
He  would  write  your  names,  with  pen  of 

gall, 

In  his  Book  of  Gomorrah,  one  and  all  !  • 
Away,  you  drunkards  !  to  your  cells, 
And  pray  till  you  hear  the  matin-bells  ; 
You,    Brother  Francis,   and   you,  Brother 

Paul! 

And  as  a  penance  mark  each  prayer 
With   the    scourge    upon  your   shoulders 

bare  ; 

Nothing  atones  for  such  a  sin 
But  the  blood  that  follows  the  discipline. 
And  you,  Brother  Cuthbert,  come  with  me 
Alone  into  the  sacristy  ; 


You,  who  should  be  a  guide  to  your  bro 
thers, 

And  are  ten  times  worse  than  all  the  others, 

For  you  I  've  a  draught  that  has  long  been 
brewing, 

You  shall  do  a  penance  worth  the  doing  ! 

Away  to  your  prayers,  then,  one  and  all  ! 

I  wonder  the  very  convent  wall 

Does  not  crumble  and  crush  you  in  its  fall ! 

THE   NEIGHBORING    NUNNERY. 

The  ABBESS  IRMINGARD  sitting  with  ELSIE  in 
the  moonlight. 

IRMINGARD. 

The  night  is  silent,  the  wind  is  still, 
The  moon  is  looking  from  yonder  hill 
Down  upon  convent,  and  grove,  and  garden  ; 
The  clouds  have  passed  away  from  her  face, 
Leaving  behind  them  no  sorrowful  trace, 
Only  the  tender  and  quiet  grace 
Of  one  whose  heart  has  been  healed  with 
pardon  ! 

And  such  am  I.     My  soul  within 
Was  dark  with  passion  and  soiled  with  sin. 
But  now  its  wounds  are  healed  again  ; 
Gone  are  the  anguish,  the  terror,  and  pain  ; 
For  across  that  desolate  land  of  woe, 
O'er  whose  burning  sands  I  was  forced  to 

g°» 

A  wind  from  heaven  began  to  blow  ; 
And  all  my  being  trembled  and  shook, 
As  the  leaves  of  the  tree,  or  the  grass  of 

the  field, 

And  I  was  healed,  as  the  sick  are  healed, 
When  fanned  by  the  leaves  of   the    Holy 

Book! 

As  thou  sittest  in  the  moonlight  there, 
Its  glory  flooding  thy  golden  hair, 
And  the  only  darkness  that  which  lies 
In  the  haunted  chambers  of  thine  eyes, 
I  feel  my  soul  drawn  unto  thee, 
Strangely,    and   strongly,    and    more    and 

more, 

As  to  one  I  have  known  and  loved  before  ; 
For  every  soul  is  akin  to  me 
That  dwells  in  the  land  of  mystery  ! 
I  am  the  Lady  Irmingard, 
Born  of  a  noble  race  and  name  ! 
Many  a  wandering  Suabian  bard, 
Whose  life  was  dreary,  and  bleak,  and  hard, 
Has  found  through  me  the  way  to  fame. 


THE   GOLDEN    LEGEND 


447 


Brief  and  bright  were  those  days,  and  the 

night 

Which  followed  was  full  of  a  lurid  light. 
Love,  that  of  every  woman's  heart 
Will  have  the  whole,  and  not  a  part, 
That  is  to  her,  in  Nature's  plan, 
More  than  ambition  is  to  man, 
Her  light,  her  life,  her  very  breath, 
With  no  alternative  but  death, 
Found  me  a  maiden  soft  and  young, 
Just  from  the  convent's  cloistered  school, 
And  seated  on  my  lowly  stool, 
Attentive  while  the  minstrels  sung. 

Gallant,  graceful,  gentle,  tall, 

Fairest,  noblest,  best  of  all, 

Was  Walter  of  the  Vogelweid  ; 

And,  whatsoever  may  betide, 

Still  I  think  of  him  with  pride  ! 

His  song  was  of  the  summer-time, 

The  very  birds  sang  in  his  rhyme  ; 

The  sunshine,  the  delicious  air, 

The  fragrance  of  the  flowers,  were  there  ; 

And  I  grew  restless  as  I  heard, 

llestless  and  buoyant  as  a  bird, 

Down  soft,  aerial  currents  sailing, 

O'er   blossomed    orchards,    and    fields   in 

bloom, 

And  through  the  momentary  gloom 
Of  shadows  o'er  the  landscape  trailing, 
Yielding  and  borne  I  knew  not  where, 
But  feeling  resistance  unavailing. 

And  thus,  unnoticed  and  apart, 
And  more  by  accident  than  choice, 
I  listened  to  that  single  voice 
Until  the  chambers  of  my  heart 
Were  filled  with  it  by  night  and  day. 
One  night,  — it  was  a  night  in  May,  — 
Within  the  garden,  unawares, 
Under  the  blossoms  in  the  gloom, 
I  heard  it  utter  my  own  name 
With  protestations  and  wild  prayers  ; 
And  it  rang  through  me,  and  became 
Like  the  archangel's  trump  of  doom, 
Which  the  soul  hears,  and  must  obey  ; 
And  mine  arose  as  from  a  tomb. 
My  former  life  now  seemed  to  me 
Such  as  hereafter  death  may  be, 
When  in  the  great  Eternity 
We  shall  awake  and  find  it  day. 

It  was  a  dream,  and  woiild  not  stay  ; 
A  dream,  that  in  a  single  night 
Faded  and  vanished  out  of  sight. 


My  father's  anger  followed  fast 
This  passion,  as  a  freshening  blast 
Seeks  out  and  fans  the  fire,  whose  rage 
It  may  increase,  but  not  assuage. 
And  he  exclaimed  :  "  No  wandering  bard 
Shall  win  thy  hand,  O  Irmingard  ! 
For  which  Prince  Henry  of  Hoheneck 
By  messenger  and  letter  sues." 

Gently,  but  firmly,  I  replied  : 

"  Henry  of  Hoheneck  1  discard  ! 

Never  the  hand  of  Irmingard 

Shall  lie  in  his  as  the  hand  of  a  bride  !  " 

This  said  I,  Walter,  for  thy  sake  ; 

This  said  I,  for  I  could  not  choose. 

After  a  pause,  my  father  spake 

In  that  cold  and  deliberate  tone 

Which  turns  the  hearer  into  stone, 

And  seems  itself  the  act  to  be 

That  follows  with  such  dread  certainty  : 

"  This  or  the  cloister  and  the  veil  !  " 

No  other  words  than  these  he  said, 

But  they  were  like  a  funeral  wail  ; 

My  life  was  ended,  my  heart  was  dead. 

That    night    from    the   castle  -  gate    went 

down, 

With  silent,  slow,  and  stealthy  pace, 
Two  shadows,  mounted  on  shadowy  steeds, 
Taking  the  narrow  path  that  leads 
Into  the  forest  dense  and  brown. 
In  the  leafy  darkness  of  the  place, 
One  could  not  distinguish  form  nor  face, 
Only  a  bulk  without  a  shape, 
A  darker  shadow  in  the  shade  ; 
One  scarce  could  say  it  moved  or  stayed. 
Thus  it  was  we  made  our  escape  ! 
A  foaming  brook,  with  many  a  bound, 
Followed  us  like  a  playful  hound  ; 
Then  leaped  before  us,  and  in  the  hollow 
Paused,  and  waited  for  us  to  follow, 
And  seemed  impatient,  and  afraid 
That  our  tardy  flight  should  be  betrayed 
By  the  sound  our  horses'  hoof-beats  made. 
And  when  we  reached  the  plain  below, 
We  paused  a  moment  and  drew  rein 
To  look  back  at  the  castle  again  ; 
And  we  saw  the  windows  all  aglow 
With  lights,  that  were  passing  to  and  fro  ; 
Our  hearts  with  terror  ceased  to  beat  ; 
The  brook  crept  silent  to  our  feet  ; 
We  knew  what  most  we  feared  to  know. 
Then  suddenly  horns  began  to  blow  ; 
And    we    heard  a    shout,    and    a  heavy 

tramp, 


448 


CHRISTUS  :    A    MYSTERY 


And  our  horses  snorted  in  the  damp 
Night-air  of  the  meadows  green  and  wide, 
And  in  a  moment,  side  by  side, 
So  close,  they  must  have  seemed  but  one, 
The  shadows  across  the  moonlight  run, 
And  another  came,  and  swept  behind, 
Like    the    shadow    of  clouds   before    the 
wind  ! 

How  I  remember  that  breathless  flight 
Across  the  moors,  in  the  summer  night  ! 
How  under  our  feet  the  long,  white  road 
Backward  like  a  river  flowed, 
Sweeping  with  it  fences  and  hedges, 
Whilst  farther  away  and  overhead, 
Paler  than  I,  with  fear  and  dread, 
The  moon  fled  with  us  as  we  fled 
Along  the  forest's  jagged  edges  ! 

All  this  I  can  remember  well  ; 

But  of  what  afterwards  befell 

I  nothing  further  can  recall 

Than  a  blind,  desperate,  headlong  fall  ; 

The  rest  is  a  blank  and  darkness  all. 

When  I  awoke  out  of  this  swoon, 

The  sun  was  shining,  not  the  moon, 

Making  a  cross  upon  the  wall 

With  the  bars  of  my  windows  narrow  and 

tall; 
And  I  prayed  to  it,  as  I  had  been  wont  to 


From  early  childhood,  day  by  day, 
Each  morning,  as  in  bed  I  lay  ! 
I  was  lying  again  in  my  own  room  ! 
And  I  thanked  God,  in  my  fever  and  pain, 
That  those  shadows  on  the  midnight  plain 
Were  gone,  and  could  not  come  again  ! 
I  struggled  no  longer  with  my  doom  ! 

This  happened  many  years  ago. 
I  left  my  father's  home  to  come 
Like  Catherine  to  her  martyrdom, 
For  blindly  I  esteemed  it  so. 
And  when  I  heard  the  convent  door 
Behind  me  close,  to  ope  no  more, 
I  felt  it  smite  me  like  a  blow. 
Through  all  my  limbs  a  shudder  ran, 
And  on  my  bruised  spirit  fell 
The  dampness  of  my  narrow  cell 
As  night-air  on  a  wounded  man, 
Giving  intolerable  pain. 

But  now  a  better  life  began. 

I  felt  the  agony  decrease 

By  slow  degrees,  then  wholly  cease, 


Ending  in  perfect  rest  and  peace  ! 

It  was  not  apathy,  nor  dulness, 

That    weighed     and     pressed     upon     my 

brain, 

But  the  same  passion  I  had  given 
To  earth  before,  now  turned  to  heaven 
With  all  its  overflowing  fulness, 

Alas  !  the  world  is  full  of  peril  ! 

The  path    that  runs    through   the   fairest 

meads, 

On  the  sunniest  side  of  the  valley,  leads 
Into  a  region  bleak  and  sterile  !  j 
Alike  in  the  high-born  and  theTowly, 
The  will  is  feeble,  and  passion  strong. 
We  cannot  sever  right  from  wrong  ; 
Some  falsehood  mingles  with  all  truth  ; 
Nor  is  it  strange  the  heart  of  youth 
Should  waver  and  comprehend  but  slowly 
The  things  that  are  holy  and  unholy^ 
But  in  this  sacred,  calm  retreat,    "" 
We  are  all  well  and  safely  shielded 
From   winds   that    blow,    and  waves    that 

beat, 
From    the    cold,  and   rain,  and    blighting 

heat, 
To     which     the     strongest     hearts     have 

yielded. 

Here  we  stand  as  the  Virgins  Seven, 
For  our  celestial  bridegroom  yearning  ; 
Our  hearts  are  lamps  forever  burning, 
With  a  steady  and  unwavering  flame. 
Pointing  upward,  forever  the  same, 
Steadily  upward  toward  the  heaven  ! 

The  moon  is  hidden  behind  a  cloud  ; 

A  sudden  darkness  fills  the  room, 

And  thy  deep  eyes,  amid  the  gloom, 

Shine  like  jewels  in  a  shroud. 

On  the  leaves  is  a  sound  of  falling  rain  ; 

A  bird,  awakened  in  its  nest, 

Gives  a  faint  twitter  of  unrest, 

Then     smooths     its     plumes     and    sleeps 

again. 

No  other  sounds  than  these  I  hear  ; 
The  hour  of  midnight  must  be  near. 
Thou  art  o'erspent  with  the  day's  fatigue 
Of  riding  many  a  dusty  league  ; 
Sink,  then,  gently  to  thy  slumber  ; 
Me  so  many  cares  encumber, 
So  many  ghosts,  and  forms  of  fright, 
Have  started  from  their  graves  to-night, 
They  have   driven   sleep  from   mine  eyes 

away  : 
I  will  go  down  to  the  chapel  and  pray. 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND 


449 


A  COVERED  BRIDGE  AT  LUCERNE 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

God's  blessing  on  the  architects  who  build 
The  bridges  o'er  swift  rivers  and  abysses 
Before  impassable  to  human  feet, 
Xo  less  than  on  the  builders  of  cathedrals, 
Whose  massive  walls  are  bridges  thrown 

across 

The  dark  and  terrible  abyss  of  Death. 
Well  has  the  name  of  Pontifex  been  given 
Unto  the  Church's  head,  as  the  chief  builder 
And  architect  of  the  invisible  bridge 
That  leads  from  earth  to  heaven. 

ELSIE. 

How  dark  it  grows  ! 

What   are    these    paintings   on   the   walls 
around  us  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

The  Dance  Macaber  ! 

ELSIE. 

What  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

The  Dance  of  Death  ! 
All  that  go  to  and  fro  must  look  upon  it, 
Mindful  of  what  they  shall  be,  while  be 
neath, 
Among   the   wooden   piles,    the    turbulent 

river 

Rushes,  impetuous  as  the  river  of  life, 
With   dimpling    eddies,   ever    green    and 

bright, 

Save  where  the  shadow  of  this  bridge  falls 
on  it. 

ELSIE. 

Oh  yes  !  I  see  it  now  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

The  grim  musician 
Leads  all  men  through  the  mazes  of  that 

dance, 
To  different  sounds  in  different  measures 

moving  ; 
Sometimes   he  plays  a  lute,    sometimes  a 

drum, 
To  tempt  or  terrify. 

ELSIE. 

What  is  this  picture 


PRINCE  HENRY. 

"t  is  a  young  man  singing  to  a  nun, 

o  kneels  at  her  devotions,  but  in  kneel 
ing 

Turns  round  to  look  at  him  ;   and  Death, 
meanwhile, 

's  putting  out  the  candles  on  the  altar  ! 

ELSIE. 

Ah,  what  a  pity  't  is  that  she  should  listen 
Unto  such  songs,  when  in  her  orisons 
She  might  have  heard  in  heaven  the  angels 
singing  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Here  he  has  stolen  a  jester's  cap  and  bells, 
And  dances  with  the  Queen. 


ELSIE. 


A  foolish  jest ! 


PRINCE  HENRY. 

And  here   the   heart   of   the   new-wedded 

wife, 
Coining  from  church  with  her  beloved 

lord, 
He  startles  with  the  rattle  of  his  drum. 


Ah,  that  is  sad!      And  yet   perhaps  'tis 

best 
That  she  should  die,  with  all  the  sunshine 

on  her, 

And  all  the  benedictions  of  the  morning, 
Before  this  affluence  of  golden  light 
Shall  fade  into  a  cold  and  clouded  gray, 
Then  into  darkness  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Under  it  is  written, 

"Nothing  but  death  shall  separate  thee 
and  me  !  " 

ELSIE. 

And  what  is  this,  that  follows  close  upon  it  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Death,  playing  on  a  dulcimer.  Behind 
him, 

A  poor  old  woman,  with  a  rosary, 

Follows  the  sound,  and  seems  to  wish  her 
feet 

Were  swifter  to  o'ertake  him.  Under 
neath, 

The  inscription  reads,  "Better  is  Death 
than  Life." 


450 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


ELSIE. 

Better  is  Death  than  Life  !      Ah  yes  !   t 

thousands 

Death  plays  upon  a  dulcimer,  and  sings 
That  song-  of  consolation,  till  the  air 
Rings  with  it,  and  they  cannot  choose  bu 

follow 

Whither  he  leads.     And  not  the  old  alone, 
But  the  young  also  hear  it,  and  are  still. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Yes,  in  their  sadder  moments.  JT  is  the 
sound 

Of  their  own  hearts  they  hear,  half  full  of 
tears, 

Which  are  like  crystal  cups,  half  filled  witl 
water, 

Responding  to  the  pressure  of  a  finger 

With  music  sweet  and  low  and  melan 
choly. 

Let  us  go  forward,  and  no  longer  stay 

In  this  great  picture-gallery  of  Death  ! 

I  hate  it !  ay,  the  very  thought  of  it ! 

ELSIE. 
Why  is  it  hateful  to  you  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

For  the  reason 
lhat   life,  and   all  that   speaks  of  life,  is 

lovely, 
And  death,  and  all  that  speaks  of  death,  is 

hateful. 

ELSIE. 

The  grave  itself  is  but  a  covered  bridge, 
Leading  from  light  to  light,  through  a  brief 
darkness  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY,  emerging  from  the  bridge. 
I   breathe   again   more   freely  !     Ah,  how 

pleasant 

To  come  once  more  into  the  light  of  day, 
Out  of   that   shadow  of  death !     To  hear 

again 
The    hoof-beats   of    our    horses    on    firm 

ground, 

And  not  upon  those  hollow  planks,  resound 
ing 

With  a  sepulchral  echo,  like  the  clods 
On  coffins  in  a  churchyard  !     Yonder  lies 
The  Lake  of  the  Four  Forest-Towns,  ap 
parelled 

In    light,    and    lingering,    like    a    village 
maiden, 


Hid  in  the  bosom  of  her  native  mountains, 
Then  pouring  all  her  life  into  another's, 
Changing   her   name   and   being!      Over 
head, 

Shaking  his  cloudy  tresses  loose  in  air, 
Rises  Pilatus,  with  his  windy  pines. 
They  pass  on. 

THE  DEVIL'S  BRIDGE. 

PRINCE  HENRY  and  ELSIE  crossing  with  attend 
ants. 

GUIDE. 

This  bridge  is  called  the  Devil's  Bridge. 
With  a  single  arch,  from  ridge  to  ridge, 
It  leaps  across  the  terrible  chasm 
Yawning  beneath  us,  black  and  deep, 
As  if,  in  some  convulsive  spasm, 
The  summits  of  the  hills  had  cracked, 
And  made  a  road  for  the  cataract 
That  raves  and  rages  down  the  steep  ! 

LUCIFER,  under  the  bridge. 
Ha  !  ha  ! 

GUIDE. 

Never  any  bridge  but  this 

Could  stand  across  the  wild  abyss  ; 

All  the  rest,  of  wood  or  stone, 

By  the  Devil's  hand  were  overthrown. 

He  toppled  crags  from  the  precipice, 

And  whatsoe'er  was  built  by  day 

In  the  night  was  swept  away  ; 

None  could  stand  but  this  alone. 

LUCIFER,  under  the  bridge 
Ha  !  ha ! 

GUIDE. 

[  showed  you  in  the  valley  a  bowlder 
Marked  with  the  imprint  of  his  shoulder  ; 
As  he  was  bearing  it  up  this  way, 
A  peasant,  passing,  cried,  "  Herr  Jd  !  " 
And  the  Devil  dropped  it  in  his  fright, 
And  vanished  suddenly  out  of  sight ! 

LUCIFER,  under  the  bridge. 
Ha  !  ha  ! 

GUIDE. 

Abbot  Giraldus  of  Einsiedel, 
?or  pilgrims  on  their  way  to  Rome, 
Suilt  this  at  last,  with  a  single  arch, 
Jnder  which,  on  its  endless  march, 
Inns  the  river,  white  with  foam, 
^ike  a  thread  through  the  eye  of  a  needle. 

And  the  Devil  promised  to  let  it  stand, 


THE   GOLDEN    LEGEND 


Under  compact  and  condition 
That  the  first  living  thing  which  crossed 
Should  be  surrendered  into  his  hand, 
And  be  beyond  redemption  lost. 

LUCIFER,  under  the  bridge. 
Ha  !  ha  !  perdition  ! 

GUIDE. 

At  length,  the  bridge  being  all  completed, 
The  Abbot,  standing  at  its  head, 
Threw  across  it  a  loaf  of  bread, 
Which  a  hungry  dog  sprang  after, 
And  the  rocks  reechoed  with  the  peals  of 

laughter 

To  see  the  Devil  thus  defeated  ! 
They  pass  on. 

LUCIFER,  under  the  bridge. 
Ha  !  ha  !  defeated  ! 
For  journeys  and  for  crimes  like  this 
I  let  the  bridge  stand  o'er  the  abyss  ! 


THE  ST.  GOTHARD  PASS. 
PRINCE  HENRY. 

This  is  the  highest  point.     Two  ways  the 

rivers 
Leap  down  to  different  seas,  and  as  they 

roll 
Grow  deep    and    still,   and  their  majestic 

presence 

Becomes  a  benefaction  to  the  towns 
They     visit,     wandering     silently     among 

them, 
Like  patriarchs  old    among    their   shining 

tents. 

ELSIE. 
How  bleak  and  bare  it  is  !     Nothing  but 

mosses 
Grow  on  these  rocks. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Yet  are  they  not  forgotten  ; 
Beneficent  Nature  sends  the  mists  to  feed 
them. 


See  yonder  little  cloud,  that,  borne  aloft 
So  tenderly  by  the  wind,  floats  fast  away 
Over  the  snowy  peaks  !     It  seems  to  me 
The   body  of  St.  Catherine,  borne  by  an 
gels  ! 


PRINCE  HENRY. 

Thou    art    St.     Catherine,    and    invisible 
angels 

Bear  thee  across  these  chasms  and  preci 
pices, 

Lest  thou  shouldst  dash  thy  feet  against  a 
stone  ! 

ELSIE. 

Would  I  were  borne  unto  my  grave,  as  she 
was, 

Upon  angelic  shoulders  !     Even  now 

I  seem  uplifted  by  them,  light  as  air  I 

What  sound  is  that  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

The  tumbling  avalanches  ! 

ELSIE. 

How  awful,  yet  how  beautiful ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

These  are 
The  voices  of  the  mountains  !     Thus  they 

ope 
Their    snowy   lips,    and    speak  unto   each 

other, 
In  the  primeval  language,  lost  to  man. 

ELSIE. 

What  land  is  this  that  spreads  itself  beneath 
us? 


PRINCE  HENRY. 


Italy  !     Italy ! 


ELSIE. 


Land  of  the  Madonna 
How  beautiful  it  is  !  It  seems  a  garden 
Of  Paradise  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Nay,  of  Gethsemane 

To  thee  and  me,  of  passion  and  of  prayer  ! 
Yet  once  of  Paradise.     Long  years  ago 
I  wandered  as  a  youth  among  its  bowers, 
And  never  from  my  heart  has  faded  quite 
Its  memory,  that,  like  a  summer  sunset. 
Encircles  with  a  ring  of  purple  light 
All  the  horizon  of  my  youth. 

GUIDE. 

O  friends  ! 
The    days    are   short,   the  way   before   us 

long  ; 

We  must  not  linger,  if  we  think  to  reach 
The  inn  at  Belinzona  before  vespers  ! 
Ttiey  pass  on. 


452 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  ALPS. 

A.  halt  under  the  trees  at  noon. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Here  let  us  pause  a  moment  in  the  trem 
bling 

Shadow  and  sunshine  of  the  roadside  trees, 

And,  our  tired  horses  in  a  group  assembling, 

Inhale    long    draughts    of    this    delicious 
breeze. 

Our  fleeter  steeds   have  distanced  our  at 
tendants  ; 

They  lag  behind  us  with  a  slower  pace  ; 

We  will  await  them  under  the  green  pen 
dants 

Of  the  great  willows  in  this  shady  place. 

Ho,  Barbarossa  !  how  thy  mottled  haunches 

Sweat  with  this  canter  over  hill  and  glade  ! 

Stand   still,    and    let    these    overhanging 
branches 

Fan  thy  hot  sides  and  comfort  thee  with 
shade  ! 

ELSIE. 

What  a  delightful  landscape  spreads  before 
us, 

Marked  with  a  whitewashed  cottage  here 
and  there  ! 

And,  in  luxuriant  garlands  drooping  o'er 
us, 

Blossoms  of  grape-vines  scent  the  sunny  air. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Hark  !  what  sweet  sounds  are  those,  whose 

accents  holy 
Fill   the  warm  noon  with  music   sad  and 

sweet ! 

ELSIE. 

It  is  a  band  of  pilgrims,  moving  slowly 
On  their  long  journey,  with  uncovered  feet. 

PILGRIMS,  chanting  the  Hymn  of  St.  Hildebert. 
Me  receptet  Sion  ilia, 
Sion  David,  urbs  tranquilla, 
Cujus  faber  auctor  lucis, 
Cujus  portse  lignum  crucis, 
Cujus  claves  lingua  Petri, 
Cujus  cives  semper  Iseti, 
Cujus  muri  lapis  vivus, 
Cujus  custos  Rex  festivus  ! 

LUCIFER,  as  a  Friar  in  the  procession. 
Here  am  I,  too,  in  the  pious  band, 
In  the    garb   of    a   barefooted  Carmelite 
dressed  ! 


The  soles  of  my  feet  are  as  hard  and  tanned 

As  the  conscience  of  old  Pope  Hildebrand, 

The  Holy  Satan,  who  made  the  wives 

Of  the  bishops  lead  such  shameful  lives. 

All  day  long  I  beat  my  breast, 

And  chant  with  a  most  particular  zest 

The  Latin  hymns,  which  I  understand 

Quite  as  well,  I  think,  as  the  rest. 

And  at  night   such  lodging  in   barns  and 

sheds, 

Such  a  hurly-burly  in  country  inns, 
Such  a  clatter  of  tongues  in  empty  heads, 
Such  a  helter-skelter  of  prayers  and  sins  ! 
Of  all  the  contrivances  of  the  time 
For  sowing  broadcast  the  seeds  of  crime, 
There  is  none  so  pleasing  to  me  and  mine 
As  a  pilgrimage  to  some  far-off  shrine  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

If  from  the  outward   man   we   judge   the 

inner, 

And  cleanliness  is  godliness,  I  fear 
A  hopeless  reprobate,  a  hardened  sinner, 
Must  be  that  Carmelite  now  passing  near. 

LUCIFER. 

There  is  my  German  Prince  again, 

Thus  far  on  his  journey  to  Salern, 

And  the  lovesick  girl,  whose  heated  brain 

Is  sowing  the  cloud  to  reap  the  rain  ; 

But  it 's  a  long  road  that  has  no  turn  ! 

Let  them  quietly  hold  their  way, 

I  have  also  a  part  in  the  play. 

But  first  I  must  act  to  my  heart's  content 

This  mummery  and  this  merriment, 

And  drive  this  motley  flock  of  sheep 

Into  the  fold,  where  drink  and  sleep 

The  jolly  old  friars  of  Benevent. 

Of  a  truth,  it  often  provokes  me  to  laugh 

To  see  these  beggars  hobble  along, 

Lamed  and  maimed,  and  fed  upon  chaff, 

Chanting  their  wonderful  piff  and  paff, 

And,  to  make  up  for  not  understanding  the 

song, 

Singing  it  fiercely,  and  wild,  and  strong  ! 
Were  it  not  for  my  magic  garters  and  staff, 
And  the  goblets  of  goodly  wine  I  quaff, 
And  the  mischief  I  make  in  the  idle  throng, 
I  should  not  continue  the  business  long. 

PILGRIMS,  chanting. 
In  hac  urbe,  lux  solennis, 
Ver  reternum,  pax  perennis  ; 
In  hac  odor  implens  cselos, 
In  hac  semper  festum  melos  1 


THE   GOLDEN    LEGEND 


453 


PRINCE   HENRY. 

Do  you  observe  that  monk  among  the  train, 
Who  pours  from  his  great  throat  the  roar 
ing  bass, 

As  a  cathedral  spout  pours  out  the  rain, 
And   this  way  turns   his   rubicund,  round 
face? 

ELSIE. 

It  is  the  same  who,  on  the  Strasburg  square, 
Preached  to  the  people  in  the  open  air. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

And  he  has  crossed  o'er  mountain,  field,  and 

fell, ' 
On  that  good  steed,  that  seems  to  bear  him 

well, 

The  hackney  of  the  Friars  of  Orders  Gray, 
His  own  stout  legs  !     He,  too,  was  in  the 

play, 

Both  as  King  Herod  and  Ben  Israel. 
Good  morrow,  Friar  ! 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

Good  morrow,  noble  Sir  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

I  speak  in  German,  for,  unless  I  err, 
You  are  a  German. 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

I  cannot  gainsay  you. 
But  by  what  instinct,  or  what  secret  sign, 
Meeting    me    here,    do    you   straightway 

divine 
That  northward  of   the  Alps   my  country 

lies? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Your  accent,  like  St.  Peter's,  would  betray 

you, 
Did  not  your  yellow  beard  and  your  blue 

eyes. 

Moreover,  we  have  seen  your  face  before, 
And  heard   you  preach   at  the  Cathedral 

door 

On  Easter  Sunday,  in  the  Strasburg  square. 
We  were  among  the  crowd  that  gathered 

there, 
And  saw  you  play  the  Rabbi  with  great 

skill, 

As  if,  by  leaning  o'er  so  many  years 
To  walk  with  little  children,  your  own  will 
Had  caught  a  childish  attitude  from  theirs, 
A  kind  of  stooping  in  its  form  and  gait, 


And    could   no    longer    stand    erect    and 

straight. 
Whence  come  you  now  ? 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

From  the  old  monastery 
Of  Hirschau,  in  the  forest  ;  being  sent 
Upon  a  pilgrimage  to  Benevent, 
To  see  the  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
That   moves  its  holy  eyes,  and  sometimes 

speaks, 
And    lets  the    piteous  tears  run  down   its 

cheeks, 
To  touch  the  hearts  of  the  impenitent. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Oh,  had  I  faith,  as  in  the  days  gone  by, 
That    knew    no     doubt,    and    feared    no 
mystery  ! 

LUCIFER,  at  a  distance. 
Ho,  Cuthbert  !     Friar  Cuthbert  ! 

FRIAR  CUTHBERT. 

Farewell,  Prince  ! 
I  cannot  stay  to  argue  and  convince. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

This  is  indeed  the  blessed  Mary's  laud, 
Virgin  and  Mother  of  our  dear  Redeemer  ! 
All  hearts  are  touched  and  softened  at  her 

name, 

Alike  the  bandit,  with  the  bloody  hand, 
The  priest,  the  prince,  the  scholar,  and  the 

peasant, 

The  man  of  deeds,  the  visionary  dreamer, 
Pay  homage  to  her  as  one  ever  present ! 
And    even   as    children,   who   have    much 

offended 

A  too  indulgent  father,  in  great  shame, 
Penitent,  and  yet  not  daring  unattended 
To  go  into  his  presence,  at  the  gate 
Speak  with  their  sister,  and  confiding  wait 
Till  she  goes  in  before  and  intercedes  ; 
So  men,  repenting  of  their  evil  deeds, 
And  yet  not  venturing  rashly  to  draw  near 
With  their  requests  an  angry  father's  ear, 
Offer  to  her  their  prayers  and  their  confes 
sion, 

And  she  for  them  in  heaven  makes  inter 
cession. 

And  if  our  Faith  had  given  us  nothing  more 
Than  this  example  of  all  womanhood, 
So  mild,  so  merciful,  so  strong,  so  good, 
So  patient,  peaceful,  loyal,  loving,  pure, 


454 


CHRISTUS  :    A    MYSTERY 


This  were  enough  to  prove  it  higher  and 

truer 
Than  all  the  creeds  the  world  had  known 

before. 

PILGRIMS,  chanting  afar  off. 
Urbs  coelestis,  urbs  beata, 
Supra  petram  collocata, 
Urbs  in  portu  satis  tuto 
De  longinquo  te  saluto, 
Te  saluto,  te  suspiro, 
Te  affecto,  te  requiro  ! 


THE   INN   AT   GENOA. 

A  terrace  overlooking  the  sea.     Night, 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

It  is  the  sea,  it  is  the  sea, 

In  all  its  vague  immensity, 

Fading  and  darkening  in  the  distance  ! 

Silent,  majestieal,  and  slow, 

The  white  ships  haunt  it  to  and  fro, 

With  all  their  ghostly  sails  unfurled, 

As  phantoms  from  another  world 

Haunt  the  dim  confines  of  existence  ! 

But  ah  !  how  few  can  comprehend 

Their  signals,  or  to  what  good  end 

From  land  to  land  they  come  and  go  ! 

Upon  a  sea  more  vast  and  dark 

The  spirits  of  the  dead  embark, 

All  voyaging  to  unknown  coasts. 

We  wave  our  farewells  from  the  shore, 

And  they  depart,  and  come  no  more, 

Or  come  as  phantoms  and  as  ghosts. 

Above  the  darksome  sea  of  death 

Looms  the  great  life  that  is  to  be, 

A  land  of  cloud  and  mystery, 

A  dim  mirage,  with  shapes  of  men 

Long  dead,  and  passed  beyond  our  ken. 

Awe-struck  we  gaze,  and  hold  our  breath 

Till  the  fair  pageant  vanisheth, 

Leaving  us  in  perplexity, 

And  doubtful  whether  it  has  been 

A  vision  of  the  world  unseen, 

Or  a  bright  image  of  our  own 

Against  the  sky  in  vapors  thrown. 

LUCIFER,  singing  from  the  sea. 

Thou    didst   not   make  it,  thou  canst  not 

mend  it, 

But  thou  hast  the  power  to  end  it  ! 
The  sea  is  silent,  the  sea  is  discreet, 


Deep  it  lies  at  thy  very  feet  ; 

There  is  no  confessor  like  unto  Death  ! 

Thou  canst  not  see  him,  but  he  is  near  ; 

Thou  needst  not  whisper  above  thy  breath, 

And  he  will  hear  ; 

He  will  answer  the  questions, 

The  vague  surmises  and  suggestions, 

That  fill  thy  soul  with  doubt  and  fear  ! 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

The  fisherman,  who  lies  afloat, 
With  shadowy  sail,  in  yonder  boat, 
Is  singing  softly  to  the  Night  ! 
But  do  I  comprehend  aright 
The  meaning  of  the  words  he  sung 
So  sweetly  in  his  native  tongue  ? 
Ah  yes  !  the  sea  is  still  and  deep. 
All  things  within  its  bosom  sleep  ! 
A  single  step,  and  all  is  o'er  ; 
A  plunge,  a  bubble,  and  no  more  ; 
And  thou,  dear  Elsie,  wilt  be  free 
From  martyrdom  and  agony. 

ELSIE,  coming  from  her  chamber  upon  the  terrace. 
The  night  is  calm  and  cloudless, 
And  still  as  still  can  be, 
And  the  stars  come  forth  to  listen 
To  the  music  of  the  sea. 
They  gather,  and  gather,  and  gather, 
Until  they  crowd  the  sky, 
And  listen,  in  breathless  silence, 
To  the  solemn  litany. 
It  begins  in  rocky  caverns, 
As  a  voice  that  chants  alone 
To  the  pedals  of  the  organ 
In  monotonous  undertone  ; 
And  anon  from  shelving  beaches, 
And  shallow  sands  beyond, 
In  snow-white  robes  uprising 
The  ghostly  choirs  respond. 
And  sadly  and  unceasing 
The  mournful  voice  sings  on, 
And  the  snow-white  choirs  still  answer 
Christe  eleison  ! 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Angel  of  God  !  thy  finer  sense  perceives 
Celestial  and  perpetual  harmonies  ! 
Thy  purer  soul,  that  trembles  and  believes, 
Hears    the    archangel's     trumpet    in    the 

breeze, 

And  where  the  forest  rolls,  or  ocean  heaves, 
Cecilia's  organ  sounding  in  the  seas, 
And  tongues  of  prophets  speaking  in  the 

leaves. 


THE   GOLDEN    LEGEND 


455 


But  I  hear  discord  only  and  despair, 
And  whispers  as  of  demons  in  the  air  ! 


AT   SEA. 
IL  PADRONE. 

The  wind  upon  our  quarter  lies, 
And  on  before  the  freshening  gale, 
That  fills  the  snow-white  lateen  sail, 
Swiftly  our  light  felucca  flies. 
Around,  the  billows  burst  and  foam  ; 
They  lift  her  o'er  the  sunken  rock, 
They  beat  her  sides  with  many  a  shock, 
And  then  upon  their  flowing  dome 
They  poise  her,  like  a  weathercock  ! 
Between  us  and  the  western  skies 
The  hills  of  Corsica  arise  ; 
Eastward,  in  yonder  long  blue  line, 
The  summits  of  the  Apennine, 
And  southward,  and  still  far  away, 
Salerno,  on  its  sunny  bay. 
You  cannot  see  it,  where  it  lies. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Ah,  would  that  never  more  mine  eyes 
Might  see  its  towers  by  night  or  day  ! 

ELSIE. 

Behind  us,  dark  and  awfully, 
There  comes  a  cloud  out  of  the  sea, 
That,  bears  the  form  of  a  hunted  deer, 
With  hide  of  brown,  and  hoofs  of  black, 
And  antlers  laid  upon  its  back, 
And  fleeing  fast  and  wild  with  fear, 
As  if  the  hounds  were  on  its  track  ! 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Lo  !  while  we  gaze,  it  breaks  and  falls 

In  shapeless  masses,  like  the  walls 

Of  a  burnt  city.     Broad  and  red 

The  fires  of  the  descending  sun 

Glare  through  the  windows,  and  o'erhead, 

Athwart  the  vapors,  dense  and  dun, 

Long  shafts  of  silvery  light  arise, 

Like  rafters  that  support  the  skies  ! 


See  !  from  its  summit  the  lurid  levin 
Flashes  downward  without  warning, 
As  Lucifer,  son  of  the  morning, 
Fell  from  the  battlements  of  heaven  ! 

IL,  PADRONE. 

I  must  entreat  you,  friends,  below  ! 
The  angry  storm  begins  to  blow, 


For  the  weather  changes  with  the  moon. 

All  this  morning,  until  noon, 

We   had  baffling  winds,  and  sudden  flaws 

Struck  the  sea  with  their  cat's-paws. 

Only  a  little  hour  ago 

I  was  whistling  to  Saint  Antonio 

For  a  capful  of  wind  to  fill  our  sail, 

And  instead  of  a    breeze    he    has    sent    a 

gale. 

Last  night  I  saw  Saint  Elmo's  stars, 
With  their  glimmering  lanterns,  all  at  play 
On  the  tops  of  the  masts  and  the  tips  of  the 

spars, 
And  I  knew  we  should  have  foui  weather 

to-day. 

Cheerily,  my  hearties  !  yo  heave  ho  ! 
Brail  up  the  mainsail,  and  let  her  go 
As  the  winds  will  and  Saint  Antonio  ! 

Do  you  see  that  Livornese  felucca, 
That  vessel  to  the  windward  yonder, 
Running  with  her  gunwale  under  ? 
I  was  looking  when  the  wind  o'ertook  her. 
She  had  all  sail  set,  and  the  only  wonder 
Is  that  at  once  the  strength  of  the  blast 
Did  not  carry  away  her  mast. 
She  is  a  galley  of  the  Gran  Duca, 
That,  through  the  fear  of  the  Algerines, 
Convoys  those  lazy  brigantines, 
Laden  with  wine  and  oil  from  Lucca. 
Now  all  is  ready,  high  and  low  ; 
Blow,  blow,  good  Saint  Antonio  ! 

Ha  !  that  is  the  first  dash  of  the  rain, 
With  a  sprinkle  of  spray  above  the  rails, 
Just  enough  to  moisten  our  sails, 
And  make  them  ready  for  the  strain. 
See  how  she  leaps,  as  the  blasts  o'ertake  her, 
And  speeds  away  with  a  bone  in  her  mouth  ! 
Now  keep  her  head  toward  the  south, 
And  there  is  no  danger  of  bank  or  breaker. 
With  the  breeze  behind  us,  on  we  go  ; 
Not  too  much,  good  Saint  Antonio  ! 


VI 
THE  SCHOOL  OF  SALERNO 

A  travelling  Scholastic  affixing  his  Theses  to  the 
gate  of  the  College. 

SCHOLASTIC. 
There,  that  is  my  gauntlet,  my  banner,  my 

shield, 
Hung  up  as  a  challenge  to  all  the  field  ! 


456 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


One  hundred  and  twenty-five  propositions, 

Which  I  will  maintain  with  the  sword  of 
the  tongue 

Against  all  disputants,  old  and  young. 

Let  us  see  if  doctors  or  dialecticians 

Will  dare  to  dispute  my  definitions, 

Or  attack  any  one  of  my  learned  theses. 

Here  stand  I  ;  the  end  shall  be  as  God 
pleases. 

I  think  I  have  proved,  by  profound  re 
searches, 

The  error  of  all  those  doctrines  so  vicious 

Of  the  old  Areopagite  Dionysius, 

That  are  making  such  terrible  work  in  the 
churches, 

By  Michael  the  Stammerer  sent  from  the 
East, 

And  done  into  Latin  by  that  Scottish  beast, 

Johannes  Duns  Scotus,  who  dares  to  main 
tain, 

In  the  face  of  the  truth,  the  error  infer 
nal, 

That  the  universe  is  and  must  be  eternal  ; 

At  first  laying  down,  as  a  fact  fundamen 
tal, 

That  nothing  with  God  can  be  accidental  ; 

Then  asserting  that  God  before  the  crea 
tion 

Could  not  have  existed,  because  it  is  plain 

That,  had  He  existed,  He  would  have  cre 
ated  ; 

Which  is  begging  the  question  that  should 
be  debated, 

And  moveth  me  less  to  anger  than  laugh 
ter. 

All  nature,  he  holds,  is  a  respiration 

Of  the  Spirit  of  God,  who,  in  breathing, 
hereafter 

Will  inhale  it  into  his  bosom  again, 

So  that  nothing  but  God  alone  will  remain. 

And  therein  he  contradicteth  himself  ; 

For  he  opens  the  whole  discussion  by  stat 
ing* 

That  God  can  only  exist  in  creating. 

That  question  I  think  I  have  laid  on  the 
shelf  ! 

He  goes  out.     Two  Doctors  come  in  disputing, 
and  followed  by  pupils, 

DOCTOR  SERAFINO. 

I,  with  the  Doctor  Seraphic,  maintain, 
That  a  word  which  is  only  conceived  iu  the 

brain 

Is  a  type  of  eternal  Generation  ; 
The  spoken  word  is  the  Incarnation. 


DOCTOR   CHERUBIKO. 

What  do  I  care  for  the  Doctor  Seraphic, 
With  all  his  wordy  chaffer  and  traffic  ? 

DOCTOR   SERAFINO. 

You  make  but  a  paltry  show  of  resistance  ; 
Universals  have  no  real  existence  ! 

DOCTOR  CHERUBINO. 

Your  words  are  but  idle  and  empty  chatter  ; 
Ideas  are  eternally  joined  to  matter  ! 

DOCTOR  SERAFINO. 

May  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  your  position, 
You  wretched,  wrangling  culler  of  herbs  ! 

DOCTOR   CHERUBINO. 

May  he  send  your  soul  to  eternal  perdition, 

For  your  Treatise  on  the  Irregular  Yerbs  ! 

They  rush  outfighting.     Two  Scholars  come  in. 

FIRST   SCHOLAR. 

Monte  Cassino,  then,  is  your  College. 
What  think  you  of  ours  here  at  Salern  ? 

SECOND  SCHOLAR. 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  arrived  so  lately, 
I  hardly  yet  have  had  time  to  discern. 
So  much,  at  least,  I  am  bound  to  acknow 
ledge  : 

The  air  seems  healthy,  the  buildings  stately, 
And  on  the  whole  I  like  it  greatly. 

FIRST   SCHOLAR. 

Yes,  the  air  is  sweet  ;  the  Calabrian  hills 
Send  us  down  puffs  of  mountain  air  ; 
And  in  summer-time  the  sea-breeze  fills 
With  its  coolness  cloister,  and  court,  and 

square. 

Then  at  every  season  of  the  year 
There  are  crowds  of  guests  and  travellers 

here  ; 

Pilgrims,  and  mendicant  friars,  and  traders 
From  the  Levant,  with  figs  and  wine, 
And  bands  of  wounded  and  sick  Crusaders, 
Coming  back  from  Palestine. 

SECOND   SCHOLAR. 

And  what  are  the  studies  you  pursue  ? 
What  is  the  course  you  here  go  through  ? 

FIRST   SCHOLAR. 

The  first  three  years  of  the  college  course 
Are  given  to  Logic  alone,  as  the  source 
Of  all  that  is  noble,  and  wise,  and  true. 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


457 


SECOND  SCHOLAR. 

That  seems  rather  strange,  I  must  confess, 
In  a  Medical  School  ;  yet,  nevertheless, 
You  doubtless  have  reasons  for  that. 

FIRST  SCHOLAR. 

Oh  yes  ! 

For  none  but  a  clever  dialectician 
Can  hope  to  become  a  great  physician  ; 
That  has  been  settled  long  ago. 
Logic  makes  an  important  part 
Of  the  mystery  of  the  healing  art  ; 
For  without  it  how  could  you  hope  to  show 
That  nobody  knows  so  much  as  you  know  ?  j 
After  this  there  are  five  years  more 
Devoted  wholly  to  medicine, 
With  lectures  on  chirurgical  lore, 
And  dissections  of  the  bodies  of  swine, 
As  likest  the  human  form  divine. 

SECOND  SCHOLAR. 

What  are  the  books  now  most  in  vogue  ? 

FIRST  SCHOLAR. 

Quite  an  extensive  catalogue  ; 
Mostly,  however,  books  of  our  own  ; 
As  Gariopontus'  Passionarius, 
And  the  writings  of  Matthew  Platearius  ; 
And  a  volume  universally  known 
As  the  Regimen  of  the  School  of  Salern, 
For  Robert  of  Normandy  written  in  terse 
And  very  elegant  Latin  verse. 
Each  of  these  writings  has  its  turn. 
And  when  at  length  we  have  finished  these, 
Then  comes  the  struggle  for  degrees, 
With  all  the  oldest  and  ablest  critics  ; 
The  public  thesis  and  disputation, 
Question,  and  answer,  and  explanation 
Of  a  passage  out  of  Hippocrates, 
Or  Aristotle's  Analytics. 
There  the  triumphant  Magister  stands  ! 
A  book  is  solemnly  placed  in  his  hands, 
On  which  he  swears  to  follow  the  rule 
And  ancient  forms  of  the  good  old  School  ; 
To  report  if  any  confectionarius 
Mingles  his  drugs  with  matters  various, 
And  to  visit  his  patients  twice  a  day, 
And  once  in  the  night,  if  they  live  in  town, 
And  if  they  are  poor,  to  take  no  pay. 
Having  faithfully  promised  these, 
His  head  is  crowned  with  a  laurel  crown  ; 
A  kiss  on  his  cheek,  a  ring  on  his  hand, 
The  Magister  Artium  et  Physices 
Goes  forth  from  the  school  like  a  lord  of 
the  land. 


And  now,  as  we  have  the  whole  morning 

before  us, 

Let  us  go  in,  if  you  make  no  objection, 
And  listen  awhile  to  a  learned  prelection 
On  Marcus  Aurelius  Cassiodorus. 

They  go  in.    Enter  LUCIFER  as  a  Doctor. 


This  is  the  great  School  of  Salern  ! 

A  land  of  wrangling  and  of  quarrels, 

Of  brains  that  seethe,  and  hearts  that  burn, 

Where  every  emulous  scholar  hears, 

In  every  breath  that  comes  to  his  ears, 

The  rustling  of  another's  laurels  ! 

The  air  of  the  place  is  called  salubrious  ; 

The  neighborhood  of  Vesuvius  lends  it 

An  odor  volcanic,  that  rather  mends  it, 

And  the  buildings  have  an  aspect  lugubrious, 

That  inspires  a  feeling  of  awe  and  terror 

Into  the  heart  of  the  beholder, 

And   befits  such  an  ancient  homestead  of 

error, 
Where   the   old   falsehoods   moulder    and 

smoulder, 

And  yearly  by  many  hundred  hands 
Are  carried  away,  in  the  zeal  of  youth, 
And  sown  like  tares  in  the  field  of  truth, 
To  blossom  and  ripen  in  other  lands. 

What  have  we  here,  affixed  to  the  gate  ? 
The  challenge  of  some  scholastic  wight, 
Who  wishes  to  hold  a  public  debate 
On  sundry  questions  wrong  or  right ! 
Ah,  now  this  is  my  great  delight ! 
For  I  have  often  observed  of  late 
That  such  discussions  end  in  a  fight. 
Let  us  see  what  the  learned  wag  maintains 
With  such  a  prodigal  waste  of  brains. 

Reads. 
"  Whether  angels  in  moving  from  place  to 

place 

Pass  through  the  intermediate  space. 
Whether  God  himself  is  the  author  of  evil, 
Or  whether  that  is  the  work  of  the  Devil. 
When,  where,  and  wherefore  Lucifer  fell, 
And  whether  he  now  is  chained  in  hell." 
I  think  I  can  answer  that  question  well  ! 
So  long  as  the  boastful  human  mind 
Consents  in  such  mills  as  this  to  grind, 
I  sit  very  firmly  upon  my  throne  J 
Of  a  truth  it  almost  makes  me  laugh, 
To  see  men  leaving  the  golden  grain 
To  gather  in  piles  the  pitiful  chaff 
That  old  Peter  Lombard  thrashed  with  his 

brain, 


458 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


To  have  it  caught  up  and  tossed  again 

On  the  horns  of  the  Dumb  Ox  of  Cologne  ! 

But  my  guests  approach  !   there  is  in  the 

air 
A    fragrance,  like    that  of    the    Beautiful 

Garden 

Of  Paradise,  in  the  days  that  were  ! 
An  odor  of  innocence  and  of  prayer, 
And  of  love,  and  faith  that  never  fails, 
Such  as  the  fresh  young  heart  exhales 
Before  it  begins  to  wither  and  harden  ! 
I  cannot  breathe  such  an  atmosphere  ! 
My  soul  is  filled  with  a  nameless  fear, 
That,  after  all  my  trouble  and  pain, 
After  all  my  restless  endeavor, 
The  youngest,  fairest  soul  of  the  twain, 
The  most  ethereal,  most  divine, 
Will  escape  from  my  hands  for  ever  and 

ever. 

But  the  other  is  already  mine  ! 
Let  him  live  to  corrupt  his  race, 
Breathing  among  them,  with  every  breath, 
Weakness,  selfishness,  and  the  base 
And  pusillanimous  fear  of  death. 
I  know  his  nature,  and  I  know 
That  of  all  who  in  my  ministry 
Wander  the  great  earth  to  and  fro, 
And  on  my  errands  come  and  go, 
The  safest  and  subtlest  are  such  as  he. 

Enter  PRINCE  HENRY  and  ELSIE,'  with  attend 
ants. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Can  you  direct  us  to  Friar  Angelo  ? 

LUCIFER. 

He  stands  before  you. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Then  you  know  our  purpose. 
I  am  Prince  Henry  of  Iloheneck,  and  this 
The  maiden  that  I  spake  of  in  my  letters. 

LUCIFER. 

It  is  a  very  grave  and  solemn  business  ! 
We  must  not  be  precipitate.    Does  she 
Without  compulsion,  of  her  own  free  will, 
Consent  to  this  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Against  all  opposition, 

Against  all   prayers,    entreaties,    protesta 
tions.  . 
She  will  not  be  persuaded. 


LUCIFER. 

That  is  strange  ! 
Have  you  thought  well  of  it  ? 

ELSIE. 

I  come  not  here 

To  argue,  but  to  die.     Your  business  is  not 
To  question,  but  to  kill  me.     I  am  ready. 
I  am  impatient  to  be  gone  from  here 
Ere  any  thoughts  of  earth  disturb  again 
The  spirit  of  tranquillity  within  me. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Would  I  had  not  come  here  !  Would  I 
were  dead, 

And  thou  wert  in  thy  cottage  in  the  for 
est, 

And  hadst  not  known  me  !  Why  have  I 
done  this  ? 

Let  me  go  back  and  die. 

ELSIE. 

It  cannot  be  ; 
Not  if  these  cold,  flat  stones  on  which  we 

tread 
Were    coulters  heated    white,  and  yonder 

gateway 
Flamed   like   a   furnace  with   a  sevenfold 

heat. 
I  must  fulfil  my  purpose. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

I  forbid  it ! 

Not  one  step  further.     For  I  only  meant 
To  put  thus  far  thy  courage  to  the  proof. 
Jt  is  enough.     I,  too,  have  strength  to  die, 
For  thou  hast  taught  me  ! 


O  my  Prince  !  remember 
Your  promises.     Let  me  fulfil  my  errand. 
You  do  not  look  on  life  and  death  as  I  do. 
There  are  two  angels,  that  attend  unseen 
Each  one  of  us,  and  in  great  books  record 
Our  good  and  evil  deeds.     He  who  writes 

down 

The  good  ones,  after  every  action  closes 
His  volume,  and  ascends  with  it  to  God. 
The  other  keeps  his  dreadful  day-book 

open 
Till   sunset,  that   we  may   repent ;    which 

doing, 

The  record  of  the  action  fades  away, 
And  leaves  a  line  of  white  across  the  page. 
Now  if  my  act  be  good,  as  I  believe, 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


459 


It  cannot  be  recalled.     It  is  already 
Sealed  up  in  heaven,  as  a  good  deed  accom 
plished. 

The  rest  is  yours.     Why  wait  you  ?     I  am 
ready. 

To  her  attendants. 
Weep  not,  my  friends  !  rather  rejoice  with 

me. 

I  shall  not  feel  the  pain,  but  shall  be  gone, 
And    you     will    have     another    friend    in 

'heaven. 

Then  start  not  at  the  creaking  of  the  door 
Through  which  I  pass.     I  see  what  lies  be 
yond  it. 

To  PRINCE  HENRY. 

And  you,  O  Prince  !  bear  back  my  benison 
Unto  my  father's  house,  and  all  within  it. 
This  morning  in  the  church  I  prayed  for 

them, 

After  confession,  after  absolution, 
When  my  whole  soul  was  white,  I  prayed 

for  them. 
God  will  take  care  of  them,  they  need  me 

not. 

And  in  your  life  let  my  remembrance  linger, 
As  something  not  to  trouble  and  disturb  it, 
But  to  complete  it,  adding  life  to  life. 
And  if  at  times  beside  the  evening  fire 
You  see  my  face  among  the  other  faces, 
Let  it  not  be  regarded  as  a  ghost 
That   haunts   your   house,  but   as  a  guest 

that  loves  you. 

Nay,  even  as  one  of  your  own  family, 
Without  whose  presence  there  were  some 
thing  wanting. 
I  have  no  more  to  say.     Let  us  go  in. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Friar  Angelo  !     I  charge  you  on  your  life, 
Believe  not  what  she  says,  for  she  is  mad, 
And   comes   here   not   to  die,   but    to   be 
healed. 

ELSIE. 
Alas  !  Prince  Henry  ! 

LUCIFER. 

Come  with  me  ;  this  way. 

ELSIE  goes  in  with  LUCIFER,  who  thrusts  PRINCE 
HENRY  back  and  closes  the  door. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Gone  !  and  the  light  of  all  my  life  gone  with 

her! 
A  sudden  darkness  falls  upon  the  world  ! 


Oh,  what  a  vile  and  abject  thing  am  I 
That  purchase   length  ,of   days   at  such   a 

cost  ! 

Not  by  her  death  alone,  but  by  the  death 
Of  all  that  's  good  and  true  and  noble  in 

me  ! 

All  manhood,  excellence,  and  self-respect, 
All   love,  and  faith,  and   hope,  and  heart 

are  dead  ! 

All  my  divine  nobility  of  nature 
By  this  one  act  is  forfeited  forever. 
I  am  a  Prince  in  nothing  but  in  name  ! 

To  the  attendants.  • 
Why  did   you   let   this   horrible   deed  be 

done  ? 
Why  did  you  not  lay  hold  on  her,  and  keep 

her 

From    self  -  destruction  ?     Angelo  !     mur 
derer  ! 
Struggles  at  the  door,  but  cannot  open  it. 

ELSIE,  within. 
Farewell,  dear  Prince  !  farewell ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Unbar  the  door  ! 

LUCIFER. 

It  is  too  late  ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

It  shall  not  be  too  late  ! 

They  burst  the  door  open  and  rush  in. 

THE   FARM-HOUSE   IN   THE   QDENWALD. 

URSULA  spinning.     A  summer  afternoon.     A 
table  spread. 

URSULA. 

I  have  marked  it  well,  —  it  must  be  true,  — 
Death  never  takes  one  alone,  but  two  ! 
Whenever  he  enters  in  at  a  door, 
Under  roof  of  gold  or  roof  of  thatch, 
He  always  leaves  it  upon  the  latch, 
And  comes  again  ere  the  year  is  o'er. 
Never  one  of  a  household  only  ! 
Perhaps  it  is  a  mercy  of  God, 
Lest  the  dead  there  under  the  sod, 
In  the  land  of  strangers,  should  be  lonely  ! 
Ah  me  !  I  think  I  am  lonelier  here  ! 
It  is  hard  to  go,  — but  harder  to  stay  ! 
Were  it  not  for  the  children,  I  should  pray 
That    Death    would   take    me  within   the 

year  ! 
And  Gottlieb  !  —  he  is  at  work  all  day, 


460 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


In  the  sunny  field,  or  the  forest  murk, 
But  I  know  that  his  thoughts  are  far  away, 
I  know  that  his  heart  is  not  in  his  work  ! 
And  when  he  comes  home  to  me  at  night 
He  is  not  cheery,  but  sits  and  sighs, 
And  I  see  the  great  tears  in  his  eyes, 
And  try  to  be  cheerful  for  his  sake. 
Only  the  children's  hearts  are  light. 
Mine  is  weary,  and  ready  to  break. 
God  help  us  !     I  hope  we  have  done  right  ; 
We  thought  we  were  acting  for  the  best  ! 

Looking  through  the  open  door. 
Who  is  it  coming  under  the  trees  ? 
A  man,  in  the  Prince's  livery  dressed  ! 
He  looks  about  him  with  doubtful  face, 
As  if  uncertain  of  the  place. 
He  stops  at  the  beehives  ;  —  now  he  sees 
The  garden  gate  ;  —  he  is  going  past  ! 
Can  he  be  afraid  of  the  bees  ? 
No  ;  he  is  coming  in  at  last  ! 
He  fills  my  heart  with  strange  alarm  ! 
Enter  a  Forester. 

FORESTER. 

Is  this  the  tenant  Gottlieb's  farm  ? 


This  is  his  farm,  and  I  his  wife. 

Pray  sit.     What  may  your  business  be  ! 

FORESTER. 

News  from  the  Prince  ! 

URSULA. 

Of  death  or  life  ? 

FORESTER. 

You  put  your  questions  eagerly  ! 

URSULA. 
Answer  me,  then  !     How  is  the  Prince  ? 

FORESTER. 

I  left  him  only  two  hours  since 
Homeward  returning  down  the  river, 
As  strong  and  well  as  if  God,  the  Giver, 
Had  given  him  back  his  youth  again. 

URSULA,  despairing. 
Then  Elsie,  my  poor  child,  is  dead  ! 

FORESTER. 

That,  my  good  woman,  I  have  not  said. 
Don't  cross  the  bridge  till  you  come  to  it, 
Is  a  proverb  old,  and  of  excellent  wit. 


URSULA. 
Keep  me  no  longer  in  this  pain  ! 

FORESTER. 

It  is  true  your  daughter  is  no  more  ;  — 
That  is,  the  peasant  she  was  before. 

URSULA. 

Alas  !  I  am  simple  and  lowly  bred, 
I  am  poor,  distracted,  and  forlorn. 
And  it  is  not  well  that  you  of  the  court 
Should  mock  me  thus,  and  make  a  sport 
Of  a  joyless  mother  whose  child  is  dead, 
For  you,  too,  were  of  mother  born  ! 

FORESTER. 

Your  daughter  lives,  and  the  Prince  is  well ! 
You  will  learn  erelong  how  it  all  befell. 
Her  heart  for  a  moment  never  failed  ; 
But  when  they  reached  Salerno's  gate, 
The  Prince's  nobler  self  prevailed, 
And  saved  her  for  a  noble  fate. 
And  he  was  healed,  in  his  despair, 
By    the    touch    of   St.   Matthew's    sacred 

bones  ; 
Though  I  think  the  long  ride  in  the  open 

air, 

That  pilgrimage  over  stocks  and  stones, 
In  the  miracle  must  come  in  for  a  share  ! 

URSULA. 

Virgin  !  who  lovest  the  poor  and  lowly, 
If  the  loud  cry  of  a  mother's  heart 
Can  ever  ascend  to  where  thoti  art, 
Into  thy  blessed  hands  and  holy 
Receive  my  prayer  of  praise   and  thanks 
giving  ! 

Let  the  hands  that  bore  our  Saviour  bear  it 
Into  the  awful  presence  of  God  ; 
For  thy  feet  with  holiness  are  shod, 
And  if  thou  bearest  it  He  will  hear  it. 
Our  child  who  was  dead  again  is  living  ! 

FORESTER. 

I  did  not  tell  you  she  was  dead  ; 
If  you  thought  so  't  was  no  fault  of  mine  ; 
At  this  very  moment,  while  I  speak, 
They    are    sailing    homeward    down    the 

Rhine, 

In  a  splendid  barge,  with  golden  prow, 
And  decked  with  banners  white  and  red 
As  the  colors  on  your  daughter's  cheek. 
They  call  her  the  Lady  Alicia  now  ; 
For  the  Prince  in  Salerno  made  a  vow 
That  Elsie  only  would  he  wed. 


THE   GOLDEN   LEGEND 


461 


URSULA. 

Jesu  Maria  !  what  a  change  ! 

All  seems  to  me  so  weird  and  strange  ! 

FORESTER. 

I  saw  her  standing  on  the  deck, 

Beneath  an  awning  cool  and  shady  ; 

Her  cap  of  velvet  could  not  hold 

The  tresses  of  her  hair  of  gold, 

That  flowed  and  floated  like  the  stream, 

And  fell  in  masses  clown  her  neck. 

As  fair  and  lovely  did  she  seem 

As  in  a  story  or  a  dream 

Some  beautiful  and  foreign  lady. 

And    the    Prince    looked    so    grand    and 

proud, 

And  waved  his  hand  thus  to  the  crowd 
That  gazed  and  shouted  from  the  shore, 
All  down  the  river,  long  and  loud. 


We  shall  behold  our  child  once  more  ; 
She  is  not  dead  !     She  is  not  dead  ! 
Cod,  listening,  must  have  overheard 
The  prayers,  that,  without  sound  or  word, 
Our  hearts  in  secrecy  have  said  ! 
Oh,  bring  me  to  her  ;  for  mine  eyes 
Are  hungry  to  behold  her  face  ; 
My  very  soul  within  me  cries  ; 
My  very  hands  seem  to  caress  her, 
To  see  her,  gaze  at  her,  and  bless  her  ; 
Dear  Elsie,  child  of  God  and  grace  ! 
Goes  out  toward  the  garden. 


FORESTER. 

the    good  woman  out  of 


her 


There   goes 
head  ; 

And  Gottlieb's  supper  is  waiting  here  ; 

A  very  capacious  flagon  of  beer, 

And  a  very  portentous  loaf  of  bread. 

One  would  say  his  grief  did  not  much  op 
press  him. 

Here  's  to  the  health  of  the  Prince,  God 
bless  him  ! 

He  drinks. 

Ha  !  it  buzzes  and  stings  like  a  hornet  ! 

And  what  a  scene  there,  through  the 
door  ! 

The  forest  behind  and  the  garden  be 
fore, 

And  midway  an  old  man  of  threescore, 

With  a  wife  and  children  that  caress 
him. 


Let  me  try  still  further  to  cheer  and  adorn 

it 
With  a  merry,  echoing  blast  of  my  cornet  ! 

Goes  out  blowing  his  horn. 

THE     CASTLE     OF    VAUTSBERG     ON    THE 
RHINE. 

PRINCE  HENRY  and  ELSIE  standing  on  the  ter 
race  at  evening. 

The  sound  of  bells  heard  from  a  distance. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

We  are  alone.     The  wedding  guests 
Ride  down  the  hill,  with  plumes  and  cloaks, 
And  the  descending  dark  invests 
The  Niederwald,  and  all  the  nests 
Among  its  hoar  and  haunted  oaks. 

ELSIE. 

What  bells  are  those,  that  ring  so  slow, 
So  mellow,  musical,  and  low  ? 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

They  are  the  bells  of  Geisenheim, 
That  with  their  melancholy  chime 
Ring  out  the  curfew  of  the  sun. 


Listen,  beloved. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

They  are  done  ! 
Dear  Elsie  !  many  years  ago 
Those  same  soft  bells  at  eventide 
Rang  in  the  ears  of  Charlemagne, 
As,  seated  by  Fastrada's  side 
At  Ingelheim,  in  all  his  pride 
He  heard  their  sound  with  secret  pain. 

ELSIE. 

Their  voices  only  speak  to  me 
Of  peace  and  deep  tranquillity, 
And  endless  confidence  in  thee  ! 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Thou  knowest  the  story  of  her  ring, 
How,  when  the  court  went  back  to  Aix, 
Fastrada  died  ;  and  how  the  king 
Sat  watching  by  her  night  and  day, 
Till  into  one  of  the  blue  lakes, 
Which  water  that  delicious  land, 
They  cast  the  ring,  drawn  from  her  hand  : 
And  the  great  monarch  sat  serene 


462 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


And  sad  beside  the  fated  shore, 
Nor  left  the  land  forevermore. 

ELSIE. 

That  was  true  love. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

For  him  the  queen 
Ne'er  did  what  thou  hast  done  for  me. 

ELSIE. 

Wilt  thou  as  fond  and  faithful  be  ? 
Wilt  thou  so  love  me  after  death  ? 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Ill  life's  delight,  in  death's  dismay, 
In  storm  and  sunshine,  night  and  day, 
In  health,  in  sickness,  in  decay, 
Here  and  hereafter,  I  am  thine  ! 
Thou  hast  Fastrada's  ring.     Beneath 
The  calm,  blue  waters  of  thine  eyes, 
Deep  in  thy  steadfast  soul  it  lies, 
And,  undisturbed  by  this  world's  breath, 
With  magic  light  its  jewels  shine  ! 
This  golden  ring,  which  thou  hast  worn 
Upon  thy  finger  since  the  morn, 
Is  but  a  symbol  and  a  semblance, 
An  outward  fashion,  a  remembrance, 
Of  what  thou  wearest  within  unseen, 
O  my  Fastrada,  O  my  queen  ! 
Behold  !  the  hill-tops  all  aglow 
With  purple  and  with  amethyst  ; 
While  the  whole  valley  deep  below 
Is  filled,  and  seems  to  overflow, 
With  a  fast-rising  tide  of  mist. 
The  evening  air  grows  damp  and  chill  ; 
Let  us  go  in. 

ELSIE. 

Ah,  not  so  soon. 

See  yonder  fire  !     It  is  the  moon 
Slow  rising  o'er  the  eastern  hill. 
It  glimmers  on  the  forest  tips, 
And  through  the  dewy  foliage  drips 
In  little  rivulets  of  light, 
And  makes  the  heart  in  love  with  night. 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

Oft  on  this  terrace,  when  the  day 
Was  closing,  have  I  stood  and  gazed, 
And  seen  the  landscape  fade  away, 
And  the  white  vapors  rise  and  drown 
Hamlet  and  vineyard,  tower  and  town, 
While  far  above  the  hill-tops  blazed. 
But  then  another  hand  than  thine 
Was  gently  held  and  clasped  in  mine  ; 


Another  head  upon  my  breast 
Was  laid,  as  thine  is  now,  at  rest. 
Why  dost  thou  lift  those  tender  eyes 
With  so  much  sorrow  and  surprise  ? 
A  minstrel's,  not  a  maiden's  hand, 
Was  that  which  in  my  own  was  pressed. 
A  manly  form  usurped  thy  place, 
A  beautiful,  but  bearded  face, 
That  now  is  in  the  Holy  Land, 
Yet  in  my  memory  from  afar 
Is  shining  on  us  like  a  star. 
But  linger  not.     For  while  I  speak, 
A  sheeted  spectre  white  and  tall, 
The  cold  mist  climbs  the  castle  wall, 
And  lays  his  hand  upon  thy  cheek  ! 
They  go  in. 


EPILOGUE 

THE    TWO     RECORDING    ANGELS    AS 
CENDING 

THE  ANGEL   OF   GOOD  DEEDS,  With  dosed  book. 

God  sent  his  messenger  the  rain, 
And  said  unto  the  mountain  brook, 
"  Rise  up,  and  from  thy  caverns  look 
And  leap,  with  naked,  snow-white  feet, 
From  the  cool  hills  into  the  heat 
Of  the  broad,  arid  plain." 

God  sent  his  messenger  of  faith, 

And  whispered  in  the  maiden's  heart, 

"  Rise    up,    and    look    from     where    thou 

art, 

And  scatter  with  unselfish  hands 
Thy  freshness  on  the  barren  sands 
And  solitudes  of  Death." 

O  beauty  of  holiness, 

Of  self-forgetfulness,  of  lowliness  I 

O  power  of  meekness, 

Whose  very  gentleness  and  weakness 

Are  like  the  yielding,  but  irresistible  air  ! 

Upon  the  pages 

Of  the  sealed  volume  that  I  bear, 

The  deed  divine 

Is  written  in  characters  of  gold, 

That  never  shall  grow  old, 

But  through  all  ages 

Burn  and  shine, 

With  soft  effulgence  ! 

O  God  !  it  is  thy  indulgence 

That  fills  the  world  with  the  bliss 

Of  a  good  deed  like  this  ! 


MARTIN   LUTHER 


463 


THE   ANGEL  OF   EVIL  DEEDS,    With  Open   book. 

Not  yet,  not  yet 

Is  the  red  sun  wholly  set, 

But  evermore  recedes, 

While  open  still  I  bear 

The  Book  of  Evil  Deeds, 

To  let  the  breathings  of  the  upper  air 

Visit  its  pages  and  erase 

The  records  from  its  face  ! 

Fainter  and  fainter  as  I  gaze 

In  the  broad  blaze 

The  glimmering  landscape  shines, 

And  below  me  the  black  river 

Is  hidden  by  wreaths  of  vapor  ! 

Fainter  and  fainter  the  black  lines 

Begin  to  quiver 

Along  the  whitening  surface  of  the  paper  ; 

Shade  after  shade 

The  terrible  words  grow  faint  and  fade, 

And  in  their  place 

Runs  a  white  space  ! 

Down  goes  the  sun  ! 

But  the  soul  of  one, 

Who  by  repentance 

Hath  escaped  the  dreadful  sentence, 

Shines  bright  below  me  as  I  look. 

It  is  the  end  ! 

With  closed  Book 

To  God  do  I  ascend. 

Lo  !  over  the  mountain  steeps 

A  dark,  gigantic  shadow  sweeps 

Beneath  my  feet  ; 

A  blackness  inwardly  brightening 

With  sullen  heat, 

As  a  storm-cloud  lurid  with  lightning. 

And  a  cry  of  lamentation, 

Repeated  and  again  repeated, 

Deep  and  loud 

As  the  reverberation 

Of  cloud  answering  unto  cloud, 

Swells  and  rolls  away  in  the  distance, 

As  if  the  sheeted 

Lightning  retreated, 

Baffled  and  thwarted  by  the  wind's  resist- 


It  is  Lucifer, 

The  son  of  mystery  ; 

And  since  God  suffers  him  to  be, 

He,  too,  is  God's  minister, 

And  labors  for  some  good 

By  us  not  understood  ! 


SECOND     INTERLUDE 
MARTIN  LUTHER 

A  CHAMBER  IN  THE  WARTBURG.     MORN 
ING.       MARTIN    LUTHER    WRITING 

MARTIN  LUTHER. 

Our  God,  a  Tower  of  Strength  is  He, 
A  goodly  wall  and  weapon  ; 
From  all  our  need  He  helps  us  free, 
That  now  to  us  doth  happen. 

The  old  evil  foe 

Doth  in  earnest  grow, 

In  grim  armor  dight, 

Much  guile  and  great  might ; 
On  earth  there  is  none  like  him. 

OH  yes  ;  a  tower  of  strength  indeed 
A  present  help  in  all  our  need, 
A  sword  and  buckler  is  our  God. 
Innocent  men  have  walked  unshod 
O'er  burning  ploughshares,  and  have  trod 
Unharmed  on  serpents  in  their  path, 
And  laughed  to  scorn  the  Devil's  wrath  ! 

Safe  in  this  Wartburg  tower  I  stand 

Where  God  hath  led  me  by  the  hand, 

And  look  down,  with  a  heart  at  ease, 

Over  the  pleasant  neighborhoods, 

Over  the  vast  Thuringian  Woods, 

With  flash  of  river,  and  gloom  of  trees, 

With  castles  crowning  the  dizzy  heights, 

And  farms  and  pastoral  delights, 

And  the  morning  pouring  everywhere 

Its  golden  glory  on  the  air. 

Safe,  yes,  safe  am  I  here  at  last, 

Safe  from  the  overwhelming  blast 

Of  the  mouths  of  Hell,  that  followed  me 

fast, 

And  the  howling  demons  of  despair 
That  hunted  me  like  a  beast  to  his  lair. 

Of  our  own  might  we  nothing  can  ; 
We  soon  are  unprotected  ; 
There  fighteth  for  us  the  right  Man, 
Whom  God  himself  elected. 

Who  is  He  ;  ye  exclaim  ? 

Christns  is  his  name, 

Lord  of  Sabaoth, 

Very  God  in  troth  ; 
The  field  He  holds  forever. 

Nothing  can  vex  the  Devil  more 

Than  the  name  of  Him  whom  we  adore. 


464 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


Therefore  doth  it  delight  me  best 
To  stand  in  the  choir  among  the  rest, 
With  the  great  organ  trumpeting 
Through  its  metallic  tubes,  and  sing  : 
Et  verbum  carofactum  est  I 
These  words  the  Devil  cannot  endure, 
For  he  knoweth  their  meaning  well ! 
Him  they  trouble  and  repel, 
Us  they  comfort  and  allure, 
And  happy  it  were,  if  our  delight 
Were  as  great  as  his  affright  ! 

Yea,  music  is  the  Prophets'  art ; 
Among  the  gifts  that  God  hath  sent, 
One  of  the  most  magnificent  ! 
It  calms  the  agitated  heart  ; 
Temptations,  evil  thoughts,  and  all 
The  passions  that  disturb  the  soul, 
Are  quelled  by  its  divine  control, 
As  the  Evil  Spirit  fled  from  Saul, 
And  his  distemper  was  allayed, 
When  David  took  his  harp  and  played. 

This  world  may  full  of  Devils  be, 
All  ready  to  devour  us ; 
Yet  not  so  sore  afraid  are  we, 
They  shall  not  overpower  us. 

This  World's  Prince,  howe'er 

Fierce  he  may  appear, 

He  can  harm  us  not, 

He  is  doomed,  God  wot ! 
One  little  word  can  slay  him ! 

Incredible  it  seems  to  some 

And  to  myself  a  mystery, 

That  such  weak  flesh  and  blood  as  we, 

Armed  with  no  other  shield  or  sword, 

Or  other  weapon  than  the  Word, 

Should  combat  and  should  overcome 

A  spirit  powerful  as  he  ! 

He  summons  forth  the  Pope  of  Rome 

With  all  his  diabolic  crew, 

His  shorn  and  shaven  retinue 

Of  priests  and  children  of  the  dark  ; 

Kill  !  kill  !  they  cry,  the  Heresiarch, 

Who  rouseth  up  all  Christendom 

Against  us  ;  and  at  one  fell  blow 

Seeks  the  whole  Church  to  overthrow  ! 

Not  yet  ;  my  hour  is  not  yet  come. 

Yesterday  in  an  idle  mood, 
Hunting  with  others  in  the  wood, 
I  did  not  pass  the  hours  in  vain, 
For  in  the  very  heart  of  all 
The  joyous  tumult  raised  around, 
Shouting  of  men,  and  baying  of  hound, 


And  the  bugle's  blithe  and  cheery  call, 

And  echoes  answering  back  again, 

From    crags     of    the     distant     mountain 

chain,  — 

In  the  very  heart  of  this,  I  found 
A  mystery  of  grief  and  pain. 
It  was  an  image  of  the  power 
Of  Satan,  hunting  the  world  about, 
With  his  nets  and  traps  and   well-trained 

dogs, 

His  bishops  and  priests  and  theologues, 
And  all  the  rest  of  the  rabble  rout, 
Seeking  whom  he  may  devour  ! 
Enough  I  have  had  of  hunting  hares, 
Enough  of  these  hours  of  idle  mirth, 
Enough  of  nets  and  traps  and  gins  ! 
The  only  hunting  of  any  worth 
Is  where  I  can  pierce  with  javelins 
The  cunning  foxes  and  wolves  and  bears, 
The  whole  iniquitous  troop  of  beasts, 
The  Roman  Pope  and  the  Roman  priests 
That  sorely  infest  and  afflict  the  earth  ! 

Ye  nuns,  ye  singing  birds  of  the  air ! 
The  fowler  hath  caught  you  in  his  snare, 
And  keeps  you  safe  in  his  gilded  cage, 
Singing  the  song  that  never  tires, 
To  lure  down  others  from  their  nests  ; 
How  ye  flutter  and  beat  your  breasts, 
Warm  and  soft  with  young  desires 
Against  the  cruel,  pitiless  wires, 
Reclaiming  your  lost  heritage  ! 
Behold  !  a  hand  unbars  the  door, 
Ye  shall  be  captives  held  no  more. 

The  Word  they  shall  perforce  let  stand, 
And  little  thanks  they  merit ! 
For  He  is  with  us  in  the  land, 
With  gifts  of  his  own  Spirit ! 

Though  they  take  our  life, 

Goods,  honors,  child  and  wife, 

Let  these  pass  away, 

Little  gain  have  they ; 
The  Kingdom  still  remaineth  ! 

Yea,  it  remaineth  forevermore, 
However  Satan  may  rage  and  roar, 
Though  often  he  whispers  in  my  ears  : 
What  if  thy  doctrines  false  should  be  ? 
And  wrings  from  me  a  bitter  sweat. 
Then  I  put  him  to  flight  with  jeers, 
Saying  :  Saint  Satan  !  pray  for  me  ; 
If  thou  thinkest  I  am  not  saved  yet  ! 

And  my  mortal  foes  that  lie  in  wait 
In  every  avenue  and  gate  ! 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


465 


As  to  that  odious  monk  John  Tetzel, 
Hawking  about  his  hollow  wares 
Like  a  huckster  at  village  fairs, 
And  those  mischievous  fellows,  Wetzel, 
Cainpanus,  Carlstadt,  Martin  Cellarius, 
And  all  the  busy,  multifarious 
Heretics,  and  disciples  of  Arius, 
Half-learned,  dunce-bold,  dry  and  hard, 
They  are  not  worthy  of  my  regard, 
Poor  and  humble  as  I  am. 

But  ah  !  Erasmus  of  Rotterdam, 
He  is  the  vilest  miscreant 
That  ever  walked  this  world  below  ! 
A  Momus,  making  his  mock  and  mow, 
At  Papist  and  at  Protestant, 
Sneering  at  St.  John  and  St.  Paul, 
At  God  and  Man,  at  one  and  all  ; 
And  yet  as  hollow  and  false  and  drear, 
As  a  cracked  pitcher  to  the  ear, 
And  ever  growing  worse  and  worse  ! 
Whenever  I  pray,  I  pray  for  a  curse 
On  Erasmus,  the  Insincere  ! 

Philip  Melancthon  !  thou  alone 
Faithful  among  the  faithless  known, 
Thee  I  hail,  and  only  thee  ! 
Behold  the  record  of  us  three  ! 

Res  et  verba  Philippus, 

Res  sine  verbis  Lutherus  ; 

Erasmus  verba  sine  re  ! 

My  Philip,  prayest  thou  for  me  ? 
Lifted  above  all  earthly  care, 
From  these  high  regions  of  the  nir, 
Among  the  birds  that  day  and  night 
Upon  the  branches  of  tall  trees 
Sing  their  lauds  and  litanies, 
Praising  God  with  all  their  might, 
My  Philip,  unto  thee  I  write. 

My  Philip  !  thou  who  knowest  best 
All  that  is  passing  in  this  breast  ; 
The  spiritual  agonies, 
The  inward  deaths,  the  inward  hell, 
And  the  divine  new  births  as  well, 
That  surely  follow  after  these, 
As  a£ter  winter  follows  spring  ; 
My  Philip,  in  the  night-time  sing 
This  song  of  the  Lord  I  send  to  thee  ; 
And  I  will  sing  it  for  thy  sake, 
Until  our  answering  voices  make 
A  glorious  antiphony, 
And  choral  chant  of  victory  I 


PART  THREE 

THE    NEW    ENGLAND   TRAGE 
DIES 

JOHN  ENDICOTT 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

JOHN  ENDICOTT    ......  Governor. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT His  son. 

RICHARD  BELLINGHAM  .     .     .  Deputy  Governor. 

JOHN  NORTON        Minister  of  the  Gospel. 

EDWARD  BUTTER Treasurer. 

WALTER  MERRY Tithing-man. 

NICHOLAS  UPSALL     .     ...  An  old  citizen. 

SAMUEL  COLE Landlord  of  the  Three 

Mariners. 

SIMON  KEMPTHORN  )  r.      /-»-_/--•„ . 

RALPH  GOLDSMITH  f      •     '     '  Sea-Captains. 
WENLOCK  CHRISTISON  ) 

EDITH,  Ms  daughter    >      .     .  Quakers. 
EDWARD  WHARTON     ) 

Assistants,  Halberdiers,  Marshal,  etc. 

The  Scene  is  in  Boston  in  the  year  1665. 
PROLOGUE 

TO-NIGHT  we  strive  to  read,  as  we  may  best, 
This  city,  like  an  ancient  palimpsest  ; 
And  bring  to  light,  upon  the  blotted  page, 
The  mournful  record  of  an  earlier  age, 
That,  pale  and   half   effaced,   lies   hidden 

away 
Beneath  the  fresher  writing  of  to-day. 

Rise,  then,  O  buried  city  that  hast  been  ; 
Rise  up,  rebuilded  in  the  painted  scene, 
And  let  our  curious  eyes  behold  once  more 
The  pointed  gable  and  the  pent-house  door, 
The    Meeting-house    with    leaden-latticed 

panes, 
The    narrow   thoroughfares,    the   crooked 

lanes  ! 

Rise,    too,   ye  shapes  and  shadows  of  the 

Past, 
Rise   from   your  long-forgotten   graves  at 

last  ; 

Let  us  behold  your  faces,  let  us  hear 
The  words  ye  uttered  in  those  days  of  fear  ! 
Revisit  your  familiar  haunts  again,  — 
The  scenes  of  triumph,  and  the  scenes  of 

pain, 
And  leave  the  footprints  of  your  bleeding 

feet 
Once   more   upon    the    pavement   of    the 

street  ! 


466 


CHRISTUS:    A    MYSTERY 


Nor    let    the    Historian    blame   the   Poet 

here, 

If  he  perchance  misdate  the  day  or  year, 
And  group  events  together,  by  his  art, 
That  in  the  Chronicles  lie  far  apart  ; 
For  as  the  double  stars,  though  sundered 

far, 

Seem  to  the  naked  eye  a  single  star, 
So  facts  of  history,  at  a  distance  seen, 
Into  one  common  point  of  light  convene. 

"  Why  touch  upon  such  themes  ?  "  perhaps 

some  friend 
May  ask,  incredulous  ;  "  and  to  what  good 

end  ? 

Why  drag  again  into  the  light  of  day 
The  errors  of  an  age  long  passed  away  ?  " 
I    answer  :    "  For    the    lesson    that    they 

teach  : 

The  tolerance  of  opinion  and  of  speech. 
Hope,  Faith,  and  Charity  remain, — these 

three  ; 
And  greatest  of  them  all  is  Charity." 

Let  us  remember,  if  these  words  be  true, 

That  unto  all  men  Charity  is  due  ; 

Give  what  we    ask  ;    and   pity,   while   we 

blame, 

Lest  we  become  copartners  in  the  shame, 
Lest  we  condemn,  and  yet  ourselves  par 
take, 
And   persecute   the   dead   for   conscience' 


Therefore  it  is  the  author  seeks  and  strives 
To  represent  the  d«jad  as  in  their  lives, 
And  lets  at  times  his  characters  unfold 
Their    thoughts   in   their    own    language, 

strong  and  bold  ; 

He  only  asks  of  you  to  do  the  like  ; 
To  hear  him  first,  and,  if  you  will,  then 

strike. 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I.  —  Sunday  afternoon.  The  interior  of 
the  Meeting-house.  On  the  pulpit,  an  hour- 
qlass ;  below,  a  box  for  contributions.  JOHN 
KORTON  in  the  pulpit.  GOVERNOK  ENDIOOTT 
in  a  canopied  seat,  attended  by  four  halberd 
iers.  The  congregation  singing. 

The  Lord  descended  from  above, 
And  bowed  the  heavens  high  ; 

And  underneath  his  feet  He  cast 
The  darkness  of  the  sky. 


On  Cherubim  and  Seraphim 

Right  royally  He  rode, 
And  on  the  wings  of  mighty  winds 

Came  flying  all  abroad. 

NORTON  (rising  and  turning  the  hour-glass  on  the 
pulpit). 

I  heard  a  great  voice  from  the  temple  say 
ing 

Unto  the  Seven  Angels,  Go  your  ways  ; 
Pour  out  the  vials  of  the  wrath  of  God 
Upon  the  earth.    And  the  First  Angel  went 
And   poured    his   vial   on   the  earth  ;  and 

straight 

There  fell  a  noisome  and  a  grievous  sore 
On  them  which  had  the  birth-mark  of  the 

Beast, 
And  them   which  worshipped  and  adored 

his  image. 

On  us  hath  fallen  this  grievous  pestilence. 
There  is  a  sense  of  terror  In  the  air  ; 
And  apparitions  of  things  horrible 
Are  seen  by  many.    From  the  sky  above  us 
The  stars  fall  ;  and  beneath  us  the  earth 

quakes  ! 

The  sound  of  drums  at  midnight  from  afar, 
The  sound  of  horsemen  riding  to  and  fro, 
As  if  the  gates  of  the  invisible  world 
Were  opened,  and  the  dead  came  forth  to 

warn  us, — 

All  these  are  omens  of  some  dire  disaster 
Impending  over  us,  and  soon  to  fall. 
Moreover,  in  the  language  of  the  Prophet, 
Death  is  again  come  up  into  our  windows, 
To  cut  off  little  children  from  without-, 
And  young  men  from  the  streets.      And  in 

the  midst 

Of  all  these  supernatural  threats  and  warn 
ings 

Doth  Heresy  uplift  its  horrid  head  ; 
A  vision  of  Sin  more  awful  and  appalling 
Than  any  phantasm,  ghost,  or  apparition, 
As  arguing  and  portending  some  enlarge 
ment 
Of  the  mysterious  Power  o?  Darkness  ! 

EDITH,  barefooted,  and  clad  in  sackcloth,  with 
her  hair  hanging  loose  upon  her  shoulders,  walks 
slowly  up  the  aisle,  followed  by  WHAKTON  and 
other  Quakers.  The  congregation  starts  up  in 
confusion. 

EDITH  (to  NORTON,  raising  her  hand). 
Peace ! 

NORTON. 

Anathema  maranatha  !    The  Lord  cometh  ! 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


467 


EDITH. 

Yea,  verily  He  cometh,  and  shall  judge 

The  shepherds  of  Israel  who  do  feed  them 
selves, 

And  leave  their  flocks  to  eat  what  they 
have  trodden 

Beneath  their  feet. 

NORTON. 

Be  silent,  babbling  woman  ! 
St.    Paul   commands   all   women   to   keep 

silence 
Within  the  churches. 

EDITH. 

Yet  the  women  prayed 
And  prophesied  at  Corinth  in  his  day  ; 
And,  among    those    on    whom    the    fiery 

tongues 
Of  Pentecost  descended,  some  were  women  ! 

NORTON. 

The  Elders  of  the  Churches,  by  our  law, 
Alone  have  power  to  open   the   doors  of 

speech 
And  silence  in  the  Assembly.     I  command 

you  ! 

EDITH. 

The  law  of  God  is  greater  than  your  laws  ! 

Ye  build  your  church  with  blood,  your  town 
with  crime  ; 

The  heads  thereof  give  judgment  for  re 
ward  ; 

The  priests  thereof  teach  only  for  their 
hire  ; 

Your  laws  condemn  the  innocent  to  death  ; 

And  against  this  I  bear  my  testimony  ! 

NORTON. 
What  testimony  ? 

EDITH. 

That  of  the  Holy  Spirit, 
Which,   as   your   Calvin    says,    surpasseth 
reason. 

NORTON. 

The  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire. 

EDITH. 
Yet   our  great   Master  did  not  teach  for 

hire, 

And  the  Apostles  without  purse  or  scrip 
Went  forth  to  do  his  work.      Behold  this 

box 


Beneath  thy  pulpit.     Is  it  for  the  poor  ? 
Thou   canst   not   answer.      It   is   for   the 

Priest ; 
And  against  this  I  bear  my  testimony. 

NORTON. 

Away  with  all  these  Heretics  and  Quakers  ! 

Quakers,  forsooth !  Because  a  quaking 
fell 

On  Daniel,  at  beholding  of  the  Vision, 

Must  ye  needs  shake  and  quake  ?  Because 
Isaiah 

Went  stripped  and  barefoot,  must  ye  wail 
and  howl  ? 

Must  ye  go  stripped  and  naked  ?  must  ye 
make 

A  wailing  like  the  dragons,  and  a  mourn 
ing 

As  of  the  owls  ?     Ye  verify  the  adage 

That  Satan  is  God's  ape  !  Away  with 
them  ! 

Tumult.  The  Quakers  are  driven  out  with  vio 
lence,  EDITH  following  slowly.  The  congrega 
tion  retires  in  confusion. 

Thus  freely  do  the  Reprobates  commit 
Such  measure  of  iniquity  as  fits  them 
For  the  intended  measure  of  God's  wrath, 
And  even  in  violating  God's  commands 
Are  they  fulfilling  the  divine  decree  ! 
The  will  of  man  is  but  an  instrument 
Disposed  and  predetermined  to  its  action 
According  unto  the  decree  of  God, 
Being  as  much  subordinate  thereto 
As  is  the  axe  unto  the  hewer's  hand  ! 
He  descends  from  the  pulpit,  and  joins  GOVERNOR 

ENDICOTT,  who  comes  forward  to  meet  him. 
The  omens  and  the  wonders  of  the  time, 
Famine,  and  fire,  and  shipwreck,  and  dis 
ease, 
The  blast  of  corn,  the  death  of  our  young 

men, 
Our   sufferings   in   all    precious,    pleasant 

things, 

Are  manifestations  of  the  wrath  divine, 
Signs  of  God's  controversy  with  New  Eng 
land. 

These  emissaries  of  the  Evil  One, 
These  servants  and  ambassadors  of  Satan, 
Are  but  commissioned  executioners 
Of   God's  vindictive  and  deserved  displea 
sure. 
We    must    receive    them  as   the    Roman 

Bishop 

Once  received  Attila,  saying,  I  rejoice 
You  have  come  safe,  whom  I  esteem  to  be 


468 


CHRISTUS:    A    MYSTERY 


The  scourge  of   God,  sent   to  chastise  his 

people. 

This  very  heresy,  perchance,  may  serve 
The  purposes  of  God  to  some  good  end. 
With  you  I  leave  it ;  but  do  not  neglect 
The  holy  tactics  of  the  civil  sword. 

ENDICOTT. 

And  what  more  can  be  done  ? 


The  hand  that  cut 

The  Red  Cross  from  the  colors  of  the  king 
Can  cut  the  red  heart  from  this  heresy. 
Fear  not.     All  blasphemies  immediate 
And  heresies  turbulent  must  be  suppressed 
By  civil  power. 

ENDICOTT. 

But  in  what  way  suppressed  ? 

NORTON. 

The  Book  of  Deuteronomy  declares 

That  if  thy  son,  thy  daughter,  or  thy  wife, 

Ay,  or   the  friend  which  is   as  thine    own 

soul, 

Entice  thee  secretly,  and  say  to  thee, 
Let   us  serve  other  gods,  then  shall  thine 

eye 
Not   pity   him,  but   thou  shalt  surely  kill 

him, 
And  thine  own  hand  shall  be  the  first  upon 

him 
To  slay  him. 

ENDICOTT. 

Four  already  have  been  slain  ; 

And  others  banished  upon  pain  of  death. 

But  they  come  back  again  to  meet  their 
doom, 

Bringing  the  linen  for  their  winding-sheets. 

We  must  not  go  too  far.  In  truth,  I 
shrink 

From  shedding  of  more  blood.  The  peo 
ple  murmur 

At  our  severity. 

NORTON. 

Then  let  them  murmur  ! 
Truth  is  relentless  ;  justice  never  wavers  ; 
The  greatest  firmness  is  the  greatest 

mercy  ; 

The  noble  order  of  the  Magistracy 
Cometh  immediately  from  God,  and  yet 
This  noble  order  of  the  Magistracy 
Is   by  these    Heretics   despised   and   out 
raged. 


ENDICOTT. 

To-night  they  sleep  in  prison.     If  they  die, 
They  cannot  say  that  we  have  caused  their 

death. 
We  do  but   guard   the  passage,  with   the 

sword 
Pointed  towards  them  ;  if  they  dash  upon 

it, 
Their  blood  will  be  on  their  own  heads,  not 

ours. 

NORTON. 

Enough.     I  ask  no  more.     My  predecessor 
Coped  only  with  the  milder  heresies 
Of  Antinomians  and  of  Anabaptists. 
He    was    not   born   to  wrestle  with   these 

fiends. 

Chrysostom  in  his  pulpit  ;  Augustine 
In  disputation  ;  Timothy  in  his  house  ! 
The  lantern  of  St.  Botolph's  ceased  to  burn 
When  from  the  portals  of  that  church  \w 

came 

To  be  a  burning  and  a  shining  light 
Here  in  the  wilderness.     And,  as  he  lay 
On  his  death-bed,  he  saw  me  in  a  vision 
Ride  on  a  snow-white  horse  into  this  town. 
His  vision  was  prophetic  ;  thus  I  came, 
A  terror  to  the  impenitent,  and  Death 
On  the  pale  horse  of  the  Apocalypse 
To  all  the  accursed  race  of  Heretics  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  street.  On  one  side,  NICHO 
LAS  UPSALL'S  house ;  on  the  other,  WALTER 
MERRY'S,  with  a  _ftock  of  pigeons  on  the  roof. 
UPSALL  seated  in  the  porch  of  his  house. 

UPSALL. 

O  day  of  rest !     How  beautiful,  how  fair, 
How  welcome  to  the  weary  and  the  old  ! 
Day  of   the   Lord  !  and   truce   to   earthly 

cares  ! 
Day  of  the  Lord,  as  all  our  days  should 

be  ! 

Ah,  why  will  man  by  his  austerities 
Shut  out  the  blessed  sunshine  and  the  light, 
And  make  of  thee  a  dungeon  of  despair  ! 

WALTER  MERRY   (entering  and   looking  round 
him). 

All  silent  as  a  graveyard  !  No  one  stir 
ring  ; 

No  footfall  in  the  street,  no  sound  of 
voices  ! 

By  righteous  punishment  and  perseverance, 

And  perseverance  in  that  punishment, 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


469 


At  last  I  have  brought  this  contumacious 
town 

To  strict  observance  of  the  Sabbath  day. 

Those  wanton  gospellers,  the  pigeons  yon 
der, 

Are  now  the  only  Sabbath-breakers  left. 

I  cannot  put  them  down.  As  if  to  taunt 
me, 

They  gather  every  Sabbath  afternoon 

In  noisy  congregation  on  my  roof, 

Billing  and  cooing.  Whir  !  take  that,  ye 
Quakers. 

Throws  a  stone  at  the  pigeons.    Sees  UPSALL. 
Ah  !  Master  Nicholas  ! 


Good  afternoon, 


UPSALL. 
Dear  neighbor  Walter. 

MERRY. 

Master  Nicholas, 

You  have  to-day  withdrawn  yourself  from 
meeting. 

UPSALL. 

Yea,  I  have  chosen  rather  to  worship  God 
Sitting  in  silence  here  at  my  own  door. 

MERRY. 

Worship  the  Devil  !  You  this  day  have 
broken 

Three  of  our  strictest  laws.  First,  by  ab 
staining 

From  public  worship.  Secondly,  by  walk 
ing 

Profanely  on  the  Sabbath. 

UPSALL. 

Not  one  step. 
I  have  been  sitting  still  here,  seeing   the 

pigeons 
Feed  in  the  street  and  fly  about  the  roofs. 

MERRY. 

You  have  been  in  the  street  with  other  in 
tent 

Than  going  to  and  from  the  Meeting-house. 
And,   thirdly,  you  are  harboring  Quakers 

here. 
I  am  amazed  ! 

UPSALL. 

Men  sometimes,  it  is  said, 
Entertain  angels  unawares 


Nice  angels  ! 
Angels  in  broad-brimmed  hats  and  russet 

cloaks, 
The  color  of  the  Devil's  nutting-bag  !   They 

came 

Into  the  Meeting-house  this  afternoon 
More  in  the  shape  of  devils  than  of  angels. 
The  women  screamed  and  fainted  ;  and  the 

boys 

Made  such  an  uproar  in  the  gallery 
I  could  not  keep  them  quiet. 

UPSALL. 

Neighbor  Walter, 
Your  persecution  is  of  no  avail. 

MERRY. 

'T  is  prosecution,  as  the  Governor  says, 
Not  persecution. 

UPSALL. 

Well,  your  prosecution  ; 
Your  hangings  do  no  good. 

MERRY. 

The  reason  is, 
We  do  not  hang  enough.     But,  mark  my 

words, 
We  '11    scour   them  ;    yea,   I   warrant   ye, 

we  '11  scour  them  ! 

And  now  go  in  and  entertain  your  angels, 
And  don't  be  seen  here  in  the  street  again 
Till    after    sundown  !  —  There     they    are 

again  ! 

Exit  UPSALL.    MERRY  throws  another  stone  at 
the  pigeons,  and  then  goes  into  his  house. 


III.  —  A  room  in  UPSALL'S  house. 
Night.  EDITH,  WHARTON,  and  other  Quak 
ers  seated  at  a  table.  UPSALL  seated  near  them. 
Several  books  on  the  table. 

WHARTON. 

William   and   Marmaduke,    our  martyred 

brothers, 

Sleep  in  untimely  graves,  if  aught  untimely 
Can  find  place  in  the  providence  of  God, 
Where  nothing  comes  too  early  or  too  late. 
I  saw  their  noble  death.     They  to  the  scaf 

fold 
Walked  hand  in  hand.    Two  hundred  armed 

men 

And  many  horsemen  guarded  them,  for  fear 
Of  rescue  by  the  crowd,  whose  hearts  were 

stirred. 


47° 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


0  holy  martyrs  ! 

WHARTON. 

When  they  tried  to  speak, 
Their   voices   by   the  roll  of  drums  were 

drowned. 
When    they    were  dead   they   still  looked 

fresh  and  fair, 
The  terror   of   death    was  not   upon  their 

faces. 

Our  sister  Mary,  likewise,  the  meek  woman, 
Has  passed  through  martyrdom  to  her  re 
ward  ; 

Exclaiming,  as  they  led  her  to  her  death, 
"  These  many  days  I  've  been  in  Paradise." 
And,  when  she  died,  Priest  Wilson  threw 

the  hangman 

His  handkerchief,  to  cover  the  pale  face 
He  dared  not  look  upon. 


As  persecuted, 

Yet  not  forsaken  ;  as  unknown,  yet  known  ; 
As  dying,  and  behold  we  are  alive  ; 
As  sorrowful,  and  yet  rejoicing  always  ; 
As  having  nothing,  yet  possessing  all ! 

WHARTON. 

And  Leddra,  too,  is  dead.     But  from  his 

prison, 
The  day  before  his   death,   he   sent  these 

words 

Unto  the  little  flock  of  Christ :  "  Whatever 
May    come    upon    the    followers    of    the 

Light,  — 

Distress,  affliction,  famine,  nakedness, 
Or  perils  in  the  city  or  the  sea, 
Or  persecution,  or  even  death  itself,  — 
I  am  persuaded  that  God's  armor  of  Light, 
As  it  is  loved  and  lived  in,  will  preserve 

you. 
Yea,  death  itself ;  through  which  you  will 

find  entrance 

Into  the  pleasant  pastures  of  the  fold, 
Where  you  shall  feed  forever  as  the  herds 
That  roam  at  large  in  the  low    valleys  of 

Achor. 

And  as  the  flowing  of  the  ocean  fills 
Each  creek  and  branch  thereof,  and  then 

retires, 
Leaving   behind   a   sweet   and  wholesome 

savor  ; 

So  doth  the  virtue  and  the  life  of  God 
Flow  evermore  into  the  hearts  of  those 


Whom    he    hath    made    partakers    of  his 

nature  ; 

And,  when  it  but  withdraws  itself  a  little, 
Leaves  a  sweet  savor  after  it,  that  many 
Can  say  they  are  made  clean  by  every  word 
That    He  hath  spoken    to    them  in   their 

silence." 

EDITH  (rising  and  breaking  into  a  kind  of  chant). 
Truly  we  do  but  grope  here  in  the  dark, 
Near  the  partition-wall  of  Life  and  Death, 
At  every  moment  dreading  or  desiring 
To  lay  our  hands  upon  the  unseen  door  ! 
Let  us,  then,  labor  for  an  inward  stillness,  — 
An  inward  stillness  and  an  inward  healing  ; 
That   perfect  silence    where    the   lips  and 

heart 

Are  still,  and  we  no  longer  entertain 
Our  own  imperfect  thoughts  and  vain  opin 
ions, 

But  God  alone  speaks  in  us,  and  we  wait 
In  singleness  of  heart,  that  we  may  know 
His  will,  and  in  the  silence  of  our  spirits, 
That  we  may  do  His  will,  and  do  that  only  ! 
A  long  pause,  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  a  drum 

approaching ;  then  shouts  in  the  street,  and  a 

loud  knocking  at  the  door. 


Within  there  ! 


MARSHAL. 

Open  the  door ! 

MERRY. 

Will  no  one  answer  ? 


MARSHAL. 

In  the  King's  name  !     Within  there  ! 

MERRY. 

Open  the  door  ! 

UPSALL  (from  the  window). 

It  is  not  barred.  Come  in.  Nothing  pre 
vents  you. 

The  poor  man's  door  is  ever  on  the  latch. 

He  needs  no  bolt  nor  bar  to  shut  out 
thieves  ; 

He  fears  no  enemies,  and  has  no  friends 

Importunate  enough  to  need  a  key. 

Enter  JOHN  ENDICOTT,  the  MARSHAL,  MERRY, 
and  a  crowd.  Seeing  the  Quakers  silent  and 
unmoved,  they  pause,  awe-struck.  ENDICOTT 
opposite  EDITH. 

MARSHAL. 

In  the  King's  name  do  I  arrest  you  all  ! 
Away  with  them  to  prison.    Master  Upsall, 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


471 


You  are  again  discovered  harboring  here 
These  ranters  and  disturbers  of  the  peace. 
You  know  the  law. 

UPSALL. 

I  know  it,  and  am  ready 
To  suffer  yet  again  its  penalties. 

EDITH  (to  ENDICOTT). 
Why  dost  thou  persecute  me,  Saul  of  Tar 


sus  ? 


ACT   II 


SCENE   I.  —  JOHN  ENDICOTT'S  room.     Early 
morning. 

JOHN    ENDICOTT. 

"  Why   dost   thou    persecute   me,    Saul  of 
Tarsus  V  " 

All  night  these  words  were  ringing  in  mine 
ears  ! 

A   sorrowful    sweet    face  ;    a    look     that 
pierced  me 

With  meek  reproach  ;  a  voice  of  resigna 
tion 

That  had  a  life  of  suffering  in  its  tone  ; 

And  that  was   all  !    And  yet  I  could  not 
sleep, 

Or,  when  I   slept,  I   dreamed   that  awful 
dream  ! 

I  stood  beneath  the  elm-tree  on  the  Com 
mon 

On  which  the  Quakers  have  been  hanged, 
and  heard 

A  voice,  not  hers,  that  cried  amid  the  dark 
ness, 

"  This  is  Aceldama,  the  field  of  blood  ! 

I  will  have  mercy,  and  not  sacrifice  !  " 
Opens  the-window,  and  looks  out. 

The  sun  is  up  already  ;  and  my  heart 

Sickens  and  sinks  within  me  when  I  think 

How  may  tragedies  will  be  enacted 

Before   his   setting.      As    the  earth    rolls 
round, 

It  seems  to  me  a  huge  Ixion's  wheel, 

Upon  whose  whirling  spokes  we  are  bound 
fast, 

And  must  go  with  it  !     Ah,  how  bright  the 
sun 

Strikes  on  the  sea  and  on  the  masts  of  ves 
sels, 

That  are  uplifted  in  the  morning  air, 

Like  crosses  of  some  peaceable  crusade  ! 

It   makes   me   long   to   sail   for  lands  un 
known, 


No     matter     whither !        Under    me,     in 

shadow, 

Gloomy  and  narrow  lies  the  little  town, 
Still  sleeping,  but  to  wake  and  toil  awhile, 
Then  sleep  again.     How  dismal  looks  the 

prison, 
How    grim     and    sombre    in   the   sunless 

street,  — 
The  prison  where  she  sleeps,  or  wakes  and 

waits 

For  what  I  dare  not  think  of,  —  death,  per 
haps  ! 

A  word  that  has  been  said  may  be.unsaid  : 
It  is  but  air.     But  when  a  deed  is  done 
It  cannot  be  undone,  nor  can  out-  thoughts 
Reach   out    to  all  the  mischiefs  that  may 

follow. 
'T  is  time  for  morning  prayers.     I  will  go 

down. 

My  father,  though  severe,  is  kind  and  just  ; 
And  when  his  heart  is  tender    with  devo 
tion,  — 
When  from  his  lips  have  fallen  the  words, 

"  Forgive  us 

As  we  forgive,"  —  then  will  I  intercede 
For   these    poor  people,  and  perhaps  may 
save  them.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.  —  Dock  Square.  On  one  side,  the 
tavern  of  the  Three  Mariners.  In  the  back 
ground,  a  quaint  building  with  gables ;  and, 
beyond  it,  wharves  and  shipping.  CAPTAIN 
KEMPTHORN  and  others  seated  at  a  table  be 
fore  the  door.  SAMUEL  COLE  standing  near 
them. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Come,   drink   about !      Remember  Parson 

Melham, 
And  bless  the  man  who  first  invented  flip  ! 

They  drink. 

COLE. 

Pray,  Master  Kempthorn,  where  were  you 
last  night  ? 

KEMPTHORN. 

On  board  the  Swallow,  Simon  Kempthorn, 

master, 
Up    for   Barbadoes,   and    the    Windward 

Islands. 

COLE. 
The  town  was  in  a  tumult. 


KEMPTHORN. 


And  for  what  ? 


472 


CHRISTUS:    A    MYSTERY 


COLE. 

Your  Quakers  were  arrested. 

KEMPTHORN. 

How  my  Quakers  ? 

COLE. 

Those  you  brought  in  your  vessel  from  Bar- 

badoes. 

They  made  an  uproar  in  the  Meeting-house 
Yesterday,  and  they  're  now  in  prison  for 

it. 

I  owe  you  little  thanks  for  bringing  them 
To  the  Three  Mariners. 

KEMPTHORN. 

They  have  not  harmed  you. 
I    tell    you,    Goodman   Cole,  that  Quaker 

girl 
Is  precious  as  a  sea-bream's   eye.     I   tell 

you 

It  was  a  lucky  day  when  first  she  set 
Her  little  foot  upon  the  Swallow's  deck, 
Bringing  good  luck,  fair  winds,  and  pleasant 

weather. 

COLE. 

I  am  a  law-abiding  citizen  ; 
I  have  a  seat  in  the  new  Meeting-house, 
A  cow-right  on  the  Common  ;  and,  besides, 
Am  corporal  in  the  Great  Artillery. 
I  rid  me  of  the  vagabonds  at  once. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Why  should  you  not  have  Quakers  at  your 

tavern 
If  you  have  fiddlers  ? 

COLE. 

Never  !  never  !  never  ! 

If  you  want  fiddling  you  must  go .  else 
where, 

To  the  Green  Dragon  and  the  Admiral 
Vernon, 

And  other  such  disreputable  places. 

But  the  Three  Mariners  is  an  orderly 
house, 

Most  orderly,  quiet,  and  respectable. 

Lord  Leigh  said  he  could  be  as  quiet  here 

As  at  the  Governor's.     And  have  I  not 

King  Charles's  Twelve  Good  Rules,  all 
framed  and  glazed, 

Hanging  in  my  best  parlor  ? 


KEMPTHORN. 

Here  's  a  health 
To  good  King  Charles.     Will  you  not  drink 

the  King  ? 
Then  drink  confusion  to  old  Parson  Palmer. 

COLE. 

And  who  is  Parson  Palmer  ?  I  don't  know 
him. 

KEMPTHORN. 

He  had  his  cellar  underneath  his  pulpit, 
And  so  preached  o'er  his  liquor,  just  as  you 
do. 

A  drum  within. 

COLE. 
Here  comes  the  Marshal. 

MERRY  (within). 
Make  room  for  the  Marshal. 

KEMPTHORN. 

How  pompous  and  imposing  he  appears  ! 

His  great  buff  doublet  bellying  like  a  main 
sail, 

And  all  his  streamers  fluttering  in  the 
wind. 

What  holds  he  in  his  hand  ? 

COLE. 

A  proclamation. 

Enter  the  MARSHAL,  with  a  proclamation ;  and 
MERRY,  with  a  hulbird.  They  are  preceded 
by  a  drummer,  and  followed  by  the  hanyinan, 
with  an  armful  of  books,  and  a  crowd  of  people, 
among  whom  are  UPSALL  and  JOHN  ENDI- 
COTT.  A  pile  is  made  of  the  books. 

MERRY.  Tf» 

Silence,  the  drum  !     Good  citizens,  attend 
To  the  new  laws  enacted  by  the  Court. 

MARSHAL  (reads). 

"Whereas  a  cursed  sect  of  Heretics 
lias  lately  risen,  commonly  called  Quakers, 
Who  take  upon  themselves  to  be  commis 
sioned 

Immediately  of  God,  and  furthermore 
Infallibly  assisted  by  the  Spirit 
To  write  and  utter  blasphemous  opinions, 
Despising    Government   and   the    order  of 

God 

In  Church  and  Commonwealth,  and  speak 
ing  evil 
Of  Dignities,  reproaching  and  reviling 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


473 


The  Magistrates  and  Ministers,  aud  seek 
ing 
To  turn  the  people  from  their  faith,  and 

thus 

Gain  proselytes  to  their  pernicious  ways  ;  — 
This  Court,  considering  the  premises, 
And  to  prevent  like  mischief  as  is  wrought 
By  their  means   in  our  land,  doth  hereby 

order, 

That  whatsoever  master  or  commander 
Of   any    ship,  bark,    pink,    or   catch   shall 

bring 

To  any  roadstead,  harbor,  creek,  or  cove 
Within  this  Jurisdiction  any  Quakers, 
Or  other  blasphemous  Heretics,  shall  pay 
Unto  the  Treasurer  of  the  Commonwealth 
One    hundred    pounds,    aud    for    default 

thereof 

Be  put  in  prison,  and  continue  there 
Till  the  said  sum  be  satisfied  and  paid." 

COLE. 

Now,  Simon  Kempthorn,  what  say  you  to 
that? 

KEMPTHORN. 

I    pray    you,   Cole,   lend    me   a   hundred 
pounds ! 

MARSHAL  (reads). 

"  If  any  one  within  this  Jurisdiction 
Shall  henceforth  entertain,  or  shall  conceal 
Quakers,  or  other  blasphemous  Heretics, 
Knowing  them  so  to  be,  every  such  person 
Shall  forfeit  to  the  country  forty  shillings 
For  each  hour's  entertainment  or  conceal 
ment, 

And  shall  be  sent  to  prison,  as  aforesaid, 
Until  the  forfeiture  be  wholly  paid." 
Murmurs  in  the  crowd. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Now,  Goodman  Cole,  I  think  your  turn  has 
come  ! 

COLE. 
Knowing  them  so  to  be  ! 

KEMPTHORN. 

At  forty  shillings 

The   hour,  your  fine  will   be    some   forty 
pounds ! 

COLE. 
Knowing  them  so  to  be  !     That  is  the  law. 


MARSHAL  (reads). 

"  And  it  is  further  ordered  and  enacted, 
If  any  Quaker  or  Quakers  shall  presume 
To  come  henceforth  into  this  Jurisdiction, 
Every  male  Quaker  for  the  first  offence 
Shall  have  one  ear  cut  off  ;  and  shall  be  kept 
At  labor  in  the  Workhouse,  till  such  time 
As  he  be  sent  away  at  his  own  charge. 
And  for  the  repel ition  of  the  offence 
Shall  have  his  other  ear  cut  off,  and  then 
Be  branded  in  the  palm  of  his  right  hand. 
And  every  woman  Quaker  shall  be  whipt 
Severely  in  three  towns  ;  and  every  Quaker, 
Or  he  or  she,  that  shall  for  a  third  time 
Herein     again     offend,    shall     have    their 

tongues 

Bored  through  with  a  hot  iron,  and  shall  be 
Sentenced     to     Banishment     on     pain    of 

Death." 

Loud  murmurs.     The  voice  O/CHRISTISON  in  the 
crowd. 

0  patience  of  the  Lord  !     How  long,  how 

long, 
Ere  thou  avenge  the  blood  of  Thine  Elect  ? 

MERRY. 

Silence,  there,  silence  !     Do  not  break  the 
peace  ! 

MARSHAL  (reads). 

"  Every  inhabitant  of  this  Jurisdiction 
Who  shall  defend  the  horrible  opinions 
Of  Quakers,  by  denying  due  respect 
To  equals  and  superiors,  and  withdrawing 
From  Church  Assemblies,  and  thereby  ap 
proving 

The  abusive  and  destructive  practices 
Of  this  accursed  sect,  in  opposition 
To  all  the  orthodox  received  opinions 
Of   godly   men,  shall   be   forthwith    com 
mitted 

Unto  close  prison  for  one  month  ;  and  then 
Refusing  to  retract  and  to  reform 
The  opinions  as  aforesaid,  he  shall  be 
Sentenced  to  Banishment  en  pain  of  Death. 
By  the  Court.    Edward  Rawson,  Secretary." 
Now,  hangman,  do  your  duty.     Burn  those 

books. 

Loud  murmurs  in  the  crowd.     The  pile  of  books 
is  lighted. 

UPSALL. 

1  testify  against  these  cruel  laws  ! 
Forerunners  are  they  of  some  judgment  on 


474 


CHRTSTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


And,  in  the  love  and  tenderness  I  bear 
Unto  this  town  and  people,  I  beseech  you, 

0  Magistrates,  take  heed,  lest  ye  be  found 
As  fighters  against  God  ! 

JOHN  ENDICOTT  (taking  UPSALL'S  hand). 

Upsall,  I  thank  you 
For  speaking  words  such  as  some  younger 

man, 

I,  or  another,  should  have  said  before  you. 
Such  laws  as  these  are  cruel  and  oppres 
sive  ; 

A  blot  on  this  fair  town,  and  a  disgrace 
To  any  Christian  people. 

MERRY  (aside,  listening  behind  them). 

Here  's  sedition  ! 

1  never  thought  that  any  good  would  come 
Of  this  young  popinjay,  with  his  long  hair 
And  his  great  boots,  fit  only  for  the  Rus 
sians 

Or  barbarous  Indians,  as  his  father  says  ! 

THE  VOICE. 

Woe  to  the  bloody  town  !     And  rightfully 
Men  call  it  the  Lost  Town  !     The  blood  of 

Abel 
Cries   from   the   ground,  and  at  the  final 

judgment 
The  Lord  will  say,  "  Cain,  Cain  !  where  is 

thy  brother  ?  " 

MERRY. 

Silence  there  in  the  crowd  ! 

UPSALL  (aside). 

T  is  Christison  ! 

THE  VOICE. 

O  foolish  people,  ye  that  think  to  burn 
And  to  consume  the  truth  of   God,  I  tell 

you 

That  every  flame  is  a  loud  tongue  of  fire 
To  publish  it  abroad  to  all  the  world   . 
Louder  than  tongues  of  men  ! 

KEMPTHORN  (springing  to  his  feet). 

Well  said,  my  hearty  ! 
There  's  a  brave  fellow  !    There 's  a  man  of 

pluck  ! 

A  man  who  's  not  afraid  to  say  his  say, 
Though  a  whole  town 's  against  him.    Rain, 

rain,  rain, 
Bones  of  St.  Botolph,  and  put  out  this  fire  ! 

The  drum  beats.  Exeunt  all  but  MERRY,  KEMP- 
THORN,  and  COLE. 


MERRY. 

And  now  that  matter  's  ended,    Goodman 

Cole, 
Fetch  me  a  mug  of  ale,  your  strongest  ale. 

KEMPTHORN  (sitting  down). 
And  me  another  mug  of  flip  ;  and  put 
Two  gills  of  brandy  in  it. 

[Exit  COLE. 

MERRY. 

No  ;  no  more. 

Not  a   drop   more,    I  say.      You  've   had 
enough. 

KEMPTHORN. 

And  who  are  you,  sir  ? 

MERRY. 

I  'm  a  Tithing-man, 
And  Merry  is  my  name. 

KEMPTHORN. 

A  merry  name  ! 

I  like  it  ;  and  I  '11  drink  your  merry  health 
Till  all  is  blue. 

MERRY. 

And  then  you  will  be  clapped 
Into  the  stocks,  with  the  red  letter  D 
Hung  round  about  your  neck  for  drunken 
ness. 

You're  a  free-drinker,  —  yes,  and  a  free 
thinker  ! 

KEMPTHORN. 

And  you   ?re   Andrew   Merry,   or   Merry 
Andrew. 

MERRY. 

My  name  is  Walter  Merry,  and  not  An 
drew. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Andrew  or  Walter,  you  're  a  merry  fellow  ; 
I  '11  swear  to  that. 

MERRY. 

No  swearing,  let  me  tell  you. 
The  other  day  one  Shorthose  had  his  tongue 
Put  into  a  cleft  stick  for  profane  swearing. 
COLE  brings  the  ale. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Well,  where 's   my  flip  ?     As  sure  as  my 
name  's  Kempthorn  — 

MERRY. 

Is  your  name  Kempthorn  ? 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


475 


KEMPTHORN. 

That 's  the  name  I  go  by. 

MERRY. 

What,  Captain  Simon   Kemp  thorn  of  the 
Swallow  ? 


No  other. 


KEMPTHORK. 


MERRY  (touching  him  on  the  shoulder). 

Then  you  're  wanted.     I  arrest  you 
In  the  King's  name. 

KEMPTHORN. 

And  where  's  your  warrant  ? 

MERRY  (unfolding  a  paper,  and  reading). 

Here. 

Listen  to  me.     "  Hereby  you  are  required, 
In   the    King's  name,    to    apprehend    the 

body 

Of  Simon  Kempthorn,  mariner,  and  him 
Safely  to  bring  before  me,  there  to  answer 
All  such  objections  as  are  laid  to  him, 
Touching    the    Quakers."      Signed,    John 

Endicott. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Has  it  the  Governor's  seal  ? 


MERRY. 


Ay,  here  it  is. 


KEMPTHORN. 

Death's   head   and  cross-bones.     That 's  a 
pirate's  flag  ! 

MERRY. 

Beware  how  you  revile  the  Magistrates  ; 
You  may  be  whipped  for  that. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Then  mum  's  the  word. 
Exeunt  MERRY  and  KEMPTHORN. 

COLE. 
There  's  mischief  brewing  !     Sure,  there 's 

mischief  brewing  ! 

I  feel  like  Master  Josselyn  when  he  found 
The   hornet's   nest,   and   thought    it   some 

strange  fruit, 
Until   the    seeds   came   out,   and   then   he 

dropped  it.  .       [Exit. 


SCENE  III.  —  A  room  in  the  Governor's  house. 
Enter  GOVERNOR  ENDICOTT  and  MERRY. 

ENDICOTT. 
My  son,  you  say  ? 

MERRY. 

Your  Worship's  eldest  son. 

ENDICOTT. 

Speaking  against  the  laws  ? 

MERRY. 

Ay,  worshipful  sir. 

ENDICOTT. 

And  in  the  public  market-place  ? 

MERRY. 

I  saw  him 

With  my  own  eyes,  heard   him  with   my 
own  ears. 


Impossible  ! 


ENDICOTT. 


MERRY. 

He  stood  there  in  the  crowd 
With     Nicholas    Upsall,    when   the    laws 

were  read 
To-day  against  the  Quakers,  and  I  heard 

him 

Denounce  and  vilipend  them  as  unjust, 
And  cruel,  wicked,  and  abominable. 

ENDICOTT. 
Ungrateful   son  !      O    God  !    thou   layest 

upon  me 

A  burden  heavier  than  I  can  bear  ! 
Surely  the  power  of  Satan  must  be  great 
Upon  the  earth,  if  even  the  elect 
Are   thus   deceived    and   fall   away   from 

grace  ! 

MERRY. 
Worshipful  sir  !  I  meant  no  harm  — 

ENDICOTT. 

»T  is  well. 
You  Ve   done   your   duty,   though   you  've 

done  it  roughly, 
And  every  word  you  've  uttered  since  you 

came 
Has  stabbed  me  to  the  heart  ! 


MERRY. 


I  do  beseech 


Your  Worship's  pardon  ! 


476 


CHRISTUS:    A    MYSTERY 


ENDICOTT. 

He  whom  I  have  nurtured 
Aiid  brought  up  in   the  reverence  of  the 

Lord  ! 

The  child  of  all  my  hopes  and  my  affec 
tions  ! 

He  upon  whom  I  leaned  as  a  sure  staff 
For  my  old  age  !     It  is  God's  chastisement 
For  leaning  upon  any  arm  but  His  ! 

MERRY. 
Your  Worship  !  — 

ENDICOTT. 

And  this  comes  from  holding  parley 
With  the  delusions  and  deceits  of  Satan. 
At  once,  forever,  must  they  be  crushed  out, 
Or  all  the  land  will  reek  with  heresy  ! 
Pray,  have  you  any  children  ? 

MERRY. 

No,  not  any. 

ENDICOTT. 

Thank  God  for  that.  He  has  delivered 
you 

From  a  great  care.  Enough  ;  my  private 
griefs 

Too  long  have  kept  me  from  the  public  ser 
vice. 

Exit  MERRY.    ENDICOTT   seats  himself  at  the 
table  and  arranges  his  papers. 

The  hour  has  come  ;  and  I  am  eager  now 
To  sit  in  judgment  on  these  Heretics. 

A.  knock. 
Come  in.     Who  is  it  ?     (Not  looking  up). 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

It  is  I. 

ENDICOTT  (restraining  himself). 

Sit  down  ! 

JOHN  ENDICOTT  (sitting  down). 
I  come  to  intercede  for  these  poor  people 
Who  are  in  prison,  and  await  their  trial. 

ENDICOTT. 

It  is  of  them  I  wish  to  speak  with  you. 

I    have   been   angry   with   you,    but   't  is 

passed. 

For  when  I  hear  your  footsteps  come  or  go, 
See  in  your  features   your  dead   mother's 

face, 
And  in  your  voice  detect  some  tone  of  hers, 


All  anger  vanishes,  and  I  remember 

The  days  that  are  no  more,  and  come  no 

more, 

When  as  a  child  you  sat  upon  my  knee, 
And  prattled  of  your   playthings,  and  the 

games 
You   played  among  the  pear  trees  in  the 

orchard  ! 

JOHN    ENDICOTT. 

Oh,  let  the  memory  of  my  noble  mother 
Plead  with  you  to  be  mild  and  merciful  1 
For  mercy  more  becomes  a  Magistrate 
Than  the  vindictive  wrath  which  men  call 
justice  ! 

ENDICOTT. 

The  sin  of  heresy  is  a  deadly  sin. 

'T  is  like  the  falling  of  the  snow,  whose 
crystals 

The  traveller  plays  with,  thoughtless  of  his 
danger, 

Until  he  sees  the  air  so  full  of  light 

That  it  is  dark  ;  and  blindly  staggering  on 
ward, 

Lost  and  bewildered,  he  sits  down  to  rest ; 

There  falls  a  pleasant  drowsiness  upon 
him, 

And  what  he  thinks  is  sleep,  alas  !  is  death. 

JOHN   ENDICOTT. 

And    yet    who    is   there   that    has   never 

doubted  ? 

And  doubting  and  believing,  has  not  said, 
"  Lord,   I    believe  ;    help   thou   my   unbe 
lief"? 

ENDICOTT. 

In  the  same  way  we  trifle  with  our  doubts, 
Whose  shining  shapes  are  like  the  stars  de 
scending  ; 

Until  at  last,  bewildered  and  dismayed, 
Blinded  by  that  which  seemed  to  give  us 

light, 
We  sink  to  sleep,  and  find  that  it  is  death, 

Rising. 

Death  to  the  soul  through  all  eternity  ! 
Alas  that  I  should  see  you  growing  up 
To  man's  estate,  and  in  the  admonition 
And  nurture  of  the  Law,  to  find  you  now 
Pleading  for  Heretics  ! 

JOHN  ENDICOTT  (rising). 

In  the  sight  of  God, 

Perhaps  all  men  are  Heretics.     Who  dares 
To  say  that  he  alone  has  found  the  truth  ? 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


477 


We  cannot  always  feel  and  think  and  act 
As  those  who  go  before  us.     Had  you  done 

so, 
You  would  not  now  be  here. 

ENDICOTT. 

Have  you  forgotten 
The   doom   of  Heretics,   and  the   fate   of 

those 
Who  aid  and  comfort   them  ?     Have  you 

forgotten 

That  in  the  market-place  this  very  day 
You  trampled  on  the  laws  ?     What  right 

have  you, 

An  inexperienced  and  untravelled  youth, 
To  sit  in  judgment  here  upon  the  acts 
Of  older  men  and  wiser  than  yourself, 
Thus  stirring  up  sedition  in  the  streets, 
And  making  me  a  byword  and  a  jest  ? 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Words  of  an  inexperienced  youth  like  me 
Were  powerless  if  the  acts  of  older  men 
Went  not  before  them.     'T  is   these   laws 

themselves 
Stir  up  sedition,  not  my  judgment  of  them. 

ENDICOTT. 

Take  heed,  lest  I  be  called,  as  Brutus  was, 
To  be  the  judge  of  my  own  son  !     Begone  ! 
When  you  are  tired  of  feeding  upon  husks, 
Return  again  to  duty  and  submission^ 
But  not  till  then. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

I  hear  and  I  obey  ! 

[Exit. 

ENDICOTT. 

Oh  happy,  happy  they  who  have  no  chil 
dren  ! 

He 's  gone  !  I  hear  the  hall  door  shut  be 
hind  him. 

It  sends  a  dismal  echo  through  my  heart, 

As  if  forever  it  had  closed  between  us, 

And  I  should  look  upon  his  face  no  more  ! 

Oh,     this    will     drag    me    down  into    my 
grave,— 

To  that  eternal  resting-place  wherein 

Man  lieth  down,  and  riseth  not  again  ! 

Till  the  heavens  be  no  more  he  shall  not 
wake, 

Nor  be  roused  from   his  sleep  ;    for  Thou 
dost  change 

His  countenance,  and  sendest  him  away  ! 

{.Exit. 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I.  — The  Court  of  Assistants.  ENDICOTT, 
BELLINGHAM,  ATHERTON,  and  other  magis 
trates.  KEMPTHORN,  MERRY,  and  constables. 
Afterwards  WHARTCN,  EDITH,  and  CHEIS- 
TISON. 

ENDICOTT. 

Call  Captain  Simon  Kempthorn. 

MERRY. 

Simon  Kempthorn, 
Come  to  the  bar  ! 

KEMPTHORN  comes  forward . 

ENDICOTT. 

You  are  accused  of  bringing 

Into  this  Jurisdiction,  from  Barbadoes, 

Some  persons  of  that  sort  and  sect  of 
people 

Known  by  the  name  of  Quakers,  and  main 
taining 

Most  dangerous  and  heretical  opinions  ; 

Purposely  coming  here  to  propagate 

Their  heresies  and  errors  ;  bringing  with 
them 

And  spreading  sundry  books  here,  which 
contain 

Their  doctrines  most  corrupt  and  blasphe 
mous, 

And  contrary  to  the  truth  professed  among 
us. 

What  say  you  to  this  charge  ? 

KEMPTHORN. 

I  do  acknowledge, 

Among  the  passengers  on  board  the  Swal 
low 

Were  certain  persons  saying  Thee  and 
Thou. 

They  seemed  a  harmless  people,  mostways 
silent, 

Particularly  when  they  said  their  prayers. 

ENDICOTT. 

Harmless  and  silent  as  the  pestilence  ! 

You  'd  better  have  brought  the  fever  or  the 
plague 

Among  us  in  your  ship  !  Therefore,  this 
Court, 

For  preservation  of  the  Peace  and  Truth, 

Hereby  commands  you  speedily  to  trans 
port, 

Or  cause  to  be  transported  speedily. 


478 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


The    aforesaid    persons   hence   unto   Bar- 

badoes, 
From  whence  they  came  ;   you  paying  all 

the  charges 
Of  their  imprisonment. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Worshipful  sir, 
No  ship  e'er  prospered   that   has   carried 

Quakers 
Against    their    will !      I    knew    a    vessel 

once  — 

ENDICOTT. 

And  for  the  more  effectual  performance 
Hereof  you  are  to  give  security 
In  bonds  amounting  to  one  hundred  pounds. 
On  your  refusal,  you  will  be  committed 
To  prison  till  you  do  it. 

KEMPTHORN. 

But  you  see 

I  cannot  do  it.     The  law,  sir,  of  Barbadoes 
Forbids  the  landing  Quakers  on  the  island. 

ENDICOTT. 

Then  you  will  be  committed.      Who  comes 
" next  ? 

MERRY. 

There  is  another  charge  against  the  Cap 
tain. 

ENDICOTT. 

What  is  it  ? 

MERRY. 

Profane  swearing,  please  your  Worship. 
He  cursed  and  swore  from  Dock  Square  to 
the  Court-house. 

EKDICOTT. 

Then  let  him  stand  in  the  pillor}r  for  one 
hour. 

[Exit  KEMPTHORN  with  constable. 
Who's  next? 

MERRY. 

The  Quakers. 

ENDICOTT. 

Call  them. 

MERRY. 

Edward  Wharton, 
Come  to  the  bar  ! 

WHARTON. 

Yea,  even  to  the  bench. 


ENDICOTT. 

Take  off  your  hat. 

WHARTON. 

My  hat  offendeth  not. 
If  it  offendeth  any,  let  him  take  it  ; 
For  I  shall  not  resist. 

ENDICOTT. 

Take  off  his  hat. 

Let  him  be  fined  ten  shillings  for  contempt 
MERRY  takes  off  WHARTON'S  hat. 

WHARTON. 

What  evil  have  I  done  ? 

ENDICOTT. 

Your  hair 's  too  long  ; 
And  in  not  putting  off  your  hat  to  us 
You  've   disobeyed  and  broken  that   com 
mandment 

Which  sayeth  "  Honor  thy  father  and  thy 
mother." 

WHARTON. 

John  Endicott,  thou  art  become  too  proud  ; 
And  lovest  him  who  putteth  off  the  hat, 
And  honoreth  thee  by  bowing  of  the  body, 
And  sayeth  "  Worshipful  sir  !  "     'T  is  time 

for  thee 

To  give  such  follies  over,  for  thou  mayest 
Be  drawing  very  near  unto  thy  grave. 

ENDICOTT. 

Now,  sirrah,  leave  your  canting.    Take  the 
oath. 

WHARTON. 
Nay,  sirrah  me  no  sirrahs  ! 

ENDICOTT. 

Will  you  swear  ? 

WHARTON. 

Nay,  I  will  not. 

ENDICOTT. 

You  made  a  great  disturbance 
And   uproar    yesterday   in   the    Meeting 
house, 
Having  jour  hat  on. 

WHARTON. 

I  made  no  disturbance  ; 
For  peacefully  I  stood,  like  other  people. 
I  spake  no  words  ;  moved  against  none  my 
hand  ; 


THE   NEW    ENGLAND   TRAGEDIES 


479 


But  by  the  hair  they  haled   me  out,  and 

dasiied 
Their  books  into  my  face. 

ENDICOTT. 

You,  Edward  Wharton, 
On  pain  of  death,  depart  this  Jurisdiction 
Within  ten  days.     Such  is  your  sentence. 
Go. 

WHARTON. 

John  Endicott,  it  had  been  well  for  thee 
If  this  day's  doings  thou  hadst  left  undone. 
But,  banish  me  as  far  as  Uiou  hast  power, 
Beyond  the  guard  and  presence  of  my  God 
Thou  canst  not  banish  me  ! 

ENDICOTT. 

Depart  the  Court  ; 

We  have  no  time  to  listen  to  your  babble. 
Who 's  next  ?  [Exit  WHARTON. 

MERRY. 

This  woman,  for  the  same  offence. 
EDITH  comes  forward. 

ENDICOTT. 

What  is  your  name  ? 


'T  is  to  the  world  unknown, 
But  written  in  the  Book  of  Life. 

ENDICOTT. 

Take  heed 

It  be  not  written  in  the  Book  of  Death  1 
What  is  it  ? 

EDITH. 

Edith  Christison. 

ENDICOTT  (with  eagerness). 

The  daughter 
Of  Wenlock  Christison? 


I  am  his  daughter. 

ENDICOTT. 
Your  father  hath  given  us  trouble   many 

times. 

A  bold  man  and  a  violent,  who  sets 
At  naught  the  authority  of  our  Church  and 

State, 

And  is  in  banishment  on  pain  of  death. 
Where  are  you  living  ? 


EDITH. 
In  the  Lord. 

ENDICOTT. 

Without  evasion.     Where  ? 


Make  answer 


Is  in  Barbadoes. 


My  outward  being 


ENDICOTT. 
Then  why  come  you  here  ? 

EDITH. 
I  come  upon  an  errand  of  the  Lord. 

ENDICOTT. 

'T  is  not  the  business  of  the  Lord  you  're 

doing; 

It  is  the  Devil's.     Will  you  take  the  oath  ? 
Give  her  the  Book. 

MERRY  offers  the  book. 

EDITH. 

You  offer  me  this  Book 

To  swear  on ;  and  it  saith,  "  Swear  not  at 
all, 

Neither  by  heaven,  because  it  is  God's 
Throne, 

Nor  by  the  earth,  because  it  is  his  foot 
stool  ! " 

I  dare  not  swear. 

ENDICOTT. 

You  dare  not  ?     Yet  you  Quakers 
Deny  this  Book  of  Holy  Writ,  the  Bible, 
To  be  the  Word  of  God. 

EDITH  (reverentially). 

Christ  is  the  Word, 
The  everlasting  oath  of  God.     I  dare  not. 

ENDICOTT. 

You  own  yourself  a  Quaker, —  do  you  not  ? 

EDITH. 

I  own  that  in  derision  and  reproach 
I  am  so  called. 

ENDICOTT. 

Then  you  deny  the  Scripture 
To  be  the  rule  of  life. 


480 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


EDITH. 

Yea,  I  believe 
The  Inner   Light,  and  not    the    Written 

Word, 
To  be  the  rule  of  life. 

ENDICOTT. 

And  you  deny 
That  the  Lord's  Day  is  holy. 


Is 


EDITH. 

Every  day 
It  runs  through   all 


the  Lord's   Day. 

our  lives, 

As  through  the  pages  of  the  Holy  Bible, 
«*  Thus  saith  the  Lord." 


ENDICOTT. 


You  are  accused  of  making 
An  horrible  disturbance,  and  affrighting 
The  people  in  the  Meeting-house  on  Sun 
day. 
What  answer  make  you  ? 


I  do  not  deny 

That  I  was  present  in  your  Steeple-house 
On  the  First  Day  ;  but  I  made  no  disturb 
ance. 

ENDICOTT. 
Why  came  you  there  ? 


Because  the  Lord  commanded. 
His  word  was  in  my  heart,  a  burning  fire 
Shut  up  within  me  and  consuming  me, 
And  I  was  very  weary  with  forbearing  ; 
I  could  not  stay. 

ENDICOTT. 

'T  was  not  the  Lord  that  sent  you  ; 
As  an  incarnate  devil  did  you  come  ! 


On   the   First  Day,   when,  seated  in   my 

chamber, 

I  heard  the  bells  toll,  calling  you  together, 
The  sound  struck  at  my  life,  as  once  at  his, 
The  holy  man,  our  Founder,  when  he  heard 
The  far-off  bells  toll  in  the  Vale  of  Beavor. 
It  sounded  like  a  market  bell  to  call 
The  folk  together,  that  the  Priest  might 

set 


His   wares   to   sale.     And   the  Lord  said 

within  me, 

"  Thou  must  go  cry  aloud  against  that  Idol, 
And  all  the  worshippers  thereof."  I  went 
Barefooted,  clad  in  sackcloth,  and  I  stood 
And  listened  at  the  threshold  ;  and  I  heard 
The  praying  and  the  singing  and  the 

preaching, 

Which  were  but  outward  forms,  and  with 
out  power. 

Then  rose  a  cry  within  me,  and  my  heart 
Was  filled  with  admonitions  and  reproofs. 
Remembering  how  the  Prophets  and  Apos 
tles 

Denounced  the  covetous  hirelings  and  di 
viners, 

I  entered  in,  and  spake  the  words  the  Lord 
Commanded  me  to  speak.  I  could  no  less. 

ENDICOTT. 
Are  you  a  Prophetess  ? 

EDITH. 

Is  it  not  written, 

"  Upon  my  handmaidens  will  I  pour  out 
My  spirit,  and  they  shall  prophesy  "  ? 

ENDICOTT. 

Enough  ; 

For  out  of  your  own  mouth  are  you  con 
demned  ! 
Need  we  hear  further  ? 

THE  JUDGES. 

We  are  satisfied. 

ENDICOTT. 

It  is  sufficient.     Edith  Christison, 

The  sentence  of  the  Court  is,  that  you  be 

Scourged  in  three  towns,  with  forty  stripes 

save  one, 
Then  banished  upon  pain  of  death  ! 

EDITH. 

Your  sentence 

Is  truly  no  more  terrible  to  me 
Than  had  you  blown  a  feather  into  the  air, 
And,  as  it  fell  upon  me,  you  had  said, 
"  Take  heed  it  hurt  thee  not  !  "     God's  will 
be  done  ! 

WENLOCK  CHRISTISON  (unseen  in  the  crowd). 
Woe  to  the  city  of  blood  !     The  stone  shall 
cry 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


481 


Out  of  the  wall  ;  the  beam  from  out  the 

timber 
Shall   answer   it  !      Woe    unto    him   that 

buildeth 

A  town  with  blood,  and  stablisheth  a  city 
By  his  iniquity  ! 

ENDICOTT. 

Who  is  it  makes 
Such  outcry  here  ? 

CHRISTISON  (coming  forward). 

I,  Wenlock  Christison  ! 

ENDICOTT. 

Banished  on  pain  of  death,  why  come  you 
here  ? 

CHRISTISON. 

I  come  to  warn  you  that  you  shed  no  more 
The  blood  of  innocent  men  !  It  cries  aloud 
For  vengeance  to  the  Lord  ! 

ENDICOTT. 

Your  life  is  forfeit 

Unto  the  law  ;  and  you  shall  surely  die, 
And  shall  not  live. 

CHRISTISON. 

Like  unto  Eleazer, 

Maintaining  the  excellence  of  ancient  years 
And  the  honor  of  his  gray  head,  I  stand 

before  you  ; 

Like  him  disdaining  all  hypocrisy, 
Lest,  through  desire  to  live  a  little  longer, 
I  get  a  stain  to  my  old  age  and  name  ! 

ENDICOTT. 

Being  in  banishment,  on  pain  of  death, 
You  come  now  in  among  us  in  rebellion. 

CHRISTISON. 

I  come  not  in  among  you  in  rebellion, 
But  in  obedience  to  the  Lord  of  Heaven. 
Not  in  contempt  to  any  Magistrate, 
But  only  in  the  love  I  bear  your  souls, 
As  ye  shall  know  hereafter,  when  all  men 
Give  an  account  of  deeds  done  in  the  body  ! 
God's   righteous   judgments  ye  cannot  es 
cape. 

ONE  OF  THE  JUDGES. 

Those  who  have  gone  before  you  said  the 

same, 
And  yet  no  judgment  of  the  Lord  hath 

fallen 
Upon  us. 


CHRISTISON. 

He  but  waiteth  till  the  measure 
Of  your  iniquities  shall  be  filled  up, 
And  ye  have  run  your  race.     Then  will  his 

wrath 

Descend  upon  you  to  the  uttermost  ! 
For  thy  part,  Humphrey  Atherton,  it  hangs 
Over  thy  head  already.     It  shall  come 
Suddenly,  as  a  thief  doth  in  the  night, 
And  in  the  hour  when  least  thou  thinkest 

of  it! 

ENDICOTT. 

We  have  a  law,  and  by  that  law  you  die. 

CHRISTISON. 

I,  a  free  man  of  England  and  freeborn, 
Appeal  unto  the  laws  of  mine  own  nation  ! 

ENDICOTT. 
There's   no  appeal  to    England  from  this 

Court  ! 
What !  do  you  think  our  statutes  are  but 

paper  ? 

Are  but  dead  leaves  that  rustle  in  the  wind  ? 
Or  litter  to  be  trampled  under  foot  ? 
What  say  ye,  Judges  of  the  Court,  —  what 

say  ye  ? 
Shall  this  man  suffer4  death  ?     Speak  your 

opinions. 

ONE  OF  THE  JUDGES. 

I  am  a  mortal  man,  and  die  I  must, 
And  that  erelong  ;  and  I  must  then  appear 
Before  the  awful  judgment-seat  of  Christ, 
To  give  account  of  deeds  done  in  the  body. 
My  greatest  glory  on  that  day  will  be, 
That   I   have  given  my  vote   against  this 

man. 

CHRISTISON. 
If,  Thomas    Danforth,  thou   hast   nothing 

more 

To  glory  in  upon  that  dreadful  day 
Than   blood   of  innocent  people,  then  thy 

glory 
Will   be   turned  into   shame  !     The  Lord 

hath  said  it  ! 

ANOTHER  JUDGE. 

I  cannot  give  consent,  while  other  men 
Who   have    been   banished   upon   pain   of 

death 
Are  now  in  their  own  houses  here  among  us. 

ENDICOTT. 
Ye  that  will  not  consent,  make  record  of  it. 


482 


CHRISTUS:   A    MYSTERY 


I  thank  my  God  that  I  am  not  afraid 

To  give  my  judgment.    Wenlock  Christison, 

You   must    be    taken  back  from  hence  to 

prison, 

Thence  to  the  place  of  public  execution, 
There  to  be  hanged  till  you  be  dead  —  dead, 

— dead  ! 

CHRISTISON. 

If  ye  have  power  to  take   my   life   from 

me,  — 
Which  I  do  question,  —  God  hath  power  to 

raise 

The  principle  of  life  in  other  men, 
And    send  them  here  among  you.     There 

shall  be 

No  peace  unto  the  wicked,  saith  my  God. 
Listen,  ye  Magistrates,  for  the  Lord  hath 

said  it ! 

The  day  ye  put  his  servitors  to  death, 
That  day  the  Day  of  your  own  Visitation, 
The  Day  of  Wrath,  shall  pass  above  your 

heads, 
And  ye  shall  be  accursed  forevermore  ! 

To  EDITH,  embracing  her. 
Cheer  up,  dear  heart !  they  have  not  power 

to  harm  us. 

[Exeunt  CHRISTISON  and  EDITH  guarded.    The 
Scene  closes. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  street.    Enter  JOHN  ENDICCTT 
and  UPSALL. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Scourged  in  three  towns  !  and  yet  the  busy 

people 

Go  up  and  down  the  streets  on  their  affairs 
Of  business  or  of  pleasure,  as  if  nothing 
Had   happened  to  disturb  them   or  their 

thoughts  ! 

When  bloody  tragedies  like  this  are  acted, 
The  pulses  of  a  nation  should  stand  still  ; 
The  town  should  be  in  mourning,  and  the 

people 
Speak  only  in  low  whispers  to  each  other. 

UPSALL. 

I  know  this  people  ;  and  that  underneath 
A  cold  outside  there  burns  a  secret  fire 
That  will  find  vent,  and  will  not  be  put  out, 
Till  every  remnant  of  these  barbarous  laws 
Shall  be  to  ashes  burned,  and  blown  away. 

JOHN   ENDICOTT. 

Scourged  in  three  towns  !     It  is  incredible 


Such  things  can  be  !  I  feel  the  blood  within 

me 

Fast  mounting  in  rebellion,  since  in  vain 
Have  I  implored  compassion  of  my  father  ! 

UPSALL. 

You  know  your  father  only  as  a  father  ; 
I  know  him  better  as  a  Magistrate. 
He  is  a  man  both  loving  and  severe  ; 
A  tender  heart  ;  a  will  inflexible. 
None   ever   loved  him    more  than   I  have 

loved  him. 

He  is  an  upright  man  and  a  just  man 
in  all  things   save  the   treatment   of   the 

Quakers. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Yet  I  have  found  him  cruel  and  unjust 
Even  as  a  father.     He  has  driven  me  forth 
Into  the  street  ;  has  shut  his  door  upon  me, 
With  words  of  bitterness.     I  am  as  home 
less 
As  these  poor  Quakers  are. 

UPSALL. 

Then  come  with  me. 
You   shall   be   welcome   for  your   father's 

sake, 

And  the  old  friendship  that  has  been  be 
tween  us. 

He  will  relent  erelong.  A  father's  anger 
Is  like  a  sword  without  a  handle,  piercing 
Both  ways  alike,  and  wounding  him  that 

wields  it 
No  less  than  him  that  it  is  pointed  at. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     The  prison.    Night.    EDITH  read 
ing  the  Bible  by  a  lamp. 

EDITH. 

"  Blessed  are  ye  when  men  shall  persecute 
yon, 

And  shall  revile  you,  and  shall  say  against 
you 

All  manner  of  evil  falsely  for  my  sake  ! 

Rejoice,  and  be  exceeding  glad,  for  great 

Is  your  reward  in  heaven.  For  so  the  pro 
phets, 

Which  were  before  you,  have  been  perse 
cuted." 

Enter  JOHN  ENDICOTT. 


Edith ! 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


483 


EDITH. 

Who  is  it  that  speaketh  ? 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Saul  of  Tarsus  : 
As  thou  didst  call  me  once. 

EDITH  (coming  forward). 

Yea,  I  remember. 
Thou  art  the  Governor's  son. 


am  ashamed 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

] 

Thou  shouldst  remember  me. 

EDITH. 

Why  comest  thou 

Into  this  dark  guest-chamber  in  the  night  ? 
What  seekest  thou  ? 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Forgiveness  ! 

EDITH. 

I  forgive 

All  who  have  injured  me.     What  hast  thou 
done  ? 

JOHN   ENDICOTT. 

I  have  betrayed  thee,  thinking  that  in  this 
I  did  God  service.     Now,   in  deep  contri 
tion, 
I  come  to  rescue  thee. 

EDITH. 

From  what  ? 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 


From  prison. 


EDITH. 

I  am  safe  here  within  these  gloomy  walls. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

From  scourging  in  the  streets,  and  in  three 
towns  ! 

EDITH. 
Remembering  who  was  scourged  for  me,  I 

shrink  not 
Nor  shudder  at  the  forty  stripes  save  one. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Perhaps  from  death  itself  ! 


EDITH. 

I  fear  not  death. 
Knowing  who  died  for  me. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT  (aside). 

Surely  some  divine 

Ambassador  is  speaking  through  those  lips 
And  looking  through  those  eyes  !    I  cannot 
answer  ! 

EDITH. 

If  all  these  prison  doors  stood  opened  wide 
I  would  not  cross  the  threshold,  —  not  one 

step. 

There  are  invisible  bars  I  cannot  break  ; 
There  are  invisible  doors  that  shut  me  in, 
And  keep  me  ever    steadfast    to  my  pur 
pose. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Thou  hast  the  patience  and  the  faith  of 
Saints  ! 

EDITH. 
Thy  Priest  hath  been  with  me  this  day  to 

save  me, 

Not  only  from  the  death  that  comes  to  all, 
But  from  the  second  death  ! 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

The  Pharisee ! 
My    heart    revolts    against    him   and    his 

creed  ! 

Alas  !  the  coat  that  was  without  a  seam. 
Is  rent  asunder  by  contending  sects  ; 
Each  bears  away  a  portion  of  the  garment, 
Blindly  believing  that  he  has  the  whole  ! 

EDITH. 

When  Death,  the  Healer,  shall  have  touched 
our  eyes 

With  moist  clay  of  the  grave,  then  shall  we 
see 

The  truth  as  we  have  never  yet  beheld  it. 

But  he  that  overcorneth  shall  not  be 

Hurt  of  the  second  death.  Has  he  forgot 
ten 

The  many  mansions  in  our  father's  house  ? 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

There  is  no  pity  in  his  iron  heart ! 

The    hands   that  now   bear  stamped  upon 

their  palms 

The  burning  sign  of  Heresy,  hereafter 
Shall  be  uplifted  against  such  accusers, 


484 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


And  then  the  imprinted  letter  and  its  mean 
ing 
Will  not  be  Heresy,  but  Holiness  ! 

EDITH. 

Remember,   thou   condemnest    thine   own 
father  ! 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

I  have  no  father  !     He  has  cast  me  off. 
I  am  as  homeless  as  the  wind  that  moans 
And    wanders    through   the    streets.     Oh, 

come  with  me  ! 

Do  not  delay.     Thy  God  shall  be  my  God, 
And  where  thou  goest  I  will  go. 

EDITH. 

I  cannot. 

Yet  will  I  not  deny  it,  nor  conceal  it  ; 
From  the  first  moment  I  beheld  thy  face 
I  felt  a  tenderness  in  my  soul  towards  thee. 
My   mind   has  since    been   inward   to   the 

Lord, 

Waiting   his  word.     It   has   not  yet  been 
spoken. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

I  cannot  wait.     Trust  me.     Oh,  come  with 
me  ! 

EDITH. 

In  the  next  room,  my  father,  an  old  man, 
Sitteth     imprisoned     and     condemned     to 

death, 

Willing  to  prove  his  faith  by  martyrdom  ; 
And  thinkest  thou  his  daughter  would  do 

less? 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Oh,  life  is  sweet,  and  death  is  terrible  ! 

EDITH. 

I  have  too  long  walked  hand  in  hand  with 

death 

To  shudder  at  that  pale  familiar  face. 
But  leave  me  now.     I  wish  to  be  alone. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Not  yet.     Oh,  let  me  stay. 


Urge  me  no  more. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Alas  !  good-night.     I  will  not  say  good-by  ! 


EDITH. 

Put  this  temptation  underneath  thy  feet. 
To  him  that  overcometh  shall  be  given 
The  white  stone  with  the  new  name  written 

on  it, 
That  no  man   knows   save  him  that  doth 

receive  it, 
And  I  will  give  thee  a  new  name,  and  call 

thae 
Paul  of  Damascus  and  not  Saul  of  Tarsus. 

[Exit  ENDICOTT.    EDITH  sits  down  again  to 
read  the  Bible. 


ACT  IV 

SCENE  I.  —  King  Street,  in  front  of  the  town- 
house.  KEMP  THORN  in  the  pillory.  MERRY 
and  a  crowd  of  lookers-on. 

KEMPTHORN  (sings). 
The  world  is  full  of  care, 

Much  like  unto  a  bubble  ; 
Women  and  care,  and  care  and  women, 

And  women  and  care  and  trouble. 

Good  Master  Merry,  may  I  say  coLfound  ? 

MERRY. 
Ay,  that  you  may. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Well,  then,  with  your  permission. 
Confound  the  Pillory  ! 

MERRY. 

That 's  the  very  thing 
The  joiner  said  who  made  the  Shrewsbury 

stocks. 
He  said,  Confound  the  stocks,  because  they 

put  him 
Into  his  own.     He  was   the  first   man  in 

them. 

KEMPTHORN. 

For  swearing,  was  it  ? 

MERRY. 

No,  it  was  for  charging  ; 
He  charged  the  town  too  much  ;  and  so  the 

town, 
To  make  things  square,  set  him  in  his  own 

stocks, 
And  fined  him  five    pound  sterling,  —  just 

enough 
To  settle  his  own  bill. 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


485 


KEMPTHORN. 

And  served  him  right  ; 
But,  Master  Merry,  is  it  not  eight  bells  ? 

MERRY. 

Not  quite. 

KEMPTHORN. 

For,  do  you  see  ?     I  'm  getting  tired 

Of  being  perched  aloft  here  in  this  cro' 
nest 

Like  the  first  mate  of  a  whaler,  or  a  Middy 

Mast-headed,  looking  out  for  land  !  Sail 
ho! 

flere  comes  a  heavy-laden  merchantman 

With  the  lee  clews  eased  off,  and  running 
free 

Before  the  wind.     A  solid  man  of  Boston. 

A  comfortable  man,  with  dividends, 

And  the  first  salmon,  and  the  first  green 
peas. 

A  gentleman  passes. 

He  does  not  even  turn  his  head  to  look. 

He  's  gone  without  a  word.  Here  comes 
another, 

A  different  kind  of  craft  on  a  taut  bow 
line,  — 

Deacon  Giles  Firmin  the  apothecary, 

A  pious  and  a  ponderous  citizen, 

Looking  as  rubicund  and  round  and  splen 
did 

As  the  great  bottle  in  his  own  shop  win 
dow  ! 

DEACON  FIRMIN  passes. 

And  here  's  my  host  of  the  Three  Mariners, 
My  creditor  and  trusty  taverner, 
My  corporal  in  the  Great  Artillery  ! 
He  's  not  a  man  to  pass  me  without  speak 
ing. 

COLE  looks  away  and  passes. 

Don't  yaw  so  ;  keep  your  luff,  old  hypo 
crite  ! 

Respectable,  ah  yes,  respectable, 

You,  with  your  seat  in  the  new  Meeting 
house, 

Your  cow  -  right  on  the  Common  !  But 
who  's  this  ? 

I  did  not  know  the  Mary  Ann  was  in  ! 

And  yet  this  is  my  old  friend,  Captain 
Goldsmith, 

As  sure  as  I  stand  in  the  bilboes  here. 

Why,  Ralph,  my  boy  ! 

Enter  RALPH  GOLDSMITH. 


GOLDSMITH. 

Why,  Simon,  is  it  you  ? 
Set  in  the  bilboes  ? 

KEMPTHORN. 

Chock-a-block,  you  see, 
And  without  chafing-gear. 

GOLDSMITH. 

And  what 's  it  for  ? 

KEMPTHORN. 

Ask  that  starbowline    with  the   boat-hook 

there, 
That  handsome  man. 

MERRY  (bowing). 

For  swearing. 

KEMPTHORN. 

In  this  town 
They   put   sea-captains   in  the    stocks   for 

swearing, 
And  Quakers  for  not  swearing.     So  look 

out. 

GOLDSMITH. 

I   pray   you   set   him   free  ;   he  meant  no 

harm  ; 
'T  is  an  old  habit  he  picked  up  afloat. 

MERRY. 
WTell,  as  your  time  is  out,  you  may  come 

down. 

The  law  allows  you  now  to  go  at  large 
Like  Elder  Oliver's  horse  upon  the  Com 
mon. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Now,  hearties,  bear  a  hand  !     Let  go  and 
haul. 

KEMPTHORN  is  set  free,  and  comes  forward,  shak 
ing  GOLDSMITH'S  hand. 

KEMPTIIORN. 

Give  me  your  hand,  Ralph.     Ah,  how  good 

it  feels  ! 
The  hand  of  an  old  friend. 

GOLDSMITH. 

God  bless  you,  Simon  ! 

KEMPTHORN. 

Now  let  us  make  a  straight  wake  for  the 
tavern 


486 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


Of  the  Three  Mariners,  Samuel  Cole  com 
mander  ; 

Where  we  can  take  our  ease,  and  see  the 
shipping, 

And  talk  about  old  times. 

GOLDSMITH. 

First  I  must  pay 

My  duty  to  the  Governor,  and  take  him 
His   letters   and   dispatches.      Come  with 
me. 

KEMPTHORN. 

I'd  rather  not.     I  saw  him  yesterday. 

GOLDSMITH. 

Then  wait  for  me  at  the  Three  Nuns  and 
Comh. 

KEMPTHORN. 

I  thank  you.     That 's  too  near  to  the  town 

pump. 

I  will  go  with  you  to  the  Governor's, 
And  wait   outside   there,   sailing   off  and 

on  ; 
If  I  am  wanted,  you  can  hoist  a  signal. 

MERRY. 

Shall  I  go  with  you  and  point  out  the  way  ? 

GOLDSMITH. 

Oh   no,  I  thank  you.     I  am  not  a  stran 
ger 
Here  in  your  crooked  little  town. 

MERRY. 

How  now,  sir  ? 
Do  you  abuse  our  town?  [Exit. 

GOLDSMITH. 

Oh,  no  offence. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Ralph,  I  am  under  bonds  for  a  hundred 
pound. 

GOLDSMITH. 

Hard  lines.     What  for  ? 

KEMPTHORN. 

To  take  some  Quakers  back 
I   brought   here    from   Barbadoes    in   the 

Swallow. 

And  how  to  do  it  I  don't  clearly  see, 
For  one  of  them  is  banished,  and  another 
Is  sentenced  to  be  hanged  !     What  shall  I 

do? 


GOLDSMITH. 

Just    slip   your  hawser    on   some    cloudy 

night  ; 

Sheer   off,    and  pay   it    with   the   topsail, 

Simon !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Street  in  front  of  the  prison.  In 
the  background  a  gateway  and  several  flights 
of  steps  leading  up  terraces  to  the  Governor's 
house.  A  pump  on  one  side  of  the  street. 
JOHN  ENDICOTT,  MERRY,  UPSALL,  and  others. 
A  drum  beats. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Oh  shame,  shame,  shame  ! 

MERRY. 

Yes,  it  would  be  a  shame 
But  for  the  damnable  sin  of  Heresy  1 

JOHN   ENDICOTT. 

A  woman  scourged  and  dragged  about  our 
streets  ! 

MERRY. 

Well,  Roxbury  and  Dorchester  must  take 
Their  share  of  shame.    She  will  be  whipped 

in  each  ! 
Three  towns,  and  Forty  Stripes  save  one  ; 

that  makes 
Thirteen  in  each. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

And  are  we  Jews  or  Christians  ? 
See  where  she  comes,  amid  a  gaping  crowd  ! 
And  she  a  child.     Oh,  pitiful  !  pitiful  ! 
There  's  blood  upon  her  clothes,  her  hands, 
her  feet ! 

Enter  MARSHAL  and  a  drummer,  EDITH, 
stripped  to  the  waist,  followed  by  the  hangman 
with  a  scourge,  and  a  noisy  crowd. 

EDITH. 

Here  let  me  rest  one  moment.     I  am  tired, 
Will  some  one  give  me  water  ? 

MERRY. 

At  his  peril. 

UPSALL. 

Alas  !  that  I  should  live  to  see  this  day  ! 

A  WOMAN. 

Did  I  forsake  my  father  and  my  mother 
And  come  here  to   New   England   to   see 
this? 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


487 


EDITH. 

I  am  athirst.    Will  no  one  give  me  water  ? 

JOHN  ENDICOTT  (making  his   way  through  the 
crowd  with  water). 

In  the  Lord's  name  ! 

EDITH  (drinking). 

In  his  name  I  receive  it ! 
Sweet  as  the  water  of  Samaria's  well 
This   water  tastes.     I   thank   thee.     Is  it 

thou? 
I  was  afraid  thou  hadst  deserted  me. 

JOHN   ENDICOTT. 

Never  will  I  desert  thee,  nor  deny  thee. 
Be  comforted. 

MERRY. 

O  Master  Endicott, 
Be  careful  what  you  say. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Peace,  idle  babbler  ! 

MERRY. 

You  '11  rue  these  words  ! 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Art  thou  not  better  now  ? 

EDITH. 

They  've  struck  me  as  with  roses. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Ah,  these  wounds  ! 
These  bloody  garments  ! 

EDITH. 

It  is  granted  me 
To  seal  my  testimony  with  my  blood. 

JOHN   ENDICOTT. 

O  blood-red  seal  of  man's  vindictive  wrath  ! 

0  roses  of  the  garden  of  the  Lord  ! 
I,  of  the  household  of  Iscariot, 

1  have   betrayed   in   thee   my   Lord    and 

Master  ! 

WENLOCK  CHRISTISON  appears  above,  at  the. 
window  of  the  prison,  stretching  out  his  hands 
through  the  bars. 

CHRISTISON. 

Be  of  good  courage,  O  my  child  !  my  child  ! 
Blessed  art  thou  when  men  shall  persecute 
thee! 


Fear  not  their  faces,  saith  the  Lord,  fear 

not, 
For  I  am  with  thee  to  deliver  thee. 

A  CITIZEN. 
Who  is  it  crying  from  the  prison  yonder  ? 

MERRY. 

It  is  old  Wenlock  Christison. 

CHRISTISON. 

Remember 
Him  who  was  scourged,  and  mocked,  and 

crucified  ! 

I  see  his  messengers  attending  thee. 
Be  steadfast,  oh,  be  steadfast  to  the  end  ! 

EDITH  (with  exultation). 
I  cannot   reach  thee    with  these  arms,    O 

father  ! 

But  closely  in  my  soul  do  I  embrace  thee 
And  hold  "thee.     In  thy  dungeon  and  thy 

death 
I  will  be  with  thee,  and  will  comfort  thee  ! 

MARSHAL. 

Come,  put  an  end  to  this.     Let  the  drum 

beat. 

The  drum  beats.    Exeunt  all  but  JOHN  ENDI 
COTT,  UPSALL,  and  MERRY. 

CHRISTISON. 

Dear  child,  farewell  !  Never  shall  I  be 
hold 

Thy  face  again  with  these  bleared  eyes  of 
flesh  ; 

And  never  wast  thou  fairer,  lovelier,  dearer 

Than  now,  when  scourged  and  bleeding, 
and  insulted 

For  the  truth's  sake.  O  pitiless,  pitiless 
town  ! 

The  wrath  of  God  hangs  over  thee  ;  and 
the  day 

Is  near  at  hand  when  thou  shalt  be  aban 
doned 

To  desolation  and  the  breeding  of  nettles. 

The  bittern  and  the  cormorant  shall  lodge 

Upon  thine  upper  lintels,  and  their  voice 

Sing  in  thy  windows.  Yea,  thus  saith  the 
Lord! 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Awake  !  awake  !  ye  sleepers,  ere  too  late, 
And  wipe  these  bloody  statutes  from  your 
books !  [Exit. 


488 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


MERRY. 

Take  heed ;  the  walls  have  ears  ! 

UPSALL. 

At  last,  the  heart 

Of  every  honest  man  must  speak  or  break  ! 
Enter  GOVERNOR  ENDICOTT  with  his  halberdiers. 

ENDICOTT. 

What  is  this  stir  and  tumult  in  the  street  ? 

MERRY. 

Worshipful  sir,  the  whipping  of  a  girl, 
And  her  old  father  howling  from  the  prison. 

ENDICOTT  (to  his  halberdiers}. 
Go  on. 

CHRISTISON. 

Antioclius  !     Antiochus  ! 
O  thou  that  slayest  the  Maccabees  !     The 

Lord 

Shall  smite  thee  with  incurable  disease, 
And  no  man  shall  endure  to  carry  thee  ! 

MERRY. 

Peace,  old  blasphemer  ! 

CHRISTISON. 

I  both  feel  and  see 
The   presence  and   the  waft  of  death  go 

forth 

Against  thee,  and  already  thou  dost  look 
Like  one  that 's  dead  ! 

MERRY  (pointing). 

And  there  is  your  own  son, 
Worship£ul  sir,  abetting  the  sedition. 

ENDICOTT. 

Arrest  him.     Do  not  spare  him. 

MERRY  (aside). 

His  own  child  ! 

There  is  some  special  providence  takes  care 
That  none  shall  be  too  happy  in  this  world  ! 
His  own  first-born. 

ENDICOTT. 

O  Absalom,  my  son  ! 

[Exeunt;   the  Governor  with  his  halberdiers  as 
cending  the  steps  of  his  house. 

SCENE    III.  —  The    Governor's    private    room. 
Papers  upon  the  table.    ENDICOTT  and  BEL- 

LINGHAM. 

ENDICOTT. 

There  is  a  ship  from  England  has  come  in, 


Bringing  dispatches  and  much  news  from 

home. 

His  Majesty  was  at  the  Abbey  crowned  ; 
And  when  the  coronation  was  complete 
There  passed  a  mighty  tempest  o'er  the  city, 
Portentous    with    great    thunderings    and 

lightnings. 

BELLINGHAM. 

After  his  father's,  if  I  well  remember, 
There  was  an  earthquake,  that  foreboded 
evil. 

ENDICOTT. 

Ten  of  the  Regicides  have  been  put  to  death  ! 
The  bodies  of  Cromwell,  Ireton,  and  Brad- 

shaw 
Have  been  dragged  from  their  graves,  and 

publicly 
Hanged  in  their  shrouds  at  Tyburn. 

BELLINGHAM. 

Horrible  ! 

ENDICOTT. 

Thus  the  old  tyranny  revives  again  ! 
Its  arm  is  long  enough  to  reach  us  here, 
As  you  will  see.     For,  more  insulting  still 
Than   flaunting   in   our   faces  dead   men's 

shrouds, 
Here  is  the  King's  Mandamus,  taking  from 

us, 
From  this  day  forth,  all  power  to  punish 

Quakers. 

BELLINGHAM. 

That  takes  from  us  all  power  ;  we  are  but 

puppets, 
And  can  no  longer  execute  our  laws. 

ENDICOTT. 

His  Majesty  begins  with  pleasant  words, 
"  Trusty  and   well-beloved,  we   greet  you 

well  ; " 
Then  with  a  ruthless  hand  he  strips  from 

me 

All  that  which  makes  me  what  I  am  ;  as  if 
From  some  old  general  in  the  field,  grown 

gray 

In  service,  scarred  with  many  wounds, 
Just  at  the  hour  of  victory,  he  should  strip 
His   badge  of   office   and   his    well-gained 

honors, 
And  thrust  him  back  into  the  ranks  again. 

Opens  the  Mandamus  and  hands  it  to  BELLING 
HAM  ;  and,  while  he  is  reading,  ENDICOTT 
walks  up  and  down  the  room. 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


489 


Here,  read   it   for   yourself  ;   you  see  bis 

words 
Are   pleasant   words  —  considerate  —  not 

reproachful  — 
Nothing  could  be  more  gentle  —  or  more 

royal  ; 
But  then    the    meaning    underneath    the 

words, 
Mark  that.     He  says  all  people  known  as 

Quakers 

Among  us,  now  condemned  to  suffer  death 
Or  any  corporal  punishment  whatever, 
Who  are  imprisoned,  or  may  be  obnoxious 
To  the  like  condemnation,  shall  be  sent 
Forthwith   to   England,  to   be   dealt   with 

there 

In  such  wise  as  shall  be  agreeable 
Unto  the  English  law  and  their  demerits. 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

BELLINGHAM  (returning  the  paper). 
Ay,  so  the  paper  says. 

ENDICOTT. 

It  means  we  shall  no  longer  rule  the  Prov 
ince  ; 

It  means  farewell  to  law  and  liberty, 
Authority,  respect  for  Magistrates, 
The  peace  and  welfare  of  the   Common 
wealth. 

If  all  the  knaves  upon  this  continent 
Can    make    appeal    to    England,   and   so 

thwart 

The  ends  of  truth  and  justice  by  delay, 
Our  power  is  gone  forever.    We  are  nothing 
But  ciphers,  valueless  save  when  we  follow 
Some  unit  ;  and  our  unit  is  the  King  ! 
'T  is  he  that  gives  us  value. 

BELLINGHAM. 

I  confess 
Such    seems   to   be    the   meaning   of   this 

paper, 
But  being  the    King's   Mandamus,  signed 

and  sealed, 
We  must  obey,  or  we  are  in  rebellion. 

ENDICOTT. 

I  tell   you,  Richard   Bellingham,  —  I  tell 

jo", 

That  this  is  the  beginning  of  a  struggle 
Of  which  no  mortal  can  foresee  the  end. 
I  shall  not  live  to  fight  the  battle  for  you, 
I  am  a  man  disgraced  in  every  way  ; 


This  order  takes  from  me  my  self-respect 
And  the  respect  of  others.     'T  is  my  doom, 
Yes,    my    death  -  warrant,    but    must    be 

obeyed  ! 

Take  it,  and  see  that  it  is  executed 
So  far  as  this,  that  all  be  set  at  large  ; 
But  see  that  none  of  tnein  be  sent  to  Eng 
land 

To  bear  false  witness,  and  to  spread  reports 
That  might  be  prejudicial  to  ourselves. 

{Exit  BELLINGHAM,, 
There  's  a  dull  pain  keeps  knocking  at  my 

heart, 

Dolefully  saying,  "  Set  thy  house  in  order, 
For   thou    shalt   surely  die,  and  shalt  not 

live!" 

For  me  the  shadow  on  the  dial-plate 
Goeth  not  back,  but  on  into  the  dark  ! 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV.  —  The  street,  A  crowd,  reading 
a  placard  on  the  door  of  the  Meeting-house. 
NICHOLAS  UPSALL  among  them.  Enter  JOHN 
NORTON. 

NORTON. 

What  is  this  gathering  here  ? 


One  William  Brand, 
An   old   man  like  ourselves,  and  weak  in 

body, 

Has  been  so  cruelly  tortured  in  his  prison, 
The  people  are  excited,  and  they  threaten 
To  tear  the  prison  down. 

NORTON. 

What  has  been  done  ? 

UPSALL. 

He  has  been  put  in  irons,  with  his  neck 
And  heels  tied  close  together,  and  so  left 
From  five  in   the   morning   until   nine   at 
night. 

NORTON. 
What  more  was  done  ? 


He  has  been  kept  five  days 
In  prison  without  food,  and  cruelly  beaten, 
So    that   his  limbs   were   cold,   his  senses 
stopped. 


What  more  ? 


NORTON. 


490 


CHRISTUS:    A    MYSTERY 


UPS  ALL. 

And  is  this  not  enough  ? 

NORTON. 

Now  hear  me. 
This  William  Brand  of  yours  has  tried  to 

beat 

Our  Gospel  Ordinances  black  and  blue  ; 
And,  if  he  has  been  beaten  in  like  manner, 
It  is  but  justice,  and  I  will  appear 
In  his  behalf  that  did  so.     I  suppose 
That  he  refused  to  work. 

UPSAJLL. 

He  was  too  weak. 

How  could  an  old  man  work,  when  he  was 
starving  ? 

NORTON. 
And  what  is  this  placard  ? 

UPSALL. 

The  Magistrates, 

To  appease  the  people  and  prevent  a  tumult, 
Have  put  up  these  placards  throughout  the 

town, 

Declaring  that  the  jailer  shalt  be  dealt  with 
Impartially  and  sternly  by  the  Court. 

NORTON  (tearing  down  the  placard). 
Down  with  this  weak  and  cowardly  conces 
sion, 
This   flag   of   truce    with    Satan  and  with 

Sin! 

I  fling  it  in  his  face  !     I  trample  it 
Under  my  feet  !     It  is  his  cunning  craft, 
The  masterpiece  of  his  diplomacy, 
To  cry  and  plead  for  boundless  toleration. 
But  toleration  is  the  first-born  child 
Of  all  abominations  and  deceits. 
There   is    no  room    in  Christ's  triumphant 

army 

For  tolerationists.     And  if  an  Angel 
Preach  any  other  gospel  unto  you 
Than  that  ye  have  received,  God's  maledic 
tion 

Descend  upon  him  !    Let  him  be  accursed  ! 

[Exit. 

UPSALL. 

Now,  go  thy  ways,  John  Norton  !  go  thy 
ways, 

Thou  Orthodox  Evangelist,  as  men  call 
thee  ! 

But  even  now  there  cometh  out  of  Eng 
land, 


Like  an  o'ertaking  and  accusing  conscience, 
An  outraged  man,  to  call  thee  to  account 
For  the  unrighteous  murder  of  his  son  ! 

[Exit. 

SCENE  V.  —  The    Wilderness.     Enter  EDITH. 

EDITH. 

How  beautiful  are  these  autumnal  woods  ! 
The  wilderness  doth  blossom  like  the  rose, 
And  change  into  a  garden  of  the  Lord  ! 
How  silent  everywhere  !     Alone  and  lost 
Here  in  the  forest,  there  comes  over  me 
An  inward  awfulness.     I  recall  the  words 
Of   the    Apostle    Paul  :     "In  journey  ings 

often, 

Often  in  perils  in  the  wilderness, 
In  weariness,  in  painfulness,  in  watchings, 
In  hunger  and  thirst,  in  cold  and  naked 
ness  ; " 

And  I  forget  my  weariness  and  pain, 
My   watchings,    and   my   hunger   and   my 

thirst. 
The  Lord  hath  said  that  He  will  seek  his 

flock 
In  cloudy  and  dark  days,  and   they  shall 

dwell 

Securely  in  the  wilderness,  and  sleep 
Safe  in  the  woods  !      Whichever     way  I 

turn, 
I  come  back  with  my    face   towards  the 

town. 
Dimly  I  see  it,  and  the  sea  beyond  it. 

0  cruel   town !     I   know   what   waits  me 

there, 
And  yet  I  must  go  back  ;  for  ever  louder 

1  hear  the  inward  calling  of  the  Spirit, 
And  must  obey  the  voice.     O  woods,  that 

wear 

Your  golden  crown  of  martyrdom,  blood 
stained, 

From  you  I  learn  a  lesson  of  submission, 
And  am  obedient  even  unto  death, 
If  God  so  wills  it.  [Exit. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT  (within). 

Edith  !  Edith  !  Edith  ! 
He  enters. 

It  is  in  vain  !      I  call,  she  answers  not ; 
I  follow,  but  I  find  no  trace  of  her  ! 
Blood  !  blood  !     The  leaves  above  me  and 

around  me 
Are  red  with  blood  !     The  pathways  of  the 

forest. 
The  clouds  that  canopy  the  setting  sun 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


491 


And  even  the  little  river  in  the  meadows 
Are  stained  with  it  !     Where'er  I  look,  I 

see  it ! 
Away,  thou  horrible  vision  !      Leave  me  ! 

leave  me ! 
Alas  !  yon  winding  stream,  that  gropes  its 

way 

Through  mist  and  shadow,  doubling  on  it 
self, 

At  length  will  find,  by  the  unerring  law 
Of  nature,  what  it  seeks.     O  soul  of  man, 
Groping  through  mist  and  shadow,  and  re 
coiling 

Back  on  thyself,  are,  too,  thy  devious  ways 
Subject  to  law  ?  and  when  thou  seemest  to 

wander 
The  farthest  from  thy  goal,  art  thou  still 

drawing 

Nearer  and  nearer  to  it,  till  at  length 
Thou   findest,   like    the   river,    wharf:    thou 
seekest  ?  [Exit. 


ACT  V 

SCENE  I.  —  Daybreak.  Street  in  front  of  UP- 
SALL'S  house.  A  light  in  the  window.  Enter 
JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

JOHN  ENDJCOTT. 

O  silent,  sombre,  and  deserted  streets, 
To  me  ye  're  peopled  with  a  sad  procession, 
And  echo  only  to  the  voice  of  sorrow  ! 

0  houses  full  of  peacefulness  and  sleep, 
Far  better  were  it  to  awake  no  more 
Then  wake  to  look  upon  such  scenes  again  ! 
There  is  a  light  in  Master  Upsall's  window. 
The  good  man  is  already  risen,  for  sleep 
Deserts  the  couches  of  the  old. 

Knocks  at  UPSALL'S  door. 

UPS  ALL  (at  the  window). 

Who  's  there  ? 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Am   I  so   changed  you  do   not   know   my 
voice  ? 

UPSALL. 

1  know  you.     Have  you  heard  what  things 

have  happened  ? 

JOHN   ENDICOTT. 

I  have  heard  nothing. 

TJPSALL. 

Stay  ;  I  will  come  down. 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

I  am  afraid  some  dreadful  news  awaits  me  ! 
I  do  not  dare  to  ask,  yet  am  impatient 
To  know  the  worst.     Oh,  I  am  very  weary 
With  waiting  and  with  watching  and  pur 
suing  ! 

Enter  UPSALL. 

UPSALL. 

Thank  God,  you  have  come  back  !    I  've 

much  to  tell  you. 
Where  have  you  been  ? 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

You  know  that  I  was  seized, 
Fined,  and  released  again.    You  know  that 

Edith, 
After   her   scourging  in  three  towns,  was 

banished 

Into  the  wilderness,  into  the  land 
That   is   not  sown  ;    and  there  I  followed 

her, 
But  found  her  not.     Where  is  she  ? 

UPSALL. 

She  is  here. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

Oh,  do  not  speak  that  word,  for  it  means 
death  ! 

UPSALL. 

No,  it  means  life.  She  sleeps  in  yonder 
chamber. 

Listen  to  me.  When  news  of  Leddra's 
death 

Reached  England,  Edward  Burroughs,  hav 
ing  boldly 

Got  access  to  the  presence  of  the  King, 

Told  him  there  was  a  vein  of  innocent 
blood 

Opened  in  his  dominions  here,  which 
threatened 

To  overrun  them  all.     The  King  replied, 

"  But  I  will  stop  that  vein  !  "  and  he  forth 
with 

Sent  his  Mandamus  to  our  Magistrates, 

That  they  proceed  no  further  in  this  busi 
ness. 

So  all  are  pardoned,  and  all  set  at  large. 

JOHN   ENDICOTT. 

Thank  God  !     This  is  a  victory  for  truth  ! 

Our  thoughts  are  free.  They  cannot  be 
shut  up 

In  prison  walls,  nor  put  to  death  on  scaf 
folds  ! 


492 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


UPSALL. 

Come  in  ;  the  morning  air  blows  sharp  and 

cold 
Through  the  damp  streets. 

JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

It  is  the  dawn  of  day 
That  chases   the   old   darkness    from   our 

sky, 
And  fills  the  land  with  liberty  and  light. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  parlor  of  the  Three  Manners. 
Enter  KEMPTHOKN. 

KEMPTHOBN. 

A  dull  life  this,  —  a  dull  life  anyway  ! 

Ready  for  sea  ;  the  cargo  all  aboard, 

Cleared  for  Barbadoes,   and   a   fair   wind 
blowing 

From  nor'-nor'-west  ;  and  I,  an  idle  lubber, 

Laid  neck  and   heels  by  that  confounded 
bond  ! 

I   said   to  Ralph,  says  I,  «'  What 's   to   be 
done  ?  " 

Says   he  :  "  Just  slip  your   hawser  in   the 
night ; 

Sheer  off,  and  pay  it  with  the  topsail,  Si 
mon." 

But  that  won't  do  ;  because,  you  see,  the 
owners 

Somehow  or  other  are  mixed  up  with  it. 

Here    are    King   Charles's   Twelve    Good 
Rules,  that  Cole 

Thinks  as  important  as  the  Rule  of  Three. 
Heads. 

"  Make   no   comparisons  ;    make   no    long 
meals." 

Those   are    good   rules   and  golden   for   a 
landlord 

To  hang  in   his   best  parlor,  framed   and 
glazed ! 

"  Maintain     no    ill     opinions  ;     urge     no 
healths." 

I  drink  the  King's,  whatever  he  may  say, 

And,  as  to  ill  opinions,  that  depends. 

Now  of  Ralph  Goldsmith  I  've  a  good  opin 
ion, 

And  of  the  bilboes  I  've  an  ill  opinion  ; 

And  both  of  these  opionions  I  '11  maintain 

As  long  as  there  's  a  shot  left  in  the  locker. 
Enter  EDWARD  BUTTER  with  an  ear-trumpet. 

BUTTER. 

Good  morning,  Captain  Kempthorn. 


KEMPTHORN. 

Sir,  to  you. 
You  've  the  advantage   of    me.      I   d'on't 

know  you. 
What  may  I  call  your  name  ? 

BUTTER. 
That 's  not  your  name  ? 

KEMPTHORN. 

Yes,  that 's  my  name.     What 's  yours  ? 

BUTTER. 

My  name  is  Butter. 
I  am  the  treasurer  of  the  Commonwealth. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Will  you  be  seated  ? 

BUTTER. 

What  say  ?     Who  's  conceited  ? 

KEMPTHORN. 

Will  you  sit  down  ? 

BUTTER. 

Oh,  thank  you. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Spread  yourself 
Upon  this  chair,  sweet  Butter. 

BUTTER  (sitting  down). 

A  fine  morning. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Nothing  's  the  matter  with  it  that  I  know 

of. 

I  have  seen  better,  and  I  have  seen  worse. 
The  wind  's  nor'west.    That 's  fair  for  them 

that  sail. 

BUTTER. 

You  need  not  speak  so  loud  ;  I  understand 

you. 
You  sail  to-day. 

KEMPTHORN. 

No,  I  don't  sail  to-day. 
So,  be  it  fair  or  foul,  it  matters  not. 
Say,    will   you    smoke  ?      There  's   choice 
tobacco  here. 

BUTTER. 

No,  thank  you.      It's  against  the  law  to 
smoke. 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


493 


KEMPTHORN. 

Then,  will  you  drink  ?     There 's  good  ale 
at  this  inn. 

BUTTEB. 

No,  thank  you.     It 's  against  the  law  to 
drink. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Well,  almost  everything 's  against  the  law 
In  this  good  town.     Give  a  wide  berth  to 

one  thing, 
You  're  sure  to  fetch  up  soon  on  something 

else. 

BUTTER. 

And  so  you  sail  to-day  for  dear  Old  Eng 
land. 

I  am  not  one  of  those  who  think  a  sup 
Of  this  New  England  air  is  better  worth 
Than  a  whole  draught  of  our  Old   Eng 
land's  ale. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Nor  I.     Give  me  the  ale  and  keep  the  air. 
But,  as  I  said,  I  do  not  sail  to-day. 

BUTTER. 

Ah  yes  ;  you  sail  to-day. 

KEMPTHORN. 

I  'm  under  bonds 
To  take  some  Quakers  back  to  the  Bar- 

badoes  ; 

And  one  of  them  is  banished,  and  another 
Is  sentenced  to  be  hanged. 

BUTTER. 

No,  all  are  pardoned, 
All  are  set  free,  by  order  of  the  Court ; 
But  some  of  them  would   fain   return  to 

England. 

You  must  not  take  them.     Upon  that  con 
dition 
Your  bond  is  cancelled. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Ah,  the  wind  has  shifted  ! 
I  pray  you,  do  you  speak  officially  ? 

BUTTER. 

I  always  speak  officially.     To  prove  it, 
Here  is  the  bond. 

Rising  and  giving  a  paper. 


KEMPTHORN. 

And  here 's  my  hand  upon  it. 
And,  look  you,  when  I  say  I  '11  do  a  thing 
The  thing  is  done.     Am  I  now  free  to  go  ? 

BUTTER. 

What  say  ? 

KEMPTHORN. 

I  say,  confound  the  tedious  man 
With  his  strange  speaking-trumpet !     Can 
I  go? 

BUTTER. 

You  're  free  to  go,  by  order  of  the  Court. 
Your  servant,  sir.  [Exit. 

KEMPTHORN  (shoutingfrom  the  window). 

Swallow,  ahoy  !     Hallo  ! 
If  ever  a  man  was  happy  to  leave  Boston, 
That   man   is    Simon    Kempthorn  of   the 
Swallow  I 

Beenter  BUTTER. 

BUTTER. 
Pray,  did  you  call  ? 

KEMPTHORN. 

Call  ?    Yes,  I  hailed  the  Swallow. 

BUTTER, 

That 's  not  my  name.    My  name  is  Edward 

Butter. 
You  need  not  speak  so  loud. 

KEMPTHORN  (shaking  hand*). 

Good-by!    Good-by ! 


Your  servant,  sir. 

KEMPTHORN. 

And  yours  a  thousand  times  ! 
[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  GOVERNOR  ENDICOTT'S  private 
room.  An  open  window.  ENDICOTT  seated 
in  an  arm-chair,  BELLINGHAM  standing 
near. 

ENDICOTT. 

0  lost,  O  loved  !  wilt  thou  return  no  more  ? 
O  loved  and  lost,  and  loved  the  more  when 

lost  ! 
How  many  men   are   dragged  into   their 

graves 
By  their  rebellious  children  !     I  now  feel 


494 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


The  agony  of  a  father's  breaking  heart 
In  David's  cry,  "  O  Absalom,  my  son  ! " 

BELLINGHAM. 

Can  you   not  turn  your  thoughts  a  little 

while 
To   public    matters  ?      There  are  papers 

here 
That  need  attention. 

ENDICOTT. 

Trouble  me  no  more  ! 
My  business  now  is  with  another  world. 
Ah,  Richard  Bellingham  !     I  greatly  fear 
That   in   my  righteous   zeal   I  have  been 

led 

To  doing  many  things  which,  left  undone, 
My  mind  would  now  be  easier.  Did  I 

dream  it, 
Or  has  some   person  told   me,  that  John 

Norton 
Is  dead  ? 

BELLINGHAM. 

You  have  not  dreamed  it.     He  is  dead, 
And  gone  to  his  reward.    It  was  no  dream. 

ENDJCOTT. 

Then  it  was  very  sudden  ;  for  I  saw  him 
Standing  where  you  now  stand,  not  long 
ago. 

BELLINGHAM. 

By  his  own  fireside,  in  the  afternoon, 

A    faintness    and   a   giddiness   came   o'er 

him  ; 
And,   leaning    on    the    chimney-piece,   he 

cried, 
«  The  hand  of  God  is  on  me  ! "  and  fell 

dead. 

ENDICOTT. 
And  did   not    some    one   say,   or   have   I 

dreamed  it, 
That  Humphrey  Atherton  is  dead  ? 

BELLINGHAM. 

Alas! 

He  too  is  gone,  and  by  a  death  as  sudden. 
Returning  home  one  evening,  at  the  place 
Where  usually  the  Quakers  have  been 

scourged, 
His  horse  took  fright,  and  threw  him  to  the 

ground, 
So  that  his  brains  were  dashed  about  the 

street. 


ENDICOTT. 

I  am  not  superstitious,  Bellingham, 
And  yet  I  tremble  lest  it  may  have  been 
Igment  on  him. 


BELLINGHAM. 

So  the  people  think. 

They  say  his  horse  saw  standing  in  the 
way 

The  ghost  of  William  Leddra,  and  was 
frightened. 

And  furthermore,  brave  Richard  Daven 
port, 

The  captain  of  the  Castle,  in  the  storm 

Has  been  struck  dead  by  lightning. 

ENDICOTT. 

Speak  no  more. 

For  as  I  listen  to  your  voice  it  seems 
As  if  the    Seven   Thunders   uttered  their 

voices, 

And  the  dead  bodies  lay  about  the  streets 
Of  the  disconsolate  city  !     Bellingham, 
I    did    not    put    those   wretched   men   to 

death. 
I   did    but   guard   the    passage   with    the 

sword 
Pointed  towards   them,   and   they   rushed 

upon  it ! 

Yet  now  I  would  that  I  had  taken  no  part 
In  all  that  bloody  work. 

BELLINGHAM. 

The  guilt  of  it 
Be  on  their  heads,  not  ours. 


ENDICOTT. 


Are  all  set  free  ? 

BELLINGHAM. 

All  are  at  large. 

ENDICOTT. 

And  none  have  been  sent  back 
To  England  to  malign  us  with  the  King  ? 

BELLINGHAM. 

The  ship  that  brought  them  sails  this  very 

hour, 
But  carries  no  one  back. 

A  distant  cannon. 

ENDICOTT. 

What  is  that  gun  ? 


THE   NEW   ENGLAND   TRAGEDIES 


495 


BELLINGHAM. 

Her  parting  signal.      Through  the  window 

there, 
Look,  you  can  see  her  sails,  above  the 

roofs, 
Dropping  below  the  Castle,  outward  bound. 

ENDICOTT. 

0  white,   white,  white  !     Would   that  my 

soul  had  wings 
As   spotless   as   those   shining   sails  to  fly 

with! 
Now  lay  this  cushion  straight.  I  thank 

you.     Hark ! 

1  thought  I  heard  the  hall  door  open  and 

shut! 
I  thought  I  heard  the  footsteps  of  my  boy  ! 

BELLINGHAM. 

It  was  the  wind.  There  's  no  one  in  the 
passage. 

ENDICOTT. 

O  Absalom,  my  son  !     I  feel  the  world 
Sinking  beneath  me,  sinking,  sinking,  sink 
ing  ! 

Death  knocks  !  I  go  to  meet  him  !  Wel 
come,  Death  ! 

Rises,  and  sinks  back  dead ;  his  head  falling 
aside  upon  his  shoulder. 

BELLINGHAM. 

O  ghastly  sight !  Like  one  who  has  been 
hanged  ! 

Endicott  !  Endicott !  He  makes  no  an 
swer  ! 

Raises  ENDICOTT'S  head. 

He  breathes  no  more  !     How  bright  this 

signet-ring 
Glitters  upon  his  hand,  where  he  has  worn 

it 
Through  such  long  years  of  trouble,  as  if 

Death 

Had  given  him  this  memento  of  affection, 
And  whispered   in   his    ear,    "  Remember 

me  !  " 

How  placid  and  how  quiet  is  his  face, 
Now  that  the  struggle  and  the  strife  are 

ended  ! 

Only  the  acrid  spirit  of  the  times 
Corroded    this    true    steel.      Oh,    rest   in 

peace, 
Courageous  heart !  Forever  rest  in  peace  1 


GILES    COREY  OF    THE    SALEM 
FARMS 

DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

GILES  COREY Farmer. 

JOHN  HATHORNE Magistrate. 

COTTON  MATHER Minister  of  the  Gospel. 

JONATHAN  WALCOT     .     .     .     .  A  youth. 

RICHARD  GARDNER     ....  Sea-Captain. 

JOHN  GLOYD Corey's  hired  man. 

MARTHA Wife  of  Giles  Corey. 

TITUBA An  Indian  woman. 

MARY  WALCOT One  of  the  Afflicted. 

The  Scene  is  in  Salem  in  the  year  1692. 


PROLOGUE 

DELUSIONS  of  the  days  that  once  have 
been, 

Witchcraft  and  wonders  of  the  world  un 
seen, 

Phantoms  of  air,  and  necromantic  arts 

That  crushed  the  weak  and  awed  the 
stoutest  hearts,  — 

These  are  our  theme  to-night  ;  and  vaguely 
here, 

Through  the  dim  mists  that  crowd  the  at 
mosphere, 

We  draw  the  outlines  of  weird  figures  cast 

In  shadow  on  the  background  of  the 
Past. 

Who  would  believe  that  in  the  quiet  town 
Of  Salem,  and  amid  the  woods  that  crown 
The  neighboring  hillsides,  and  the  sunny 

farms 

That  fold  it  safe  in  their  paternal  arms,  — 
Who  would  believe  that  in  those  peaceful 

streets, 

Where   the  great  elms  shut  out  the  sum 
mer  heats, 
Where  quiet  reigns,  and  breathes  through 

brain  and  breast 

The  benediction  of  unbroken  rest,  — 
Who  would  believe  such  deeds  could  find  a 

place 
As  these  whose  tragic  history  we  retrace  ? 

'T  was  but  a  village  then  :   the  goodman 

ploughed 

His  ample  acres  under  sun  or  cloud  ; 
The  goodwife  at  her  doorstep  sat  and  spun, 
And   gossiped   with   her   neighbors  in  the 

sun  ; 
The  only  men  of  dignity  and  state 


496 


CHRISTUS:   A  MYSTERY 


Were  then  the  Minister  and  the  Magistrate, 
Who  ruled  their  little  realm  with  iron  rod, 
Less  in  the  love  than  in  the  fear  of  God  ; 
And  who  believed  devoutly  in  the  Powers 
Of  Darkness,  working  in  this  world  of  ours, 
In  spells  of  Witchcraft,  incantations  dread, 
And  shrouded  apparitions  of  the  dead. 

Upon    this   simple    folk   "  with    fire   and 

flame," 

Saith  the  old  Chronicle,  "  the  Devil  came  ; 
Scattering  his  firebrands  and  his  poisonous 

darts, 
To  set  on    fire   of   Hell  all   tongues  and 

hearts  ! 

And  't  is  no  wonder  ;  for,  with  all  his  host, 
There  most  he  rages  where  he  hateth  most, 
And  is  most  hated  ;  so  on  us  he  brings 
All      these      stupendous    and    portentous 

things  ! " 

Something  of  this  our  scene  to-night  will 

show  ; 

And  ye  who  listen  to  the  Tale  of  Woe, 
Be  not  too  swift  in  casting  the  first  stone, 
Nor  think   New   England  bears  the  guilt 

alone. 

This  sudden  burst  of  wickedness  and  crime 
Was  but  the  common  madness  of  the  time, 
When  in  all  lands,  that  lie  within  the  sound 
Of  Sabbath  bells,  a  Witch  was  burned  or 

drowned. 

ACT  I 

SCENE  I.  —  The    woods    mar    Salem   Village. 
Enter  TITUBA,  with  a  basket  of  herbs. 

TITUBA. 

Here  's  monk's-hood,  that  breeds  fever  in 
the  blood  ; 

And  deadly  nightshade,  that  makes  men  see 
ghosts  ; 

And  henbane,  that  will  shake  them  with 
convulsions  ; 

And  meadow-saffron  and  black  hellebore, 

That  rack  the  nerves,  and  puff  the  skin 
with  dropsy  ; 

And  bitter-sweet,  and  briony,  and  eye- 
bright, 

That  cause  eruptions,  nosebleed,  rheuma 
tisms  ; 

I  know  them,  and  the  places  where  they 
hide 

In  field  and  meadow  ;  and  I  know  their 
secrets, 


And    gather  them    because  they  give   me 

power 
Over  all   men  and  women.     Armed  with 

these, 

I,  Tituba,  an  Indian  and  a  slave, 
Am  stronger  than  the  captain  with  his  sword, 
Am  richer    than   the   merchant   with    his 

money, 

Am  wiser  than  the  scholar  with  his  books, 
Mightier  than  Ministers  and  Magistrates, 
With  all  the  fear  and  reverence  that  attend 

them  ! 
For  I  can  fill  their  bones  with  aches  and 

pains, 
Can  make  them  cough  with  asthma,  shake 

with  palsy, 
Can   make   their  daughters   see   and  talk 

with  ghosts, 

Or  fall  into  delirium  and  convulsions. 
I  have  the  Evil  Eye,  the  Evil  Hand  ; 
A  touch  from  me  and  they  are  weak  with 

pain, 

A  look  from  me,  and  they  consume  and  die. 
The  death  of  cattle  and  the  blight  of  corn, 
The  shipwreck,  the  tornado,  and  the  fire,  — 
These  are  my  doings,  and  they  know  it  not. 
Thus  I  work  vengeance  on  mine  enemies, 
Who,  while  they  call  me  slave,  are  slaves  to 

me  ! 

Exit   TITUBA.     .Enter  MATHER,    booted   and 
spurred,  with  a  riding-ivhip  in  his  hand. 

MATHER. 

Methiuks  that  I  have  come  by  paths  un 
known 

Into  the  land  and  atmosphere  of  Witches  ; 
For,  meditating  as  I  journeyed  on, 
Lo  !  I  have  lost  my  way  !     If  I  remember 
Rightly,  it  is  Scribonius  the  learned 
That  tells  the  story  of  a  man  who,  praying 
For  one  that  was  possessed  by  Evil  Spirits, 
Was  struck  by  Evil  Spirits  in  the  face  ; 
I,  journeying  to  circumvent  the  Witches 
Surely  by  Witches  have  been  led  astray. 
I  am  persuaded  there  are  few  affairs 
In  which  the  Devil  doth  not  interfere. 
We  cannot  undertake  a  journey  even, 
But  Satan  will  be  there  to  meddle  with  it 
By  hindering  or  by  furthering.     He  hath 

led  me 

Into  this  thicket,  struck  me  in  the  face 
With  branches  of  the  trees,  and  so  entan 
gled 

The  fetlocks  of  my  horse  with  vines  and 
brambles, 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


497 


That  I  must  needs  dismount,  and  search  on 
foot 

For  the  lost  pathway  leading  to  the  village. 
Reenter  TITUBA. 

What  shape  is  this  ?     What  monstrous  ap 
parition, 

Exceeding  fierce,  that  none  may  pass  that 
way  ? 

Tell    me,    good    woman,    if    you    are   a 
woman  — 

TITUBA. 

I  am  a  woman,  but  I  am  not  good. 

I  am  a  Witch ! 

MATHER. 

Then  tell  me,  Witch  and  woman, 
For  you  must  know  the  pathways  through 

this  wood, 
Where  lieth  Salem  Village  ? 

TITUBA. 

Reverend  sir, 

The  village  is  near  by.     I  'm  going  there 
With  these  few  herbs.     I  '11  lead  you.    Fol 
low  me. 

MATHER. 

First  say,  who  are  you  ?    I  am  loath  to 

follow 

A  stranger  in  this  wilderness,  for  fear 
Of  being  misled,  and  left  in  some  morass. 
Who  are  you  ? 

TITUBA. 

I  am  Tituba  the  Witch, 
Wife  of  John  Indian. 

MATHER. 

You  are  Tituba  ? 
I  know  you  then.    You  have  renounced  the 

Devil, 

And  have  become  a  penitent  confessor. 
The  Lord  be  praised  1     Go  on,  I  '11  follow 

you. 

Wait  only  till  I  fetch  my  horse,  that  stands 
Tethered  among   the  trees,  not   far   from 

here. 

TITUBA. 
Let  me  get  up  behind  you,  reverend  sir. 

MATHER. 

The  Lord  forbid  !     What  would  the  people 

think, 
If   they   should   see   the  Reverend  Cotton 

Mather 

Ride  into  Salem  with  a  Witch  behind  him  ? 
The  Lord  forbid ! 


TITUBA. 

I  do  not  need  a  horse  ! 
I  can  ride  through  the  air  upon  a  stick, 
Above  the  tree-tops  and  above  the  houses, 
And  no  one  see  me,  no  one  overtake  me  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  room  at  JUSTICE  HATHORNE'S. 
A  dock  in  the  corner.  Enter  HATHORNE  and 
MATHER. 

HATHORNE. 

You  are  welcome,  reverend  sir,  thrice  wel 
come  here 
Beneath  my  humble  roof. 


I  thank  your  Worship. 

HATHORNE. 

Pray  you  be  seated.    You  must  be  fatigued 
With  your  long  ride  through  unfrequented 
woods. 

They  sit  down. 

MATHER. 

You  know  the  purport  of  rny  visit  here,  — 

To  be  advised  by  you,  and  counsel  with 
you, 

And  with  the  Reverend  Clergy  of  the  vil 
lage, 

Touching  these  witchcrafts  that  so  much 
afflict  you  ; 

And  see  with  mine  own  eyes  the  wonders 
told 

Of  spectres  and  the  shadows  of  the  dead, 

That  come  back  from  their  graves  to  speak 
with  men. 

HATHORNE. 

Some  men  there  are,  I  have  known  such, 
who  think 

That  the  two  worlds  —  the  seen  and  the  un 
seen, 

The  world  of  matter  and  the  world  of 
spirit  — 

Are  like  the  hemispheres  upon  our  maps, 

And  touch  each  other  only  at  a  point. 

But  these  two  worlds  are  not  divided 
thus, 

Save  for  the  purposes  of  common  speech. 

They  form  one  globe,  in  which  the  parted 
seas 

All  flow  together  and  are  intermingled, 

While  the  great  continents  remain  dis 
tinct. 


CHR1STUS  :   A   MYSTERY 


MATHER. 

I  doubt  it  not.     The  spiritual  world 
Lies  all  about  us,  and  its  avenues 
Are  open  to  the  unseen  feet  of  phantoms 
That  come  and  go,  and  we  perceive  them 

not, 

Save  by  their  influence,  or  when  at  times 
A  most    mysterious    Providence    permits 

them 
To  manifest  themselves  to  mortal  eyes. 

HATHORNE. 

You,  who  are  always  welcome  here  among 

us, 
Are  doubly  welcome  now.     We  need  your 

wisdom, 
Your  learning  in  these  things,  to  be  our 

guide. 
The  Devil  hath  come  down  in  wrath  upon 

us, 
And  ravages  the  land  with  all  his  hosts. 

MATHER. 

The  Unclean  Spirit  said,  "  My  name  is 
Legion  !  " 

Multitudes  in  the  Valley  of  Destruction  ! 

But  when  our  fervent,  well  -  directed 
prayers, 

Which  are  the  great  artillery  of  Heaven, 

Are  brought  into  the  field,  I  see  them  scat 
tered 

And  driven  like  autumn  leaves  before  the 
wind. 

HATHORNE. 

You,  as  a  Minister  of  God,  can  meet  them 
With  spiritual  weapons  ;  but,  alas  ! 
I,  as  a  Magistrate,  must  combat  them 
With   weapons   from    the   armory   of  the 
flesh. 

MATHER. 

These  wonders  of  the  world  invisible,  — 
These  spectral  shapes  that  haunt  our  habi 
tations,  — 

The  multiplied  and  manifold  afflictions 
With  which  the  aged  and  the  dying  saints 
Have  their  death  prefaced  and  their  age 

imbittered,  — 

Are  but  prophetic  trumpets  that  proclaim 
The  Second  Coming  of  our  Lord  on  earth. 
The  evening  wolves  will  be  much  more 

abroad, 

When  we  are  near  the  evening  of  the 
world. 


HATHORNE. 

When  you  shall  see,  as  I  have  hourly  seen, 
The  sorceries  and  the  witchcrafts  that  tor 
ment  us, 

See  children  tortured  by  invisible  spirits, 
And  wasted  and  consumed  by  powers  un 
seen, 

You  will  confess  the  half  has  not  been  told 
you. 

MATHER. 

It  must   be   so.     The  death-pangs  of  the 

Devil 

Will  make  him  more  a  Devil  than  before  ; 
And    Nebuchadnezzar's    furnace    will    be 

heated 
Seven  times  more  hot  before  its  putting 

out. 

HATHORNE. 

Advise  me,  reverend  sir.     I  look  to  you 
For  counsel  and  for  guidance  in  this  matter. 
What  further  shall  we  do  ? 

MATHER. 

Remember  this, 

That  as  a  sparrow  falls  not  to  the  ground 
Without  the  will  of  God,  so  not  a  Devil 
Can  come  down  from  the  air  without  his 

leave. 
We  must  inquire. 

HATHORNE. 

Dear  sir,  we  have  inquired  ; 
Sifted  the  matter  thoroughly  through  and 

through, 
And  then  resifted  it. 

MATHER. 

If  God  permits 

These  Evil  Spirits  from  the  unseen  regions 
To  visit  us  with  surprising  informations, 
We  must  inquire  what  cause  there  is  for 

this, 

But  not  receive  the  testimony  borne 
By  spectres  as  conclusive  proof  of  guilt 
In  the  accused. 

HATHORNE. 

Upon  such  evidence 
We  do  not  rest  our  case.     The  ways  are 

many 
In  which  the  guilty  do  betray  themselves. 

MATHER. 

Be  careful.     Carry  the  knife  with  such  ex 
actness, 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


499 


That   on   one   side    no   innocent   blood  be 

shed 

By  too  excessive  zeal,  and  on  the  other 
No  shelter  given  to  any  work  of  darkness. 

HATHORNB. 

For  one,  I  do  not  fear  excess  of  zeal. 
What  do  we  gain  by  parleying  with   the 

Devil  ? 

You  reason,  but  you  hesitate  to  act ! 
Ah,   reverend    sir !    believe    me,   in   such 

cases 

The  only  safety  is  in  acting  promptly. 
*T  is  not  the  part  of  wisdom  to  delay 
In  things  where  not  to  do  is  still  to  do 
A  deed  more  fatal  than  the  deed  we  shrink 

from. 

You  are  a  man  of  books  and  meditation, 
But  I  am  one  who  acts. 

MATHER. 

God  give  us  wisdom 
In  the  directing  of  this  thorny  business, 
And  guide  us,  lest  New  England  should 

become 

Of  an  unsavory  and  sulphurous  odor 
In  the  opinion  of  the  world  abroad  ! 

The  clock  strikes. 

I  never  hear  the  striking  of  a  clock 
Without  a  warning  and  an  admonition 
That  time   is  on  the  wing,  and  we  must 

quicken 

Our  tardy  pace  in  journeying  Heaven 
ward, 

As  Israel  did  in  journeying  Canaan- ward  ! 
They  rise. 

HATHORNE. 

Then  let  us  make  all  haste  ;  and  I  will 
show  you 

In  what  disguises  and  what  fearful  shapes 

The  Unclean  Spirits  haunt  this  neighbor 
hood, 

And  you  will  pardon  my  excess  of  zeal. 

MATHER. 

Ah,  poor  New  England  !     He  who  hurri- 

canoed 

The  house  of  Job  is  making  now  on  thee 
One  last  assault,  more   deadly  and  more 

snarled 

With  unintelligible  circumstances 
Than  any  thou  hast  hitherto  encountered  ! 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.  —  A  room  in  WALCOT'S  house. 
MARY  WALCOT  sealed  in  an  arm-chair.  Ti- 
TUBA  with  a  mirror. 


MARY. 

Tell  me  another  story,  Tituba. 

A  drowsiness  is  stealing  over  me 

Which  is  not  sleep  ;   for,  though  I  close 

mine  eyes, 

I  am  awake,  and  in  another  world. 
Dim  faces  of  the  dead  and  of  the  absent 
Come   floating  up   before   ine, —  floating, 

fading, 
And  disappearing. 


What  see  you  ? 


TITUBA. 

Look  into  this  glass. 


MARY. 

Nothing  but  a  golden  vapor. 
Yes,  something  more.     Au  island,  with  the 

sea 
Breaking  all   round   it,   like    a    blooming 

hedge. 
What  land  is  this  ? 

TITUBA. 

It  is  San  Salvador, 

Where  Tituba  was  born.     What  see  you 
now? 

MARY. 
A  man  all  black  and  fierce. 

TITUBA. 

That  is  my  father. 
He   was    an    Obi    man,   and    taught    me 

magic,  — 

Taught  me  the  use  of  herbs  and  images. 
What  is  he  doing  ? 

MARY. 

Holding  in  his  hand 
A  waxen  figure.     He  is  melting  it 
Slowly  before  a  fire. 

TITUBA. 
And  now  what  see  you.  ? 

MARY. 

A  woman  lying  on  a  bed  of  leaves, 
Wasted  and  worn  away.    Ah,  she  is  dying  ! 

TITUBA. 
That  is  the  way  the  Obi  men  destroy 


500 


CHRISTUS  :    A   MYSTERY 


The  people  they  dislike  !     That  is  the  way 
Some  one  is  wasting  and  consuming  you. 

MARY. 

You  terrify  me,  Tituba  !     Oh,  save  me 
From  those  who  make  me  pine  and  waste 


Who  are  they  ?     Tell  me. 

TITUBA. 

That  I  do  not  know, 

But  you  will  see  them.     They  will  come  to 
you. 

MARY. 

No,  do  not  let  them  come  !      I  cannot  bear 

it! 

1  am  too  weak  to  bear  it !     I  am  dying. 
Falls  into  a  trance. 

TITUBA. 

Hark  !  there  is  some  one  coming  ! 
Enter  HATHORNE,  MATHER,  and  WALCOT. 

WALCOT. 

There  she  lies, 

Wasted  and  worn  by  devilish  incantations  ! 
O  my  poor  sister  ! 

MATHER. 

Is  she  always  thus  ? 

WALCOT. 

Nay,  she   is   sometimes   tortured  by  con 
vulsions. 

MATHER. 

Poor  child  !     How  thin  she  is  !     How  wan 
and  wasted ! 

HATHORNE. 

Observe  her.     She  is  troubled  in  her  sleep. 

MATHER. 

Some  fearful  vision  haunts  her. 

HATHORNE. 

You  now  see 
With  your  own  eyes,  and  touch  with  your 

own  hands, 
The  mysteries  of  this  Witchcraft. 

MATHER, 

One  would  need 
The   hands  of   Briareus   and  the  eyes  of 

Argus 
To  see  and  touch  them  all. 


HATHORNE. 

You  now  have  entered 
The  realm  of  ghosts  and  phantoms,  —  the 

vast  realm 

Of  the  unknown  and  the  invisible, 
Through  whose  wide-open  gates  there  blows 

a  wind 
From  the   dark  valley  of  the   shadow  of 

Death, 
That  freezes  us  with  horror. 

MARY  (starting). 

Take  her  hence  J 

Take  her  away  from  me.     I  see  her  there  ! 
She  's  coming  to  torment  me  ! 

WALCOT  (taking  her  hand). 

O  my  sister  1 
What  frightens  you  ?      She  neither  hears 

nor  sees  me. 
She  's  in  a  trance. 

MARY. 
Do  you  not  see  her  there  ? 

TITUBA. 
My  child,  who  is  it  ? 

MARY. 

Ah,  I  do  not  know. 
I  cannot  see  her  face. 

TITUBA. 

How  is  she  clad  ? 


She  wears  a  crimson  bodice.     In  her  hand 
She  holds  an  image,  and  is  pinching  it 
Between   her   fingers.     Ah,   she    tortures 

me  ! 

I  see  her  face  now.    It  is  Goodwife  Bishop  ! 
Why    does    she    torture    me  ?      I  never 

harmed  her  I 

And  now  she  strikes  me  with  an  iron  rod  I 
Oh,  I  am  beaten  ! 

MATHER. 

This  is  wonderful ! 

I  can  see  nothing  !     Is  this  apparition 
Visibly  there,  and  yet  we  cannot  see  it  ? 

HATHORNE. 

It  is.     The  spectre  is  invisible 

Unto  our  grosser  senses,  but  she  sees  it. 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


SOT 


MARY. 

Look  !  look  !  there  is  another  clad  in  gray  ! 
She    holds   a   spindle   in    her    hand,    and 

threatens 
To    stab    me   with    it !      It   is    Goodwife 

Corey  ! 
Keep  her   away  !     Now  she  is  coming  at 

me  ! 
O  mercy  !  mercy  ! 

WALCOT  (thrusting  with  his  sword). 

There  is  nothing  there  ! 

MATHER  (to  HATHORNE). 
Do  you  see  anything  ? 

HATHORNE. 

The  laws  that  govern 
The  spiritual  world  prevent  our  seeing 
Things  palpable  and  visible  to  her. 
These  spectres  are  to  us  as   if  they  were 

not. 
Mark  her  ;  she  wakes. 

TITUBA  touches  her,  and  she  awakes. 

MARY. 

Who  are  these  gentlemen  ? 

WALCOT. 

They  are  our  friends.    Dear  Mary,  are  you 
better  ? 

MARY. 

Weak,  very  weak. 

Taking  a  spindle  from  her  lap,  and  holding  it  up. 
How  came  this  spindle  here  ? 

TITUBA. 

You  wrenched  it  from  the  hand  of  Good- 
wife  Corey 
When  she  rushed  at  you. 

HATHORNE. 

Mark  that,  reverend  sir  ! 

MATHER. 

It  is  most  marvellous,  most  inexplicable  ! 

TITUBA  (picking  up  a  bit  of  gray  cloth  from  the 
.floor). 

And  here,  too,  is  a  bit  of  her  gray  dress, 
That  the  sword  cut  away. 

MATHER. 

Beholding  this, 
It  were  indeed  by  far  more  credulous 


To  be  incredulous  than  to  believe. 
None  but  a  Sadducee,  who  doubts  of  all 
Pertaining  to  the  spiritual  world, 
Could  doubt   such  manifest  and  damning 
proofs  ! 

HATHORNE. 

Are  you  convinced  ? 

MATHER  (to  MARY). 

Dear  child,  be  comforted  ! 
Only  by  prayer  and  fasting  can  you  drive 
These  Unclean  Spirits  from  you.     An  old 

man 

Gives  you  his  blessing.     God  be  with  you, 
Mary ! 

ACT  II 

SCENE  I.  —  GILES  COREY'S  farm.     Morning. 
Enter  COREY,  with  a  horseshoe  and  a  hammer. 

COREY. 

The  Lord  hath  prospered  me.     The  rising 
sun 

Shines    on  my  Hundred  Acres    and  my 
woods 

As  if  he  loved  them.     On  a  morn  like  this 

I  can  forgive  mine  enemies,  and  thank  God 

For  all  his  goodness  unto  me  and  mine. 

My  orchard  groans  with  russets  and  pear- 
mains  ; 

My  ripening  corn  shines  golden  in  the  sun  ; 

My  barns  are  crammed  with  hay,  my  cattle 
thrive  ; 

The  birds  sing  blithely  on  the  trees  around 
me  ! 

And  blither  than  the  birds  my  heart  within 
me. 

But  Satan  still  goes  up  and  down  the  earth  ; 

And  to  protect  this  house  from  his  assaults, 

And  keep  the  powers  of  darkness  from  my 
door, 

This  horseshoe  will  I  nail  upon  the  thresh 
old. 

Nails  down  the  horseshoe. 

There,  ye  night-hags  and  witches  that  tor 
ment 

The    neighborhood,    ye    shall     not    enter 
here  !  — 

What  is  the  matter  in  the  field  ?  —  John 
Gloyd  ! 

The  cattle  are  all  running  to  the  woods  !  — 

John  Gloyd  !     Where  is  the  man  ? 
Enter  JOHN  GLOYD. 


502 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


Look  there  ! 

What   ails  the   cattle?     Are  they  all  be 
witched  ? 
They  run  like  mad. 

GLOYD. 
They  have  been  overlooked. 

COREY. 

The  Evil  Eye  is  on  them  sure  enough. 
Call   all   the  men.     Be   quick.     Go   after 

them  ! 

Exit  GLOYD  and  enter  MARTHA. 

MARTHA. 
What  is  amiss  ? 

COREY. 

The  cattle  are  bewitched. 
They  are  broken  loose  and  making  for  the 
woods. 

MARTHA. 

Why  will  you  harbor  such  delusions,  Giles  ? 

Bewitched  ?  Well,  then  it  was  John  Gloyd 
bewitched  them  ; 

I  saw  him  even  now  take  down  the  bars 

And  turn  them  loose  !  They  're  only  frolic 
some. 

COREY. 

The  rascal ! 

MARTHA. 

I  was  standing  in  the  road, 
Talking  with  Goodwife  Proctor,  and  I  saw 
him. 

COREY. 

With  Proctor's  wife  ?  And  what  says 
Goodwife  Proctor  ? 

MARTHA. 

Sad   things   indeed  ;  the  saddest   you  can 

hear 
Of  Bridget  Bishop.    She 's  cried  out  upon  ! 

COREY. 

Poor  soul !  I  've  known  her  forty  year  or 
more. 

She  was  the  widow  Wasselby  ;  and  then 

She  married  Oliver,  and  Bishop  next. 

She 's  had  three  husbands.  I  remember 
well 

My  games  of  shovel-board  at  Bishop's 
tavern 

In  the  old  merry  days,  and  she  so  gay 

With  her  red  paragon  bodice  and  her  rib 
bons  ! 

Ah,  Bridget  Bishop  always  was  a  Witch  ! 


MARTHA. 

They  '11  little  help  her  now,  —  her  caps  and 
ribbons, 

And    her   red    paragon    bodice,   and    her 
plumes, 

With  which  she  flaunted  in  the  Meeting 
house  ! 

When  next  she  goes  there,  it  will  be   for 
trial. 

COREY. 

When  will  that  be  ? 

MARTHA. 

This  very  day  at  ten. 

COREY. 
Then  get  you  ready.      We  will  go  and  see 

it. 

Come  ;  you  shall  ride  behind  me  on  the  pil 
lion. 

MARTHA. 

Not  I.  You  know  I  do  not  like  such  things. 
I  wonder  you  should.     I  do  not  believe 
In  Witches  nor  in  Witchcraft. 

COREY. 

Well,  I  do. 

There  's  a  strange  fascination  in  it  all, 
That  draws  me  on  and  on,  I  know  not  why. 

MARTHA. 

What  do  we  know  of  spirits  good  or  ill, 
Or  of  their  power  to  help  us  or  to  harm  us  ? 

COREY. 

Surely  what 's  in  the  Bible  must  be  true. 
Did  not  an  Evil  Spirit  come  on  Saul  ? 
Did  not  the  Witch  of  Endor  bring  the  ghost 
Of  Samuel  from   his   grave?     The   Bible 
says  so. 

MARTHA. 

That  happened  very  long  ago. 


COREY. 
There  is  no  long  ago. 


With  God 


MARTHA. 

There  is  with  us. 

COREY. 

And  Mary  Magdalene  had  seven  devils, 
And  he   who   dwelt   among   the   tombs   a 
legion  ! 


THE   NEW   ENGLAND   TRAGEDIES 


503 


God's  power  is  infinite.     I  do  not  doubt  it. 
If  in  His  providence  He  once  permitted 
Such  things  to  be  among  the  Israelites, 
It  does  not  follow  He  permits  them  now, 
And  among  us  who  are  not  Israelites. 
But  we  will  not  dispute  about  it,  Giles. 
Go  to  the  village,  if  you  think  it  best, 


And 


leave   me 
work. 


here 


I'll   go   about   my 
[Exit  into  the  house. 


COREY. 

And  I  will  go  and  saddle  the  gray  mare. 
The  last  word  always.     That  is   woman's 

nature. 

If  an  old  man  will  marry  a  young  wife, 
He  must  make  up  his  mind  to  many  things. 
It 's  putting  new  cloth  into  an  old  garment, 
When  the  strain  comes,  it  is  the  old  gives 
way, 

Goes  to  the  door. 

Oh  Martha  !      I  forgot  to  tell  you  some 
thing. 

I  've  had  a  letter  from  a  friend  of  mine, 
A  certain  Richard  Gardner  of  Nantucket, 
Master  and  owner  of  a  whaling-vessel  ; 
He  writes  that  he  is  coming  down  to  see  us. 
I  hope  you  '11  like  him. 


I  will  do  my  best. 

COREY. 

That  's  a  good  woman.  Now  I  will  be 
gone. 

I've  not  seen  Gardner  for  this  twenty 
year; 

But  there  is  something  of  the  sea  about 
him,  — 

Something  so  open,  generous,  large,  and 
strong, 

It  makes  me  love  him  better  than  a  bro 
ther.  [Exit. 
MARTHA  comes  to  the  door. 

MARTHA. 

Oh  these  old  friends  and  cronies  of  my  hus 
band, 

These  captains  from  Nantucket  and  the 
Cape, 

That  come  and  turn  my  house  into  a  tavern 

With  their  carousing  !  Still,  there  's  some 
thing  frank 

In  these  seafaring  men  that  makes  me 
like  them. 


Why,  here  's  a  horseshoe  nailed  upon  the 

doorstep  ! 
Giles   has   done   this    to   keep   away    the 

Witches. 
I  hope  this  Richard  Gardner  will  bring  with 

him 
A  gale  of   good   sound   common-sense   to 

blow 
The  fog  of  these  delusions  from  his  brain  ! 

COREY  (within). 
Ho  !  Martha  !  Martha  ! 

Enter  COREY. 
Have  you  seen  my  saddle  ? 

MARTHA. 

I  saw  it  yesterday. 

COREY. 

Where  did  you  see  it  ? 

MARTHA. 

On  a  gray  mare,  that  somebody  was  riding 
Along  the  village  road. 

COREY. 
Who  was  it  ?    Tell  me. 

MARTHA. 

Some  one  who  should  have  stayed  at  home. 

COREY  (restraining  himself). 

I  see  ! 
Don't  vex  me,  Martha.     Tell  me  where  it 

is. 

MARTHA. 

I  've  hidden  it  away. 

COREY. 

Go  fetch  it  me. 

MARTHA. 

Go  find  it. 

COREY. 

No.     I  '11  ride  down  to  the  village 
Bare-back  ;  and  when  the  people  stare  and 

say, 
"  Giles  Corey,  where 's  your  saddle  ?  "     I 

will  answer, 
"  A  Witch  has  stolen  it."     How  shall  you 

like  that  ? 

MARTHA. 

I  shall  not  like  it. 


504 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


COKEY. 

Then  go  fetch  the  saddle. 
[Exit  MARTHA. 

If  an  old  man  will  marry  a  young  wife, 
Why    then  —  why    then  —  why  then  —  he 
must  spell  Baker  ! 

Enter  MARTHA  with  the  saddle,  which  she  throws 
down, 

MARTHA. 

There  !    There  's  the  saddle. 

COREY. 

Take  it  up. 

MARTHA. 

I  won't ! 

COREY. 

Then  let  it  lie  there.     I  '11  ride  to  the  vil 
lage, 
And  say  you  are  a  Witch. 

MARTHA. 

No,  not  that,  Giles. 
She  takes  up  the  saddle. 

COREY. 

Now  come  with  me,  and  saddle  the  gray 
mare 

With  your  own  hands  ;  and  you  shall  see 
me  ride 

Along  the  village  road  as  is  becoming 

Giles  Corey  of  the  Salem  Farms,  your  hus 
band  !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  — The  Green  in  front  of  the  Meeting 
house  in  Salem  Village.  People  coming  and 
going.  Enter  GILES  COREY. 

COREY. 

A  melancholy  end  !       Who  would  have 

thought 
That  Bridget  Bishop  e'er  would  come  to 

this? 

Accused,  convicted,  and  condemned  to  death 
For  Witchcraft  !     And  so  good   a  woman 

too! 

A  FARMER. 

Good  morrow,  neighbor  Corey. 

COREY  (not  hearing  him). 

Who  is  safe  ? 

How  do  I  know  but  under  my  own  roof 
I  too  may  harbor  Witches,  and  some  Devil 
Be  plotting  and  contriving  against  me  ? 


FARMER. 

He  does  not  hear.     Good  morrow,  neighbor 
Corey  ! 

COREY. 
Good  morrow. 

FARMER. 

Have  you  seen  John  Proctor  lately  ? 


No,  I  have  not. 


COREY. 


FARMER. 

Then  do  not  see  him,  Corey. 

COREY. 

Why  should  I  not  ? 

FARMER. 

Because  he  's  angry  with  you. 
So  keep  out  of  his  way.     Avoid  a  quarrel. 

COREY. 
Why  does  he  seek  to  fix  a  quarrel  on  me  ? 


He  says  you  burned  his  house. 

COREY. 

I  burn  his  house  ? 

If  he  says  that,  John  Proctor  is  a  liar  ! 
The  night  his  house  was  burned  I  was  in 

bed, 
And   I  can   prove  it  !     Why,   we   are  old 

friends  ! 
He  could  not  say  that  of  me. 


FARMER. 


I  heard  him  say  it. 


He  did  say  it. 


COREY. 

Then  he  shall  unsay  it. 

FARMER. 

He  said  you  did  it  out  of  spite  to  him 

For  taking  part  against  you  in  the  quar 
rel 

You  had  with  your  John  Gloyd  about  his 
wages. 

He  says  you  murdered  Goodell  ;  that  you 
trampled 

Upon  his  body  till  he  breathed  no  more. 

And  so  beware  of  him  ;  that 's  my  advice  ! 

[Exit. 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


SOS 


COREY. 

By  Heaven  !  this  is  too  much  1     I  '11  seek 

him  out, 
And  make  him  eat  his  words,  or  strangle 

him. 

I  '11  not  be  slandered  at  a  time  like  this, 
When  every  word  is  made  an  accusation, 
When  every  whisper  kills,  and  every  man 
Walks  with  a  halter  round  his  neck  ! 
Enter  GLOYD  in  haste. 

What  now  ? 
GLOYD. 
I  came  to  look  for  you.     The  cattle  — 

COREY. 

Well, 
What  of  them  ?     Have  you  found  them  ? 

GLOYD. 

They  are  dead. 
I  followed  them  through  the  woods,  across 

the  meadows  ; 

Then  they  all  leaped  into  the  Ipswich  River, 
And  swam  across,  but  could  not  climb  the 

bank, 
And  so  were  drowned. 


You  are  to  blame  for  this  ; 
For  you  took  down  the  bars,  and  let  them 
loose. 

GLOYD. 

That  I  deny.    They  broke  the  fences  down. 
You  know  they  were  bewitched. 

COREY. 

Ah,  my  poor  cattle  ! 

The  Evil  Eye  was  on  them  ;  that  is  true. 

Day  of  disaster  !     Most  unlucky  day  ! 

Why   did   I  leave   my  ploughing  and  my 
reaping 

To  plough  and  reap  this  Sodom  and  Gomor 
rah  ? 

Oh,  I  could  drown  myself  for  sheer  vexa 
tion  !  [Exit. 

GLOYD. 

He  's  going  for  his  cattle.     He  won't  find 

them,, 

By  this  time  they  have  drifted  out  to  sea. 
They  will  not  break  his  fences  any  more, 
Though  they  may  break  his  heart.  And 

what  care  I  ?  [Exit. 


SCENE  III. —COREY'S  kitchen,    A  table  with 
supper.    MARTHA  knitting. 

MARTHA. 

He  's  come  at  last.     I  hear  him  in  the  pas- 


Something  has  gone  amiss  with  him  to-day  ; 
I  know  it  by  his  step,  and  by  the  sound 
The  door  made  as  he  shut  it.    He  is  angry. 

Enter  COREY  with  his  riding-whip.  As  he  speaks 
he  takes  off  his  hat  and  gloves,  and  throws  them 
down  violently. 

COREY. 

I  say  if  Satan  ever  entered  man 
He  's  in  John  Proctor  ! 

MARTHA. 

Giles,  what  is  the  matter  ? 
You  frighten  me. 

COREY. 

I  say  if  any  man 

Can  have  a  Devil  in  him,  then  that  man 
Is   Proctor,  —  is    John    Proctor,    and    no 
other  ! 

MARTHA. 

Why,  what  has  he  been  doing  ? 

COREY. 

Everything ! 

What  do  you  think  I  heard  there  in  the 
village  ? 

MARTHA. 

1  'm  sure  I  cannot  guess.     What  did  you 
hear? 

COREY. 

He  says  I  burned  his  house  I 

MARTHA. 

Does  he  say  that  ? 

COREY. 

He  says  I  burned  his  house.     I  was  in  bed 
And   fast  asleep    that   night  ;  and   I   can 
prove  it. 

MARTHA. 

If  he  says  that,  I  think  the  Father  of  Lies 
Is  surely  in  the  man. 

COREY. 

He  does  say  that, 
And  that  I  did  it  to  wreak  vengeance  on 

him 

For  taking  sides  against  me  in  the  quarrel 
I  had  with  that  John  Gloyd  about  his  wages. 


5o6 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


And  God  knows  that  I  never  bore  him  mal 
ice 
For  that,  as  I  have  told  him  twenty  times  ! 

MARTHA. 

It  is  John  Gloyd  has  stirred  him  up  to  this. 
I  do  not   like   that   Gloyd.     I   think   him 

crafty, 

Not  to  be  trusted,  sullen,  and  untruthful. 
Come,   have  your  supper.     You  are  tired 

and  hungry. 

COKEY. 
I  'm  angry,  and  not  hungry. 

MARTHA. 

Do  eat  something. 
You  '11  be  the  better  for  it. 

COREY  (sitting  down). 

I  'm  not  hungry. 

MARTHA. 

Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your  wrath. 

COREY. 

It  has  gone  down  upon  it,  and  will  rise 
To-morrow,  and  go  down  again  upon  it. 
They  have  trumped  up  against  me  the  old 

story 
Of  causing  GoodelPs  death  by  trampling  on 

him. 

MARTHA. 

Oh,  that  is  false.     I  know  it  to  be  false. 

COREY. 

He  has  been  dead  these  fourteen  years  or 

more. 
Why  can't  they  let  him  rest  ?     Why  must 

they  drag  him 

Out  of  his  grave  to  give  me  a  bad  name  ? 
I  did  not  kill  him.     In  his  bed  he  died, 
As    most    men  die,  because  his  hour   had 

come. 
I  have   wronged   no   man.      Why   should 

Proctor  say 
Such  things  about  me  ?     I  will  not  forgive 

him 

Till  he  confesses  he  has  slandered  me. 
Then,  I  've  more  trouble.     All  my  cattle 

gone. 

MARTHA. 

They  will  come  back  again. 


COREY. 

Not  in  this  world. 

Did  I  not  tell  you  they  were  overlooked  ? 
They  ran  down  through  the  woods,  into  the 

meadows, 
And   tried   to   swim   the   river,  and  were 

drowned. 
It  is  a  heavy  loss. 

MARTHA. 

I  'm  sorry  for  it. 

COREY. 

All   my   dear   oxen   dead.     I  loved   them, 

Martha, 

Next  to  yourself.     I  liked  to  look  at  them, 
And  watch  the  breath  come  out  of  their  wide 

nostrils, 
And   see   their  patient  eyes.     Somehow  I 

thought 

It  gave  me  strength  only  to  look  at  them. 
And  how  they  strained  their  necks  against 

the  yoke 
If  I  but  spoke,  or  touched  them  with  the 

goad! 
They  were  my  friends  ;  and  when  Gloyd 

came  and  told  me 
They    were    all    drowned,   I   could    have 

drowned  myself 

From  sheer  vexation  ;  and  I  said  as  much 
To  Gloyd  and  others. 

MARTHA. 

Do  not  trust  John  Gloyd 
With    anything  you   would  not   have   re 
peated. 

COREY. 

As  I  came  through  the  woods  this  after 
noon, 

Impatient  at  my  loss,  and  much  perplexed 
With  all  that  I  had  heard  there  in  the  vil 
lage, 

The  yellow  leaves  lit  up  the  trees  about  me 
Like  an  enchanted  palace,  and  I  wished 
I  knew  enough  of  magic  or  of  Witchcraft 
To  change  them  into  gold.     Then  suddenly 
A  tree  shook  down  some  crimson   leaves 

upon  me, 
Like  drops  of  blood,  and  in  the  path  before 

me 
Stood  Tituba  the  Indian,  the  old  crone. 

MARTHA. 

Were  you  not  frightened  ? 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


507 


COKEY. 

No,  I  do  not  think 
I  know  the  meaning  of  that  word.     Why 

frightened  ? 

I  am  not  one  of  those  who  think  the  Lord 
Is  waiting  till  He  catches  them  some  day 
In  the  back  yard  alone  !     What  should  I 

fear? 

She  started  from  the  bushes  by  the  path, 
And  had  a  basket  full  of  herbs  and  roots 
For  some  witch-broth  or  other,  —  the  old 

hag! 

MARTHA. 

She  has  been  here  to-day. 

COREY. 

With  hand  outstretched 
She  said  :  "  Giles  Corey,  will  you  sign  the 

Book  ?  " 
"  Avaunt ! "    I  cried  :    "  Get   thee  behind 

me,  Satan  ! " 
At  which  she  laughed  and  left  me.     But  a 

voice 

Was  whispering  in  my  ear  continually  : 
"  Self-murder   is   no   crime.     The   life   of 

man 
Is  his,  to  keep  it  or  to  throw  away  ! " 

MARTHA. 

'T  was  a  temptation  of  the  Evil  One  ! 
Giles,  Giles  !  why  will  you   harbor   these 
dark  thoughts  ? 

COREY  (rising). 
I  am  too  tired  to  talk.     I  '11  go  to  bed. 

MARTHA. 

First   tell  me    something    about    Bridget 

Bishop. 
How  did  she  look  ?     You  saw  her  ?     You 

were  there  ? 

COREY. 

I  '11  tell  you  that  to-morrow,  not  to-night. 
I  '11  go  to  bed. 

MARTHA. 

First  let  us  pray  together. 

COREY. 
I  cannot  pray  to-night. 

MARTHA. 

Say  the  Lord's  Prayer, 
And  that  will  comfort  you. 


COREY. 

I  cannot  say, 
"  As   we   forgive   those   that  have  sinned 

against  us," 
When  I  do  not  forgive  them. 

MARTHA  (kneeling  on  the  hearth). 

God  forgive  you  ! 

COREY. 

I  will  not  make  believe  !     I  say,  to-night 
There 's  something  thwarts  me  when  I  wish 

to  pray, 
And    thrusts    into    my   mind,   instead    of 

prayers, 
Hate  and  revenge,  and  things  that  are  not 

prayers. 
Something  of  my  old  self,  —  my  old,  bad 

life,  — 

And  the  old  Adam  in  me,  rises  up, 
And  will  not  let  me  pray.     I  am  afraid 
The  Devil  hinders  me.     You  know  I  say 
Just  what  I  think,  and  nothing  more  nor 

less, 
And,   when  I  pray,    my   heart   is  in   my 

prayer, 

I  cannot  say  one  thing  and  mean  another. 
If  I  can't  pray,  I  will  not  make  believe  ! 
[Exit  COREY.    MARTHA  continues  kneeling. 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I.  —  GILES  COREY'S  kitchen.  Morning. 
COREY  and  MARTHA  sitting  at  the  breakfast' 
table. 

COREY  (rising). 
Well,  now  I  've  told  you   all  I   saw  and 

heard 
Of  Bridget  Bishop  ;  and  I  must  be  gone. 

MARTHA. 

Don't  go  into  the  village,  Giles,  to-day. 
Last  night  you  came  back  tired  and  out  of 
humor. 

COREY. 

Say,  angry  ;  say,  right  angry.    I  was  never 
In  a  more  devilish  temper  in  my  life. 
All  things  went  wrong  with  me. 

MARTHA. 

You  were  much  vexed  ; 
So  don't  go  to  the  village. 


5o8 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


COKEY  (going). 

No,  I  won't. 

I  won't  go  near  it.     We  are  going  to  mow 
The  Ipswich  meadows  for  the  aftermath, 
The  crop  of  sedge  and  rowens. 


Stay  a  moment. 
I  want  to  tell  you  what  I  dreamed  last 

night. 
Do  you  believe  in  dreams  ? 

COREY. 

Why,  yes  and  no. 
When  they  come  true,  then  I  believe   in 

them; 
When  they  come  false,  I  don't  believe  in 

them. 

But  let  me  hear.  What  did  you  dream 
about  ? 

MARTHA. 

I  dreamed  that  you  and  I  were  both  in 
prison  ; 

That  we  had  fetters  on  our  hands  and  feet ; 

That  we  were  taken  before  the  Magis 
trates, 

And  tried  for  Witchcraft,  and  condemned 
to  death  ! 

I  wished  to  pray  ;  they  would  not  let  me 
pray  ; 

You  tried  to  comfort  me,  and  they  forbade 
it. 

But  the  most  dreadful  thing  in  all  my  dream 

Was  that  they  made  you  testify  against 
me  ! 

And  then  there  came  a  kind  of  mist  be 
tween  us  ; 

I  could  not  see  you  ;  and  I  woke  in  terror. 

I  never  was  more  thankful  in  my  life 

Than  when  I  found  you  sleeping  at  my 
side  ! 

COREY  (with  tenderness). 
It  was  our  talk  last  night  that  made  you 

dream. 

I  'm  sorry  for  it.     I  '11  control  myself 
Another  time,  and  keep  my  temper  down  ! 
I  do  not  like  such  dreams.  —  Remember, 

Martha, 
I  'm     going  to    mow  the   Ipswich  River 

meadows  ; 
If  Gardner  comes,  you'll  tell  him  where 

to  find  me.  [Exit. 


MARTHA. 

So  this  delusion  grows  from  bad  to  worse. 

First,  a  forsaken  and  forlorn  old  woman, 

Ragged  and  wretched,  and  without  a 
friend  ; 

Then  something  higher.  Now  it 's  Bridget 
Bishop  ; 

God  only  knows  whose  turn  it  will  be  next  ! 

The  Magistrates  are  blind,  the  people  mad  ! 

If  they  would  only  seize  the  Afflicted  Chil 
dren, 

And  put  them  in  the  Workhouse,  where 
they  should  be, 

There  'd  be  an  end  of  all  this  wickedness. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  street  in  Salem  Village.     Enter 
MATHER  and  HATHORNE. 

MATHER. 
Yet  one  thing  troubles  me. 

HATHORNE. 

And  what  is  that  ? 

MATHER. 

May  not  the  Devil  take  the  outward  shape 
Of  innocent  persons  ?     Are  we  not  in  dan 
ger, 

Perhaps,  of  punishing  some  who  are  not 
guilty  ? 

HATHORNE. 

As  I  have  said,  we  do  not  trust  alone 
To  spectral  evidence. 

MATHER. 

And  then  again, 

If  any  shall  be  put  to  death  for  Witch 
craft, 

We  do  but  kill  the  body,  not  the  soul. 

The  Unclean  Spirits  that  possessed  them 
once 

Live  still,  to  enter  into  other  bodies. 

What  have  we  gained  ?  Surely,  there 's 
nothing  gained. 

HATHORNE. 

Doth  not  the  Scripture  say,  "  Thou  shalt 

not  suffer 
A  Witch  to  live  ?  " 

MATHER. 

The  Scripture  sayeth  it, 
Bnt   speaketh  to  the   Jews  ;  and   we  are 

Christians. 
What  say  the  laws  of  England  ? 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


509 


HATHORNE. 

They  make  Witchcraft 
Felony  without  the  benefit  of  Clergy. 
Witches   are   burned    in    England.      You 

have  read  — 
For  you  read  all  things,  not  a  book  escapes 

you  — 
The  famous  Demonology  of  King  James  ? 

MATHER. 

A  curious  volume.     I  remember  also 

The  plot  of  the  Two  Hundred,  with  one 

Fian, 

The  Registrar  of  the  Devil,  at  their  head, 
To  drown  his  Majesty  on  his  return 
From  Denmark  ;  how  they  sailed  in  sieves 

or  riddles 

Unto  North  Berwick  Kirk  in  Lothian, 
And,  landing  there,  danced  hand  in  hand, 

and  sang, 

"  Goodwife,  go  ye  before  !  goodwife,  go  ye  ! 
If  ye  '11  not  go  before,  goodwife,  let  me  !  " 
While  Geilis  Duncan  played  the  Witches' 

Reel 
Upon  a  jews-harp. 

HATHORNE. 

Then  you  know  full  well 
The   English  law,  and  that  in    England 

Witches, 

When  lawfully  convicted  and  attainted, 
Are  put  to  death. 

MATHER. 

When  lawfully  convicted  ; 
That  is  the  point. 

HATHORNE. 

You  heard  the  evidence 
Produced  before  us  yesterday  at  the  trial 
Of  Bridget  Bishop. 

MATHER. 

One  of  the  Afflicted, 
I  know,  bore  witness  to  the  apparition 
Of  ghosts  unto  the  spectre  of  this  Bishop, 
Saying,  "  You  murdered  us  !  "  of  the  truth 

whereof 

There  was  in  matter  of  fact  too  much  sus 
picion. 

HATHORNE. 

And  when  she  cast  her  eyes  on  the  Af 
flicted, 

They  were  struck  down  ;  and  this  in  such  a 
manner 


There  could  be  no  collusion  in  the  busi 
ness. 

And  when  the  accused  but  laid  her  hand 
upon  them, 

As  they  lay  in  their  swoons,  they  straight 
revived, 

Although  they  stirred  not  when  the  others 
touched  them. 

MATHER. 

What  most  convinced  me  of  the  woman's 

guilt 

Was  finding  hidden  in  her  cellar  wall 
Those  poppets  made  of  rags,  with  headless 

pins 
Stuck     into    them     point    outwards,    and 

whereof 
She  could  not  give  a  reasonable  account. 

HATHORNE. 

When  you  shall  read  the  testimony  given 
Before  the  Court  in  all  the  other  cases, 
I  am  persuaded  you  will  find  the  proof 
No  less  conclusive  than  it  was  in  this. 
Come,  then,  with  me,  and  I  will  tax  your 

patience 

With  reading  of  the  documents  so  far 
As  may  convince  you  that  these  sorcerers 
Are  lawfully  convicted  and  attainted. 
Like  doubting  Thomas,  you  shall  lay  your 

hand 
Upon  these  wounds,  and  you  will  doubt  no 

more.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.  —  A  room  in  COREY'S  house.    MAR 
THA  and  two  Deacons  of  the  church. 

MARTHA. 

Be  seated.     I  am  glad  to  see  you  here. 

I  know  what  you  are  come  for.     You  are 

come 
To  question  me,  and  learn  from  my  own 

lips 

If  I  have  any  dealings  with  the  Devil  ; 
In  short,  if  I  'm  a  Witch. 

DEACON  (sitting  down). 

Such  is  our  purpose. 

How  could  you  know  beforehand  why  we 
came? 

MARTHA. 

'T  was  only  a  surmise. 


Sio 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


DEACON. 

We  came  to  ask  yon, 
You  being  with  us  in  church  covenant, 
What   part    you    have,   if    any,   in   these 
matters. 

MARTHA. 

And  I  make  answer,  No  part  whatsoever. 
I  ani  a  farmer's  wife,  a  working  woman  ; 
You  see  my  spinning-wheel,  you  see  my 

loom, 

You  know  the  duties  of  a  farmer's  wife, 
And  are  not  ignorant  that  my  life  among 

you 

Has  been  without  reproach  until  this  day. 
Is  it  not  true  ? 

DEACON. 

So  much  we  're  bound  to  own  ; 
And  say  it  frankly,  and  without  reserve. 

MARTHA. 

I  Ve  heard  the  idle  tales  that  are  abroad  ; 
I  've  heard  it  whispered  that  I  am  a  Witch  ; 
I  cannot  help  it.     I  do  not  believe 
In  any  Witchcraft.     It  is  a  delusion. 

DEACON. 

How  can  you  say  that  it  is  a  delusion, 
When  all  our  learned  and  good  men  believe 

it?  — 
Our  Ministers  and  worshipful  Magistrates  ? 

MARTHA. 

Their  eyes  are  blinded,  and  see  not   the 

truth. 
Perhaps  one  day  they  will  be  open  to  it. 

DEACON. 

You  answer  boldly.      The  Afflicted  Chil 
dren 
Say  you  appeared  to  them. 


What  clothes  I  came  in  ? 


And  did  they  say 


DEACON. 

No,  they  could  not  tell. 
They  said  that  you  foresaw  our  visit  here, 
And  blinded  them,  so  that  they  could  not 

see 
The  clothes  you  wore. 

MARTHA. 

The  cunning,  crafty  girls  ! 
I  say  to  you,  in  all  sincerity, 


I  never  have  appeared  to  any  one 

In  my  own  person.     If  the  Devil  takes 

My  shape  to  hurt  these  children,  or  afflict 

them, 

I  am  not  guilty  of  it.     And  I  say 
It 's  all  a  mere  delusion  of  the  senses. 

DEACON. 

I  greatly  fear  that  you  will  find  too  late 
It  is  not  so. 

MARTHA  (rising). 

They  do  accuse  me  falsely. 
It  is  delusion,  or  it  is  deceit. 
There  is  a  story  in  the  ancient  Scriptures 
Which  much  I  wonder  comes  not  to  your 

minds. 
Let  me  repeat  it  to  you. 


DEACON. 


We  will  hear  it. 


It  came  to  pass  that  Naboth  had  a  vineyard 
Hard   by  the   palace  of  the   King  called 

Ahab. 

And  Ahab,  King  of  Israel,  spake  to  Naboth, 
And  said  to  him,  Give  unto  me  thy  vine 
yard, 

That  I  may  have  it  for  a  garden  of  herbs, 
And  I  will  give  a  better  vineyard  for  it, 
Or,  if  it  seemeth  good  to  thee,  its  worth 
In  money.     And  then  Naboth  said  to  Ahab, 
The  Lord  forbid  it  me  that  I  should  give 
The  inheritance  of  my  fathers  unto  thee. 
And  Ahab  came  into  his  house  displeased 
And   heavy  at   the   words   which  Naboth 

spake, 
And   laid   him   down  upon  his   bed,  and 

turned 

His  face  away  ;  and  he  would  eat  no  bread. 
And  Jezebel,  the  wife  of  Ahab,  came 
And  said  to  him,  Why  is  thy  spirit  sad  ? 
And  he  said  unto  her,  Because  I  spake 
To  Naboth,  to  the  Jezreelite,  and  said, 
Give  me  thy  vineyard  ;  and  he  answered, 

saying, 

I  will  not  give  my  vineyard  unto  thee. 
And  Jezebel,  the  wife  of  Ahab,  said, 
Dost  thou  not  rule  the  realm  of  Israel  ? 
Arise,   eat   bread,    and    let    thy  heart  be 

merry  ; 

I  will  give  Naboth's  vineyard  unto  thee. 
So  she  wrote  letters  in  King  Ahab's  name, 
And  sealed  them  with  his  seal,  and  sent  the 

letters 
Unto  the  elders  that  were  in  his  city 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


Dwelling  with  Naboth,  and  unto  the  nobles  ; 
And  in  the  letters  wrote,  Proclaim  a  fast ; 
And   set    this    Naboth    high    among    the 

people, 

And  set  two  men,  the  sons  of  Belial, 
Before  him,  to  bear  witness  and  to  say, 
Thou  didst  blaspheme  against  God  and  the 

King  ; 
And  carry  him  out  and  stone  him,  that  he 

die! 

And  the  elders  and  the  nobles  in  the  city 
Did  even  as  Jezebel,  the  wife  of  Ahab, 
Had  sent  to  them  and  written  in  the  letters. 

And  then  it  came   to  pass,    when  Ahab 

heard 

Naboth  was  dead,  that  Ahab  rose  to  go 
Down  unto  Naboth's  vineyard,  and  to  take 
Possession  of  it.     And  the  word  of  God 
Came  to  Elijah,  saying  to  him,  Arise, 
Go  down  to  meet  the  King  of  Israel 
In  Naboth's  vineyard,  whither  he  hath  gone 
To  take  possession.     Thou  shalt  speak  to 

him, 
Saying,  Thus  saith  the  Lord  !    What  !  hast 

thou  killed 

And  also  taken  possession  ?     In  the  place 
Wherein  the  dogs  have  licked  the  blood  of 

Naboth 
Shall  the  dogs  lick  thy  blood,  —  ay,  even 

thine  ! 

Both  of  the  Deacons  start  from  their  seats. 
And  Ahab  then,  the  King  of  Israel, 
Said,  Hast  thou  found  me,  O  mine  enemy  ? 
Elijah  the  Prophet  answered,  I  have  found 

thee  ! 

So  will  it  be  with  those  who  have  stirred  up 
The  Sons  of  Belial  here  to  bear  false  wit 
ness 

And  swear  away  the  lives  of  innocent  peo 
ple  ; 

Their  enemy  will  find  them  out  at  last, 
The  Prophet's  voice  will  thunder,  I  have 
found  thee  !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.  —  Meadows  on  Ipswich  River.  COREY 
and  his  men  mowing ;  COKEY  in  advance. 

COKEY. 

Well  done,  my  men.     You  see,  I  lead  the 

field! 

I  'm  an  old  man,  but  I  can  swing  a  scythe 
Better  than  most  of  you,  though  you  be 

younger. 
Hangs  his  scythe  upon  a  tree. 


GLOYD  (aside  to  the  others). 
How  strong  he  is  !     It  's  supernatural. 
No  man  so  old  as  he  is  has  such  strength. 
The  Devil  helps  him  ! 

COKEY  (wiping  his  forehead). 

Now  we  '11  rest  awhile, 

And  take  our  nooning.     What  's  the  mat 
ter  with  you  ? 

You  are  not  angry  with   me,  —  are   you, 
Gloyd  ? 

Come,  come,  we  will  not  quarrel.     Let 's  be 
friends. 

It  's  an  old  story,  that  the  Raven  said, 

"Read   the   Third   of   Colossians   and  fif 
teenth." 

GLOYD. 

You  're  handier  at  the  scythe,  but  I  can 

beat  you 
At  wrestling. 

COREY. 

Well,  perhaps  so.     I  don't  know. 
I  never  wrestled  with  you.     Why,  you  're 

vexed ! 
Corne,  come,  don't  bear  a  grudge. 

GLOYD. 

You  are  afraid. 

COREY. 
What  should  I  be  afraid  of?     All  bear 

witness 

The   challenge    comes   from   him.      Now, 
then,  my  man. 
They  wrestle,  and  GLOYD  is  thrown. 

ONE  OF  THE  MEN. 

That 's  a  fair  fall. 

ANOTHER. 

'T  was  nothing  but  a  foil  1 

OTHERS. 

You  've  hurt  him  ! 

COREY  (helping  GLOYD  rise). 

No  ;  this  meadow-land  is  soft. 
You  're  not  hurt,  —  are  you,  Gloyd  ? 

GLOYD  (rising). 

No,  not  much  hurt. 

COREY. 

Well,  then,  shake  hands  ;  and  there  's  an 
end  of  it. 


512 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


How  do  you  like  that  Cornish  hug,  my  lad  ? 
And  now  we  '11  see  what  's  in  our  basket 
here. 

GLOYD  (aside). 
The   Devil   and   all   his   imps  are  in  that 

•man  ! 
The  clutch  of  his   ten  fingers  burns  like 

fire  ! 

COKEY  (reverentially  taking  off  his  hat). 

God  bless  the  food  He  hath  provided  for 

us, 
And  make  us  thankful  for  it,  for  Christ's 

sake! 
He  lifts  up  a  keg  of  cider,  and  drinks  from  it. 

GLOYD. 

Do  you  see  that  ?     Don't  tell  me  it 's  not 

Witchcraft. 
Two  of  us  could  not  lift  that  cask  as  he 

does! 

COREY  puts  down  the  keg,  and  opens  a  basket.  A. 
voice  is  heard  calling. 

VOICE. 
Ho  !  Coreyx  Corey  ! 

COREY. 

What  is  that  ?     I  surely 
Heard  some  one  calling  me  by  name  ! 

VOICE. 

Giles  Corey  ! 
Enter  a  boy,  running,  and  out  of  breath. 

BOY. 

Is  Master  Corey  here  ? 


COREY. 


Yes,  here  I  am. 


BOY. 
O  Master  Corey  ! 

COREY. 

Well? 


BOY. 

Your  wife  —  your  wife  — 


COREY. 
What 's  happened  to  my  wife  ? 


BOY. 

She  's  sent  to  prison ! 


COREY. 

The  dream  !  the  dream  !  O  God,  be  mer 
ciful  ! 

-     BOY. 

She  sent  me  here  to  tell  you. 

COREY  (putting  on  his  jacket). 

Where  's  my  horse  ? 

Don't  stand  there  staring,  fellows.  Where 's 
my  horse  ?  [Exit  COREY. 

GLOYD. 

Under  the  trees  there.  Run,  old  man,  run, 
run  ! 

You  've  got  some  one  to  wrestle  with  you 
now 

Who  '11  trip  your  heels  up,  with  your  Cor 
nish  hug. 

If  there  's  a  Devil,  he  has  got  you  now. 

Ah,  there  he  goes  !  His  horse  is  snorting 
fire! 

ONE  OF  THE  MEN. 

John  Gloyd,  don't  talk  so  !     It 's  a  shame 

to  talk  so  ! 
He  's  a  good  master,  though  you  quarrel 

with  him. 

GLOYD. 

If  hard  work  and  low  wages  make  good 

masters, 

Then  he  is  one.     But  I  think  otherwise. 
Come,  let  us  have  our  dinner  and  be  merry, 
And   talk    about    the    old    man    and    the 

Witches. 
I  know  some  stories  that  will  make  you 

laugh. 

They  sit  down  on  the  grass,  and  eat. 
Now   there  are  Goody  Cloyse  and  Goody 

Good, 
Who  have  not  got  a  decent  tooth  between 

them, 
And   yet    these    children — the    Afflicted 

Children  — 
Say  that  they  bite  them,  and  show  marks 

of  teeth 
Upon  their  arms  ! 

ONE  OF  THE  MEN. 

That  makes  the  wonder  greater. 
That 's  Witchcraft.     Why,  if  they  had  teeth 

like  yours, 
'T  would  be  no  wonder  if  the  girls   were 

bitten  ! 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


GLOYD. 

And  then  those  ghosts  that  come  out  of 
their  graves 

And  cry,  "  You  murdered  us  !  you  mur 
dered  us  !  " 

ONE  OP  THE  MEN. 

And  all  those  Apparitions  that  stick  pins 
Into  the  flesh  of  the  Afflicted  Children  ! 

GLOYD. 

Oh  those  Afflicted  Children  !  They  know 
well 

Where  the  pins  come  from.  I  can  tell  you 
that. 

And  there  's  old  Corey,  he  has  got  a  horse 
shoe 

Nailed  on  his  doorstep  to  keep  off  the 
Witches, 

And  all  the  same  his  wife  has  gone  to 
prison. 

ONE  OF  THE  MEN. 

Oh,  she  's  no  Witch.  I  '11  swear  that  Good- 
wife  Corey 

Never  did  harm  to  any  living  creature. 
She  's   a  good  woman,  if  there  ever   was 
one. 

GLOYD. 
Well,  we  shall  see.     As  for  that  Bridget 

Bishop, 
She   has   been   tried   before  ;   some   years 

ago 

A  negro  testified  he  saw  her  shape 
Sitting  upon  the  rafters  in  a  barn, 
And  holding  in  its  hand  an  egg  ;  and  while 
He    went   to  fetch  his  pitchfork,  she  had 

vanished. 

And  now  be  quiet,  will  you  ?     I  am  tired, 
And  want   to   sleep   here   on  the  grass  a 
little. 

They  stretch  themselves  on  the  grass. 

ONE  OF  THE  MEN. 

There  may  be  Witches  riding  through  the 
air 

Over  our  heads  on  broomsticks  at  this  mo 
ment, 

Bound  for  some  Satan's  Sabbath  in  the 
woods 

To  be  baptized. 

GLOYD. 

I  wish  they  'd  take  you  with  them. 
And  hold  you  under  water,  head  and  ears, 


Till  you  were  drowned  ;   and  that  would 

stop  your  talking, 
If  nothing  else  will.     Let  me  sleep,  I  say. 


ACT  IV 


SCENE    I.  —  The  Green   in  front  of  the  village 
Meeting-house.    An  < 
Enter  JOHN  GLOYD. 


Meeting-house.    An  excited  crowd  gathering. 
Jo 


A  FARMER. 

Who  will  be  tried  to-day  ? 

A  SECOND. 

I  do  not  know. 
Here  is  John  Gloyd.     Ask  him  ;  he  knows. 


FARMER. 


Whose  turn  is  it  to-day  ? 


John  Gloyd, 


GLOYD. 

It 's  Goodwife  Corey's. 

FARMER. 

Giles  Corey's  wife  ? 

GLOYD. 

The  same.     She  is  not  mine. 
It  will  go  hard  with  her  with  all  her  pray 
ing. 
The   hypocrite  !      She 's    always    on    her 

knees  ; 

But  she  prays  to  the  Devil  when  she  prays. 
Let  us  go  in. 

A  trumpet  blows. 

FARMER. 

Here  come  the  Magistrates. 

SECOND  FARMER. 

Who  's  the  tall  man  in  front  ? 

GLOYD. 

Oh,  that  is  Hathorne, 
A  Justice  of  the  Court,  and  Quartermaster 
In  the  Three  County  Troop.  He  '11  sift 

the  matter. 
That 's  Corwin  with  him  ;  and  the  man  in 

black 
Is  Cotton  Mather,  Minister  of  Boston. 

Enter  HATHORNE  and  other  Magistrates  on 
horseback,  followed  by  the  Sheriff^  constables, 
and  attendants  on  foot.  The  Magistrates  dis 
mount,  and  enter  the  Meeting-house,  with  the 
rest. 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


FARMER. 

The  Meeting-house  is  full.     I  never  saw 
So  great  a  crowd  before. 


GLOYD. 


No  matter.     Come. 

We  shall  find  room  enough  by  elbowing 
Our  way  among  them.     Put  your  shoulder 
to  it. 

FARMER. 

There  were  not  half  so  many  at  the  trial 
Of  Good  wife  Bishop. 

GLOYD. 

Keep  close  after  me. 
I  '11  find  a  place  for  you.     They  '11  want  me 

there. 

I  am  a  friend  of  Corey's,  as  you  know, 
And  he  can't  do  without  me  just  at  present. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Interior  of  the  Meeting  -  house. 
MATHER  and  the  Magistrates  seated  in  front 
of  the  pulpit.  Before  them  a  raised  platform. 
MARTHA  in  chains.  COREY  near  her.  MARY 
WALCOT  in  a  chair.  A  crowd  of  spectators, 
among  them  GLOYD.  Confusion  ana  murmurs 
during  the  scene. 

HATHORNE. 

Call  Martha  Corey. 

MARTHA. 

I  am  here. 

HATHORNE. 

Come  forward. 
She  ascends  the  platform. 

The  Jurors  of  our  Sovereign  Lord  and  Lady 
The  King  and  Queen,  here  present,  do  ac 
cuse  you 

Of  having  on  the  tenth  of  June  last  past, 
And  divers  other  times  before  and  after, 
Wickedly  used  and  practised  certain  arts 
Called  Witchcrafts,  Sorceries,  and  Incanta 
tions, 

Against  one  Mary  Walcot,  single  woman, 
Of  Salem  Village  ;  by  which  wicked  arts 
The    aforesaid    Mary    Walcot    was    tor 
mented, 
Tortured,   afflicted,  pined,  consumed,  and 

wasted, 

Against  the  peace  of  our  Sovereign  Lord 
and  Lady 


The   King   and   Queen,  as   well  as  of  the 

Statute 
Made  and  provided  in  that  case.     What 

say  you  ? 

MARTHA. 

Before  I  answer,  give  me  leave  to  pray. 

HATHORNE. 

We  have  not  sent  for  you,  nor  are  we  here, 
To  hear  you  pray,  but  to  examine  you 
In  whatsoever  is  alleged  against  you. 
Why  do  you  hurt  this  person  ? 

MARTHA. 

I  do  not. 
I  am  not  guilty  of  the  charge  against  me. 

MARY. 

Avoid,  she-devil  !     You  may  torment  me 

now  ! 
Avoid,  avoid,  Witch  ! 

MARTHA. 

I  am  innocent. 

I  never  had  to  do  with  any  Witchcraft 
Since  I  was  born.     I  am  a  gospel  woman. 

MARY. 
You  are  a  gospel  Witch  ! 

MARTHA  (clasping  her  hands). 

Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 
Oh,  give  me  leave  to  pray  ! 

MAHY  (stretching  out  her  hands'). 

She  hurts  me  now. 
See,  she  has  pinched  my  hands  ! 

HATHORNE. 

Who  made  these  marks 
Upon  her  hands  ? 

MARTHA. 

I  do  not  know.     I  stand 
Apart  from  her.    I  did  not  touch  her  hands. 

HATHORNE. 

Who  hurt  her  then  ? 

MARTHA. 

I  know  not. 


HATHORNE. 


She  is  bewitched 


Do  you  think 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


MARTHA. 

Indeed  I  do  not  think  so. 
I  am   no   Witch,   and    have   no    faith  in 
Witches. 

HATHORNE. 

Then  answer  me  :  When  certain   persons 

came 

To  see  you  yesterday,  how  did  you  know 
Beforehand  why  they  came  ? 

MARTHA. 

I  had  had  speech  ; 
The   children    said  I   hurt    them,   and    I 

thought 
These  people  came  to  question  me  about  it. 

HATHORNB. 

How  did  you  know  the  children  had  been 

told 
To  note  the  clothes  you  wore  ? 

MARTHA. 

My  husband  told  me 
What  others  said  about  it. 


HATHORNE. 


Say,  did  you  tell  her  ? 


Goodman  Corey, 


COREY. 

I  must  speak  the  truth  ; 
I  did  not  tell  her.     It  was  some  one  else. 

HATHORNE. 

Did  you  not  say  your  husband  told  you  so  ? 
How  dare  you  tell  a  lie  in  this  assembly  ? 
Who  told  you  of  the  clothes  ?    Confess  the 
truth. 

MARTHA  bites  her  lips,  and  is  silent. 
You  bite  your  lips,  but  do  not  answer  me  ! 

MARY. 
Ah,  she  is  biting  me  !     Avoid,  avoid  1 

HATHORNB. 

You  said  your  husband  told  you. 

MARTHA. 

Yes,  he  told  me 
The  children  said  I  troubled  them. 


HATHOHNE. 

Why  do  you  trouble  them  ? 

MARTHA. 


Then  tell  me, 


I  have  denied  it. 

MARY. 
She   threatened   me  ;  stabbed  at  me  with 

her  spindle  ; 
And,  when  my  brother  thrust  her  with  his 

sword, 

He  tore  her  gown,  and  cut  a  piece  away. 
Here  are  they  both,  the    spindle  and  the 
cloth. 

Shows  them. 

HATHORNE. 

And  there  are  persons  here  who  know  the 

truth 
Of  what  has  now  been  said.     What  answer 

make  you  ? 

MARTHA. 

I  make  no  answer.    Give  me  leave  to  pray. 

HATHORNE. 

Whom  would  you  pray  to  ? 

MARTHA. 

To  my  God  and  Father. 

HATHORNE. 

Who  is  your  God  and  Father  ? 

MARTHA. 

The  Almighty ! 

HATHORNE. 

Doth  he  you  pray  to  say  that  he  is  God  ? 
It  is  the  Prince  of  Darkness,  and  not  God. 

MARY. 

There  is  a  dark  shape  whispering  in  her 
ear. 

HATHORNE. 

What  does  it  say  to  you  ? 

MARTHA. 

I  see  no  shape. 

HATHORNE. 

Did  you  not  hear  it  whisper  ? 


MARTHA. 


I  heard  nothing. 


5i6 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


MARY. 

What  torture  !     Ah,  what  agony  I  suffer  1 
Falls  into  a  swoon. 

HATHORNE. 

You  see  this  woman  cannot  stand  before 

you. 

If  you  would  look  for  mercy,  you  must  look 
In  God's  way,  by  confession  of  your  guilt. 
Why  does  your  spectre  haunt  and  hurt  this 

person  ? 

MARTHA. 

I  do  not  know.     He  who  appeared  of  old 
In  Samuel's  shape,  a  saint  and  glorified, 
May  come  in  whatsoever  shape  he  chooses. 
I  cannot  help  it.     I  am  sick  at  heart  ! 

COREY. 

0  Martha,  Martha  !  let  me  hold  your  hand. 

HATHORNE. 

No  ;  stand  aside,  old  man. 

MARY  (starting  up). 

Look  there  !     Look  there  ! 

1  see  a  little  bird,  a  yellow  bird, 
Perched  on  her  finger  ;  and  it  pecks  at  me. 
Ah,  it  will  tear  mine  eyes  out  ! 

MARTHA. 

I  see  nothing. 

HATHORNE. 

'Tis  the  Familiar  Spirit  that  attends  her. 

MARY. 

Now  it  has  flown  away.     It  sits  up  there 
Upon  the  rafters.    It  is  gone  ;  is  vanished. 

MARTHA. 

Giles,  wipe  these  tears  of  anger  from  mine 

eyes. 
Wipe  the  sweat  from  my  forehead.     I  am 

faint. 

She  leans  against  the  railing. 

MARY. 

Oh,  she  is  crushing  me  with  all  her  weight ! 

HATHORNE. 

Did  you  not  carry  once  the  Devil's  Book 
To  this  young  woman  ? 

MARTHA. 

Never. 


Or  touched  it  ? 


HATHORNE. 

Have  you  signed  it, 

MARTHA. 

No  ;  I  never  saw  it. 


HATHORNE. 

Did  you  not  scourge  her  with  an  iron  rod  ? 

MARTHA. 

No,  I  did  not.     If  any  Evil  Spirit 

Has  taken  my  shape  to  do  these  evil  deeds, 

I  cannot  help  it.     I  am  innocent. 

HATHORNE. 

Did  you    not    say  the  Magistrates  were 

blind  ? 
That  you  would  open  their  eyes  ? 

MARTHA  (with  a  scornful  laugh). 

Yes,  I  said  that ; 

If  you  call  me  a  sorceress,  you  are  blind  ! 
If  you  accuse  the  innocent,  you  are  blind  ! 
Can  the  innocent  be  guilty  ? 

HATHORNE. 

Did  you  not 

On  one  occasion  hide  your  husband's  saddle 
To  hinder  him   from  coming  to  the  Ses 
sions  ? 

MARTHA. 

I  thought  it  was  a  folly  in  a  farmer 

To  waste  his  time  pursuing  such  illusions. 

HATHORNE. 

What  was  the  bird  that  this  young  woman 

saw 
Just  now  upon  your  hand  ? 


MARTHA. 


I  know  no  bird. 


HATHORNE. 

Have  you  not  dealt  with  a  Familiar  Spirit  ? 

MARTHA. 

No,  never,  never  ! 

HATHORNE. 

What  then  was  the  Book 
You   showed   to   this   young   woman,  and 

besought  her 
To  write  in  it  ? 


THE   NEW   ENGLAND   TRAGEDIES 


MARTHA, 

Where  should  I  have  a  book  ? 
I  showed  her  none,  nor  have  none. 

MARY. 

The  next  Sabbath 

Is  the  Communion  Day,  but  Martha  Corey 
Will  not  be  there  ! 

MARTHA. 

Ah,  you  are  all  against'  me. 
What  can  I  do  or  say  ? 

HATHORNE. 

You  can  confess. 

MARTHA. 

No,  I  cannot,  for  I  am  innocent. 

HATHORNE. 

We  have  the  proof  of  many  witnesses 
That  you  are  guilty. 

MARTHA. 

Give  me  leave  to  speak. 
Will  you  condemn  me  on  such  evidence,  — 
You  who  have  known  me  for  so  many 

years  ? 

Will  you  condemn  me  in  this  house  of  God, 
Where  I  so  long  have  worshipped  with  you 

all? 
Where  I  have  eaten  the  bread  and  drunk 

the  wine 
So  many  times  at  our  Lord's  Table  with 

you  ? 
Bear  witness,  you  that  hear  me  ;  you  all 

know 
That  I  have  led  a  blameless  life  among 

you, 

That  never  any  whisper  of  suspicion 
Was  breathed  against  me  till  this  accusa 
tion. 
And  shall  this  count  for  nothing?     Will 

you  take 

My  life  away  from  me,  because  this  girl, 
Who  is  distraught,  and  not  in  her  right 

mind, 
Accuses  me  of  things  I  blush  to  name  ? 

HATHORNE. 

What !    is  it  not  enough  ?     Would  you 

hear  more  ? 
Giles  Corey  1 

COREY. 

I  am  here. 


HATHORNE. 

Come  forward,  then. 
COREY  ascends  the  platform. 
Is  it  not  true,  that  on  a  certain  night 
You    were    impeded     strangely    in    your 

prayers  ? 
That  something  hindered  you  ?   and  that 

you  left 
This   woman    here,    your    wife,    kneeling 

alone 
Upon  the  hearth  ? 

COREY. 

Yes  ;  I  cannot  deny  it. 

HATHORNE. 

Did  you  not  say  the  Devil  hindered  you  ? 

COREY. 
I  think  I  said  some  words  to  that  effect. 

HATHORNE. 

Is  it  not  true,  that  fourteen  head  of  cattle, 

To  you  belonging,  broke   from   their  en 
closure 

And    leaped    into    the     river,    and    were 
drowned  ? 

COREY. 

It  is  most  true. 

HATHORNE. 

And  did  you  not  then  say 
That  they  were  overlooked  ? 

COREY. 

So  much  I  said. 
I  see  ;   they're  drawing  round  me  closer, 

closer, 

A  net  I  cannot  break,  cannot  escape  from  ! 

(Aside.) 

HATHORNE. 

Who  did  these  things  ? 

COREY. 

I  do  not  know  who  did  them. 

HATHORNE. 

Then  I  will  tell  you.     It  is  some  one  near 

you  ; 
You  see  her  now  ;  this  woman,  your  own 

wife. 

COREY. 

I  call  the  heavens  to  witness,  it  is  false  ! 
She  never  harmed  me,  never  hindered  me 


Ji8 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


In  anything  but  what  I  should  not  do 
And  I  bear  witness  in  the  sight  of  heaven, 
And  in  God's  house  here,  that  I  never  knew 

her 

As  otherwise  than  patient,  brave,  and  true, 
Faithful,  forgiving,  full  of  charity, 
A  virtuous  and  industrious  and  good  wife  ! 

HATHORNE. 

Tut,  tut,   man  ;   do  not  rant   so    in  your 

speech  ; 

You  are  a  witness,  not  an  advocate  ! 
Here,    Sheriff,   take  this    woman  back  to 

prison. 

MARTHA. 

0  Giles,  this  day  you  've  sworn  away  my 

life  ! 

MARY. 

Go,  go  and  join  the  Witches  at  the  door. 
Do  you  not  hear  the  drum  ?     Do   you  not 

see  them  ? 

Go  quick.     They  're  waiting  for  you.     You 
are  late. 

[Exit  MARTHA  ;  COREY  following. 

COREY. 
The  dream  !  the  dream  !  the  dream  ! 

HATHORNE. 

What  does  he  say  ? 

Giles  Corey,  go  not  hence.     You  are  your 
self 

Accused  of  Witchcraft  and  of  Sorcery 
By  many  witnesses.     Say,  are  you  guilty  ? 

COREY. 

1  know  my  death  is  foreordained  by  you,  — 
Mine  and  my  wife's.     Therefore  I  will  not 

answer. 

During  the  rest  of  the  scene  he  remains  silent. 

HATHORNE. 

Do  you  refuse  to  plead  ?  —  'T  were  better 

for  you 
To    make    confession,    or  to   plead    Not 

Guilty.— 
Do  you  not  hear  me  ?  —  Answer,  are  you 

guilty  ? 
Do  you  not  know  a  heavier  doom  awaits 

you, 
If    you   refuse    to  plead,    than  if    found 

guilty  ? 
Where  is  John  Gloyd  ? 


GLOYD  (coming  forward). 
Here  am  I. 

HATHORNE. 

Tell  the  Court ; 

Have  you  not  seen  the  supernatural  power 
Of  this  old  man  ?     Have  you  not  seen  him 

do 
Strange  feats  of  strength  ? 

GLOYD. 

I  've  seen  him  lead  the  field, 
On  a  hot  day,  in  mowing,  and  against 
Us  younger  men  ;  and  I  have  wrestled  with 

him. 
He  threw  me  like  a  feather.     I  have  seen 

him 

Lift  up  a  barrel  with  his  single  hands, 
Which  two  strong  men  could  hardly  lift  to 
gether, 

And,  holding  it  above  his  head,  drink  from 
it. 

HATHORNE. 

That  is    enough ;    we   need   not   question 

further. 
What  answer  do  you  make  to  this,  Giles 

Corey  ? 

MARY. 
See  there  !     See  there  ! 

HATHORNE. 

What  is  it  ?     I  see  nothing. 

MARY. 

Look  !  Look  !  It  is  the  ghost  of  Robert 
Goodell, 

Whom  fifteen  years  ago  this  man  did  mur 
der 

By  stamping  on  his  body  !     In  his  shroud 

He    comes   here    to   bear    witness  to   the 

crime  ! 
The  crowd  shrinks  back  from  COREY  in  horror. 

HATHORNE. 

Ghosts  of  the  dead  and  voices  of  the  liv 
ing 

Bear  witness  to  your  guilt,  and  you  must 
die  ! 

It  might  have  been  an  easier  death.  Your 
doom 

Will  be  on  your  own  head,  and  not  on  ours. 

Twice  more  will  you  be  questioned  of  these 
things  ; 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES 


519 


Twice  more  have  room  to  plead  or  to  con 
fess. 

If  you  are  contumacious  to  the  Court, 

And  if,  when  questioned,  you  refuse  to  an 
swer, 

Then  by  the  Statute  you  will  be  condemned 

To  the  peine  forte  et  dure  I  To  have  your 
body 

Pressed  by  great  weights  until  you  shall  be 
dead  ! 

And  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  ou  your 
soul ! 


ACT  V 

SCENE  I.  —  COREY'S  farm  as  in  Act  II.,  Scene 
I.  Enter  RICHARD  GARDNER,  looking  round 
him. 

GARDNER. 

Here  stands  the  house  as  I  remember  it, 

The  four  tall  poplar-trees  before  the  door  • 

The  house,  the  barn,  the  orchard,  and  the 
well, 

With  its  moss-covered  bucket  and  its 
trough  ; 

The  garden,  with  its  hedge  of  currant- 
bushes  ; 

The  woods,  the  harvest-fields  ;  and,  far  be 
yond, 

The  pleasant  landscape  stretching  to  the 
sea. 

But  everything  is  silent  and  deserted  ! 

No  bleat  of  flocks,  no  bellowing  of  herds, 

No  sound  of  flails,  that  should  be  beating 
now  ; 

Nor  man  nor  beast  astir.  What  can  this 
mean? 

Knocks  at  the  door. 

What  ho  !    Giles  Corey  !  Hillo-ho  !    Gfles 

Corey  !  — 

No  answer  but  the  echo  from  the  barn, 
And  the  ill-omened  cawing  of  the  crow, 
That  yonder  wings  his  flight  across  the 

fields, 
As  if  he  scented  carrion  in  the  air. 

Enter  TITUBA  with  a  basket. 

What  woman  's  this,  that,  like  an  appari 
tion, 

Haunts  this  deserted  homestead  in  broad 
day  V 

Woman,  who  are  you  ? 


TITUBA. 

I  'm  Tituba. 
I  am  John  Indian's  wife.     I  am  a  Witch. 

GARDNER. 

What  are  you  doing  here  ? 


I  am  gathering  herbs,  — 
Cinquefoil,  and  saxifrage,  and  pennyroyal. 

GARDNER  (looking  at  the  herbs). 

This  is  not  cinquefoil,  it  is  deadly  night 
shade  ! 

This  is  not  saxifrage,  but  hellebore  ! 

This  is  not  pennyroyal,  it  is  henbane  ! 

Do  you  come  here  to  poison  these  good 
people  ? 

TITUBA. 

I  get  these  for  the  Doctor  in  the  Village. 

Beware  of  Tituba.     I  pinch  the  children  ; 

Make  little  poppets  and  stick  pins  in  them, 

And  then  the  children  cry  out  they  are 
pricked. 

The  Black  Dog  came  to  me,  and  said, 
"  Serve  me  !  " 

I  was  afraid.  He  made  me  hurt  the  chil 
dren. 

GARDNER. 

Poor  soul !  She  's  crazed,  with  all  these 
Devil's  doings. 

TITUBA. 
Will  you,  sir,  sign  the  Book  ? 

GARDNER. 

No,  I  '11  not  sign  it. 

Where  is  Giles  Corey  ?  Do  you  know 
Giles  Corey  ? 

TITUBA. 

He  's  safe  enough.  He 's  down  there  in 
the  prison. 

GARDNER. 

Corey  in  prison  ?     What  is  he  accused  of  ? 

TITUBA. 

Giles  Corey  and  Martha  Corey  are  in  prison 
Down  there  in  Salem  Village.     Both  are 

Witches. 
She  came  to  me  and  whispered.,  "  Kill  the 

children  !  " 
Both  signed  the  Book  ! 


520 


CHRISTUS:    A   MYSTERY 


GARDNER. 

Begone,  you  imp  of  darkness  ! 
You  Devil's  dam  ! 

TITUBA. 

Beware  of  Tituba ! 

[Exit. 

GARDNER. 

How  often  out  at  sea  on  stormy  nights, 
When  the  waves  thundered  round  me,  and 

the  wind 

Bellowed,  and  beat  the  canvas,  and  my  ship 
Clove   through  the   solid  darkness,  like  a 

wedge, 
I  Ve  thought  of   him,   upon   his   pleasant 

farm, 

Living  in  quiet  with  his  thrifty  housewife, 
And  envied  him,  and  wished  his  fate  were 

mine  ! 

And  now  I  find  him  shipwrecked  utterly, 
Drifting  upon  this  sea  of  sorceries, 
And  lost,  perhaps,  beyond  all  aid  of  man! 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  prison.    GILES  COREY  at  a 
table  on  which  are  some  papers. 

COREY. 

Now  I  have  done  with  earth  and   all  its 

cares  ; 

I  give  my  worldly  goods  to  my  dear  chil 
dren  ; 

My  body  I  bequeath  to  my  tormentors, 
And  my  immortal  soul  to  Him  who  made 

it. 

O  God  !  who  in  thy  wisdom  dost  afflict  me 
With  an  affliction  greater  than  most  men 
Have  ever  yet  endured  or  shall  endure, 
Suffer  me  not  in  this  last  bitter  hour 
For  any  pains  of  death  to  fall  from  thee  ! 

MARTHA  is  heard  singing. 

Arise,  0  righteous  Lord  !    • 

And  disappoint  my  foes ; 
They  are  but  thine  avenging-  sword, 

Whose  wounds  are  swift  to  close. 

COREY. 

Hark,  hark  !  it  is  her  voice  !     She  is  not 

dead  ! 
She  lives  !     I  am  not  utterly  forsaken  ! 

MARTHA,  singing. 
By  thine  abounding  grace, 
And  mercies  multiplied, 


I  shall  awake,  and  see  thy  face  ; 
I  shall  be  satisfied. 

COREY  hides  his  face  in  his  hands.      Enter  the 
JAILER,  followed  by  RICHARD  GARDNER. 

JAILER. 

Here 's  a  seafaring  man,  one  Richard  Gard 
ner, 

A  friend  of  yours,  who  asks  to  speak  with 
you. 

COREY  rises.    They  embrace. 

COREY. 

I  'm  glad  to  see  you,  ay,  right  glad  to  see 
you. 

GARDNER. 

And  I  am  most  sorely  grieved  to  see  you 
thus. 

COREY. 

Of  all  the  friends  I  had  in  happier  days, 
You  are  the  first,  ay,  and  the  only  one, 
That  comes  to  seek  me  out  in  my  disgrace  ! 
And  you  but  come  in  time  to  say  farewell. 
They  've  dug  my  grave  already  in  the  field. 
I  thank  you.     There  is  something  in  your 

presence, 
I   know   not    what  it    is,   that  gives   me 

strength. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  bearing  of  a  man 
Familiar  with  all  dangers  of  the  deep, 
Familiar  with  the  cries  of  drowning  men, 
With  fire,  and  wreck,  and  foundering  ships 

at  sea ! 

GARDNER. 

Ah,   I   have  never   known    a  "wreck  like 

yours  ! 
Would  I  could  save  you  ! 

COREY. 

Do  not  speak  of  that. 
It  is  too  late.     I  am  resolved  to  die. 

GARDNER. 

Why  would  you  die  who  have  so  much  to 

live  for  ?  — 
Your  daughters,  and  — 

COREY. 

You  cannot  say  the  word. 
My  daughters  have  gone  from  me.     They 

are  married  ; 

They  have  their  homes,  their  thoughts, 
apart  from  me  ; 


THE   NEW   ENGLAND   TRAGEDIES 


521 


I  will  not  say  their  hearts,  —  that  were  too 

cruel. 
What  would  you  have  me  do  ? 

GARDNEI.I. 

Confess  and  live. 
COREY. 

That  's  what  they  said  who  came  here  yes 
terday 

To  lay  a  heavy  weight  upon  my  conscience 
By  telling  me  that  I  was  driven  forth 
As  an  unworthy  member  of  their  church. 

GARDNER. 

It  is  an  awful  death. 

COREY. 

'T  is  but  to  drown, 

And  have  the  weight  of  all  the  seas  upon 
you. 

GARDNER. 

Say   something  ;  say   enough    to   fend  off 

death 

Till  this  tornado  of  fanaticism 
Blows  itself  out.     Let  me  come  in  between 

you 

And  your  severer  self,  with  my  plain  sense  ; 
Do  not  be  obstinate. 

COREY. 

I  will  not  plead. 

If  I  deny,  I  am  condemned  already, 
In  courts  where  ghosts  appear  as  witnesses, 
And  swear  men's  lives  away.    If  I  confess, 
Then  I  confess  a  lie,  to  buy  a  life 
Which  is  not  life,  but  only  death  in  life. 
I  will  not  bear  false  witness  against  any, 
Not  even   against   myself,  whom  I  count 
least. 

GARDNER  (aside). 
Ah,  what  a  noble  character  is  this  ! 

COREY. 

I  pray  you,  do  not  urge  me  to  do  that 
You  would  not  do  yourself.   I  have  already 
The  bitter  taste  of  death  upon  my  lips  ; 
I  feel  the  pressure  of  the  heavy  weight 
That  will  crush  out  my  life  within  this  hour  ; 
But  if  a  word  could  save  me,  and   that 

word 
Were  not  the  Truth  ;  nay,  if   it   did  but 

swerve 
A  hair's-breadth  from  the  Truth,  I  would 

not  say  it ! 


GARDNER  (aside). 
How  mean  I  seem  beside  a  man  like  this  ! 

COREY. 

As  for  my  wife,  my  Martha  and  my  Mar 
tyr, — 

Whose  virtues,  like  the  stars,  unseen  by  day, 
Though  numberless,  do  but  await  the  dark 
To  manifest  themselves  unto  all  eyes,  — 
She  who  first  won  me  from  my  evil  ways, 
And  taught  me  how  to  live  by  her  example, 
By  her  example  teaches  me  to  die, 
And  leads  me  onward  to  the  better  life  1 

SHERIFF   (without}. 

Giles  Corey  !  Come  !  The  hour  has  struck  I 

COREY. 

I  come  ! 

Here  is  my  body  ;  ye  may  torture  it, 
But  the  immortal  soul  ye  cannot  crush  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  HI.  —  A  street  in  the   Village.    Enter 
GLOYD  and  others. 

GLOYD. 

Quick,  or  we  shall  be  late  ! 

A  MAN. 

That 's  not  the  way. 
Come  here  ;  come  up  this  lane. 

GLOYD. 

I  wonder  now 

If  the  old  man  will  die,  and  will  not  speak  ? 
He  's  obstinate  enough  and  tough  enough 
For  anything  on  earth. 

A  bell  tolls. 

Hark  !     What  is  that  ? 

A   MAN. 

The  passing  bell.     He  's  dead  ! 

GLOYD. 

We  are  too  late. 

[Exeunt  in  haste. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Afield  near  the  graveyard.  GILES 
COREY  lying  dead,  with  a  great  stone  on  his 
breast.  The  Sheriff  at  his  head,  RICHARD 
GARDNER  at  his  feet.  A  crowd  behind.  The 
bell  tolling.  Enter  HATHORNE  and  MATHER. 

HATHORNE. 

This  is  the  Potter's  Field.    Behold  the  fate 
Of   those  who   deal   in   Witchcrafts,  and, 
when  questioned, 


522 


CHRISTUS:   A   MYSTERY 


Refuse  to  plead  their  guilt  or  innocence, 
And   stubbornly   drag   death   upon   them 
selves. 

MATHER. 

O  sight  most  horrible  !    In  a  land  like  this, 
Spangled  with  Churches  Evangelical, 
In  wrapped  in  our  salvations,  must  we  seek 
In   mouldering   statute-books   of  English 

Courts 

Some  old  forgotten  Law,  to  do  such  deeds  ? 
Those  who  lie  buried  in  the  Potter's  Field 
Will  rise  again,  as  surely  as  ourselves 
That  sleep  in  honored  graves  with  epitaphs  ; 
And  this  poor  man,  whom  we  have  made  a 

victim, 
Hereafter  will  be  counted  as  a  martyr  ! 


FINALE 

SAINT  JOHN 

SAINT  JOHN  wandering  over  the  face  of  the  Earth. 

SAINT   JOHN. 

THE  Ages  come  and  go, 

The  Centuries  pass  as  Years  ; 

My  hair  is  white  as  the  snow, 

My  feet  are  weary  and  slow, 

The  earth  is  wet  with  my  tears  ! 

The  kingdoms  crumble,  and  fall 

Apart,  like  a  ruined  wall, 

Or  a  bank  that  is  undermined 

By  a  river's  ceaseless  flow, 

And  leave  no  trace  behind  ! 

The  world  itself  is  old  ; 

The  portals  of  Time  unfold 

On  hinges  of  iron,  that  grate 

And  groan  with  the  rust  and  the  weight, 

Like  the  hinges  of  a  gate 

That  hath  fallen  to  decay  ; 

But  the  evil  doth  not  cease  ; 

There  is  war  instead  of  peace, 

Instead  of  Love  there  is  hate  ; 

And  still  I  must  wander  and  wait, 

Still  I  must  watch  and  pray, 

Not  forgetting  in  whose  sight, 

A  thousand  years  in  their  flight 

Are  as  a  single  day. 

The  life  of  man  is  a  gleam 
Of  light,  that  comes  and  goes 
Like  the  course  of  the  Holy  Stream, 
The  cityless  river,  that  flows 
From  fountains  no  one  knows, 
Through  the  Lake  of  Galilee, 


Through  forests  and  level  lands, 
Over  rocks,  and  shallows,  and  sands 
Of  a  wilderness  wild  and  vast, 
Till  it  findeth  its  rest  at  last 
In  the  desolate  Dead  Sea  ! 
But  alas  !  alas  for  me 
Not  yet  this  rest  shall  be  ! 

What,  then  !  doth  Charity  fail  ? 

Is  Faith  of  no  avail  ? 

Is  Hope  blown  out  like  a  light 

By  a  gust  of  wind  in  the  night  ? 

The  clashing  of  creeds,  and  the  strife 

Of  the  many  beliefs,  that  in  vain 

Perplex  man's  heart  and  brain, 

Are  naught  but  the  rustle  of  leaves, 

When  the  breath  of  God  upheaves 

The  boughs  of  the  Tree  of  Life, 

And  they  subside  again  ! 

And  I  remember  still 

The  words,  and  from  whom  they  came, 

Not  he  that  repeateth  the  name, 

But  he  that  doeth  the  will ! 

And  Him  evermore  I  behold 
Walking  in  Galilee, 
Through  the  cornfield's  waving  gold, 
In  hamlet,  in  wood,  and  in  wold, 
By  the  shores  of  the  Beautiful  Sea. 
He  toucheth  the  sightless  eyes  ; 
Before  him  the  demons  flee  ; 
To  the  dead  He  sayeth  :  Arise  ! 
To  the  living  :  Follow  me  ! 
And  that  voice  still  soundeth  on 
From  the  centuries  that  are  gone, 
To  the  centuries  that  shall  be  ! 

From  all  vain  pomps  and  shows, 

From  the  pride  that  overflows, 

And  the  false  conceits  of  men  ; 

From  all  the  narrow  rules 

And  subtleties  of  Schools, 

And  the  craft  of  tongue  and  pen  ; 

Bewildered  in  its  search, 

Bewildered  with  the  cry  : 

Lo,  here  !  lo,  there,  the  Church  I 

Poor,  sad  Humanity 

Through  all  the  dust  and  heat 

Turns  back  with  bleeding  feet. 

By  the  weary  road  it  came, 

Unto  the  simple  thought 

By  the  great  Master  taught, 

And  that  remaineth  still  : 

Not  he  that  repeateth  the  name, 

But  he  that  doeth  the  will ! 


JUDAS   MACCABEUS 


523 


JUDAS   MACCABEUS 


The  writing  of  this  tragedy  followed  immediately 
upon  the  dismissal  of  The  Divine  Tragedy,  and  was  in 
a  measure  an  offshoot  from  it.  While  the  poet's  mind 
was  charged  with  the  contemplation  of  Judaic  scenes, 
there  came  back  to  him  the  thought  of  a  tragedy  based 
upon  the  history  of  Judas  Maccabseus,  which  had  first 
visited  him  twenty  years  before.  In  1850  he  had 
entered  it  in  his  note-book  as  a  subject  for  a  poem. 

Now,  he  repeats  the  suggestion  December  5,  1871, 
and  five  days  later  he  records :  "  At  home  all  day.  Be 
gan  the  tragedy  of  Judas  Maccabseus.  The  subject  is 
a  very  striking  one  —  the  collision  of  Judaism  and  Hel- 

ACT    I 

THE  CITADEL   OF  ANTIOCHUS   AT 
JERUSALEM 

SCENE  I. —ANTIOCHUS;  JASON. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

0  ANTIOCH,  my  Antioch,  my  city  ! 
Queen  of  the  East  !  my  solace,  my  delight ! 
The  dowry  of  my  sister  Cleopatra 

When  she  was  wed  to  Ptolemy,  and  now 
Won  back  and  made  more  wonderful  by 
me  ! 

1  love  thee,  and  I  long  to  be  once  more 
Among  the  players  and  the  dancing  women 
Within  thy  gates,  and  bathe  in  the  Orontes, 
Thy  river  and  mine.     O  Jason,  my  High- 
Priest, 

For  I  have   made  thee   so,  and  thou  art 

mine, 
Hast  thou  seen  Antioch  the  Beautiful  ? 


Never,  my  Lord. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Then  hast  thou  never  seen 
The  wonder  of  the   world.     This  city  of 

David 

Compared  with  Antioch  is  but  a  village, 
And  its  inhabitants  compared  with  Greeks 
Are  mannerless  boors. 


And  mannerless. 


JASON. 

They  are  barbarians, 


ANTIOCHUS. 


They  must  be  civilized. 
They  must  be  made  to  have   more  gods 

than  one  ; 
And  goddesses  besides. 


lenism."  Elsewhere,  he  raises  the  question:  "The 
subject  is  tragic  enough,  but  has  it  unity,  and  a  catas 
trophe  to  end  with  ?  "  He  began  the  drama  on  the  10th 
of  December;  on  the  12th  The  Divine  Tragedy  was 
published,  and  on  the  21st  he  had  finished  his  first  draft 
of  the  new  work.  "  The  acts  are  not  long,"  he  writes, 
"but  there  are  five  of  them."  Judas  Maccabseus 
formed  one  division  of  the  volume  Three  Books  of  Song, 
which  was  published  May  25,  1872;  the  other  two 
divisions  were  The  Second  Day  of  Tales  of  a  Wayside 
Inn  and  A  Handful  of  Translations. 


JASON. 

They  shall  have  more. 

ANTIOCHUS. 
They  must  have  hippodromes,  and  games, 

and  baths, 

Stage-plays  and  festivals,  and  most  of  all 
The  Dionysia. 

JASON. 

They  shall  have  them  all. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

By  Heracles  !  but  I  should  like  to  see 
These   Hebrews    crowned   with    ivy,   and 

arrayed 
In  skins  of  fawns,  with  drums  and  flutes 

and  thyrsi, 

Revel  and  riot  through  the  solemn  streets 
Of  their  old  town.    Ha,  ha  !     It  makes  me 

merry 
Only   to    think    of    it !  —  Thou   dost  not 

laugh. 

JASON. 
Yea,  I  laugh  inwardly. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

The  new  Greek  leaven 
Works  slowly  in  this  Israelitish  dough  ! 
Have  I  not  sacked  the  Temple,  and  on  the 

altar 

Set  up  the  statue  of  Olympian  Zeus 
To  Hellenize  it  ? 

JASON. 

Thou  hast  done  all  this. 


As 


ANTIOCHUS. 

Joshua   once 


and  now  art 


thou  wast 

Jason, 

And  from  a  Hebrew  hast  become  a  Greek, 
So  shall  this  Hebrew  nation  be  translated, 


524 


JUDAS   MACCABEUS 


Their  very   natures   and   their  names   be 

changed, 
And  all  be  Hellenized. 


JASON. 


It  shall  be  done. 


ANTIOCHUS. 

Their  manners  and  their  laws  and  way  of 

living 
Shall  all   be   Greek.     They  shall  unlearn 

their  language, 

And  learn  the  lovely  speech  of  Antioch. 
Where  hast  thou  been  to-day  ?     Thou  com- 

est  late. 

JASON. 

Playing  at  discus  with  the  other  priests 
In  the  Gymnasium. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Thou  hast  done  well. 

There  's  nothing  better  for  you  lazy  priests 

Than  discus-playing  with  the  common  peo 
ple. 

Now  tell  me,  Jason,  what  these  Hebrews 
call  me 

When  they  converse  together  at  their 
games. 

JASON. 

Antiochus  Epiphanes,  my  Lord  ; 
Antiochus  the  Illustrious. 


ANTIOCHUS. 

Oh,  not  that ; 

That  is  the  public  cry  ;  I  mean  the  name 
They  give  me  when  they  talk  among  them 
selves, 

And  think   that   no  one  listens  ;  what   is 
that? 

JASON. 

Antiochus  Epimanes,  my  Lord  ! 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Antiochus  the  Mad  !     Ay,  that  is  it. 

And  who  hath  said  it  ?     Who  hath  set  in 

motion 
That  sorry  jest  ? 

JASON. 

The  Seven  Sons  insane 
Of  a  weird  woman,  like  themselves  insane. 


ANTIOCHUS. 

I  like  their  courage,  but  it  shall  not  save 

them. 
They  shall  be  made  to  eat  the  flesh  of 

swine 
Or  they  shall  die.  Where  are  they  ? 


JASON. 


Beneath  this  tower. 


In  the  dungeons 


ANTIOCHUS. 

There  let  them  stay  and  starve, 
Till  I  am  ready  to  make  Greeks  of  them, 
After  my  fashion. 

JASON. 

They  shall  stay  and  starve.  — 
My  Lord,  the  Ambassadors  of  Samaria 
Await  thy  pleasure. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Why  not  my  displeasure  ? 
Ambassadors  are  tedious.     They  are  men 
Who  work  for  their  own  ends,  and  not  for 

mine  ; 
There  is  no  furtherance  in  them.    Let  them 


To  Apollonius,  my  governor 

There  in  Samaria,  and  not  trouble  me. 

What  do  they  want  ? 

JASON. 

Only  the  royal  sanction 
To  give  a  name  unto  a  nameless  temple 
Upon  Mount  Gerizim. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Then  bid  them  enter. 
This  pleases  me,  and  furthers  my  designs. 
The    occasion   is    auspicious.      Bid    them 
enter. 

SCENE  II.  —  ANTIOCHUS  ;  JASON  ;  the  SAMAR 
ITAN  AMBASSADORS. 

ANTIOCHUS. 
Approach.     Come  forward  ;  stand  not  at 

the  door 
Wagging  your  long  beards,  but   demean 

yourselves 
As  doth  become  Ambassadors.     What  seek 

ye? 

AN  AMBASSADOR. 

An  audience  from  the  King. 


JUDAS   MACCABEUS 


525 


ANTIOCHUS. 

Speak,  and  be  brief. 
Waste  not  the  time  in  useless  rhetoric. 
Words  are  not  things. 

AMBASSADOR  (reading). 

"  To  King  Antiochus, 
The  God,  Epiphanes  ;  a  Memorial 
From  the  Sidonians,  who  live  at  Sichem." 

ANTIOCHUS. 


Sidonians  ? 


AMBASSADOR. 

Ay,  my  Lord. 


ANTIOCHUS. 

Go  on,  go  on  ! 

And  do  not  tire  thyself  and  me  with  bow 
ing  ! 

AMBASSADOR  (reading). 
"  We  are  a  colony  of  Medes  and  Persians." 

ANTIOCHUS. 

No,   ye    are    Jews  from   one  of    the  Ten 

Tribes  ; 

Whether  Sidonians  or  Samaritans 
Or  Jews  of  Jewry,  matters  not  to  me  ; 
Ye  are  all  Israelites,  ye  are  all  Jews. 
When  the  Jews  prosper,  ye  claim  kindred 

with  them  ; 
When  the  Jews  suffer,  ye  are  Medes  and 

Persians  ; 

I  know  that  in  the  days  of  Alexander 
Ye  claimed   exemption    from  the    annual 

tribute 

In  the  Sabbatic  Year,  because,  ye  said, 
Your  fields  had  not  been  planted  in  that 

year. 

AMBASSADOR  (reading). 
"Our      fathers,     upon     certain     frequent 

plagues, 

And  following  an  ancient  superstition, 
Were  long  accustomed  to  observe  that  day 
Which  by  the  Israelites  is  called  the  Sab 
bath, 

And  in  a  temple  on  Mount  Gerizim 
Without  a  name,  they  offered  sacrifice. 
Now  we,  who  are  Sidonians,  beseech  thee, 
Who  art  our  benefactor  and  our  savior, 
Not  to  confound  us  with  these  wicked  Jews, 
But  to  give  royal  order  and  injunction 
To  Apollonius  in  Samaria, 
Thy  governor,  and  likewise  to  Nicanor, 


Thy  procurator,  no  more  to  molest  us  ; 
And  let  our  nameless  temple  now  be  named 
The  Temple  of  Jupiter  Hellenius." 

ANTIOCHUS. 

This  shall  be  done.     Full  well  it  pleaseth 

me 

Ye  are  not  Jews,  or  are  no  longer  Jews, 
But  Greeks  ;  if  not  by  birth,  yet  Greeks  by 

custom. 
Your  nameless  temple    shall    receive  the 

name 
Of  Jupiter  Hellenius.     Ye  may  go  ! 

SCENE  III.  —  ANTIOCHUS  ;  JASON. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

My  task  is  easier  than  I  dreamed.     These 

people 
Meet  me  half-way.     Jason,  didst  thou  take 

note 

How  these  Samaritans  of  Sichem  said 
They   were   not    Jews  ?    that   they    were 

Medes  and  Persians, 

They  were  Sidonians,  anything  but  Jews  ? 
'T  is  of  good  augury.  The  rest  will  follow 
Till  the  whole  land  is  Hellenized. 

JASON. 

My  Lord, 

These  are  Samaritans.    The  tribe  of  Judah 
Is  of  a  different  temper,  and  the  task 
Will  be  more  difficult. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Dost  thou  gainsay  me  ? 

JASON. 

I  know  the  stubborn  nature  of  the  Jew. 
Yesterday,  Eleazer,  an  old  man, 
Being  fourscore  years  and  ten,  chose  rather 

death 
By  torture  than  to  eat  the  flesh  of  swine. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

The   life   is  in   the  blood,  and  the  whole 

nation 
Shall  bleed  to  death,  or  it  shall  change  its 

faith  ! 

JASON. 

Hundreds  have  fled  already  to  the  moun 
tains 

Of  Ephraim,  where  Judas  Maccabseus 
Hath  raised  the  standard  of  revolt  against 
thee. 


526 


JUDAS   MACCABEUS 


ANTIOCHUS. 

I  will  burn  down  their  city,  and  will  make 

it 

Waste  as  a  wilderness.     Its  thoroughfares 
Shall  be  but  furrows  in  a  field  of  ashes. 
It  shall  be  sown  with  salt  as  Sodom  is  ! 
This  hundred  and  fifty-third  Olympiad 
Shall  have  a  broad  and  blood-red  seal  upon 

it, 

Stamped  with  the  awful  letters  of  my  name, 
Antiochus  the  God,  Epiphanes  !  — 
Where  are  those  Seven  Sons  ? 

JASON. 

My  Lord,  they  wait 
Thy  royal  pleasure. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

They  shall  wait  no  longer  ! 


ACT  II 
THE  DUNGEONS   IN   THE  CITADEL 

SCENE  I.  —  THE  MOTHER  of  the  SEVEN  SONS 
alone,  listening. 

THE  MOTHER. 

Be  strong,  my  heart  !  Break  not  till  they 

are  dead. 

All,  all  my  Seven  Sons  ;  then  burst  asunder, 
And  let  this  tortured  and  tormented  soul 
Leap  and  rush  out  like  water  through  the 

shards 
Of  earthen  vessels  broken  at  a  well. 

0  my  dear  children,  mine  in  life  and  death, 

1  know  not  how  ye  came  into  my  womb  ; 

I  neither  gave  you  breath,  nor  gave   you 

life, 

And  neither  was  it  I  that  formed  the  mem 
bers 

Of  every  one  of  you.     But  the  Creator, 
Who  made  the  world,  and  made  the  heavens 

above  us, 

Who  formed  the  generation  of  mankind, 
And  fcund  out  the  beginning  of  all  things, 
He  gave  you  breath  and  life,  and  will  again 
Of  his  own  mercy,  as  ye  now  regard 
Not  your  own  selves,  but  his  eternal  law. 
I  do  not  murmur,  nay,  I  thank  thee,  God, 
That  I  and  mine  have  not  been  deemed  un 
worthy 

To  suffer  for  thy  sake,  and  for  thy  law, 
And  for  the  many  sins  of  Israel. 


Hark !    I   can  hear   within   the   sound  of 

scourges  ! 

I  feel  them  more  than  ye  do,  O  my  sons  ! 
But  cannot  come  to  you.     I,  who  was  wont 
To  wake  at  night  at  the  least  cry  ye  made, 
To  whom  ye  ran  at  every  slightest  hurt,  — 
I  cannot  take  you  now  into  my  lap 
And  soothe  your  pain,  but  God  will  take 

you  all 

Into  his  pitying  arms,  and  comfort  you, 
And  give  you  rest. 

A  VOICE  (within). 
What  wouldst  thou  ask  of  us  ? 
Ready  are  we  to  die,  but  we  will  never 
Transgress   the  law  and   customs   of  our 
fathers. 

THE   MOTHER. 

It  is  the  voice  of  my  first-born  !     O  brave 
And  noble  boy  !     Thou  hast  the  privilege 
Of  dying  first,  as  thou  wast  born  the  first. 

THE  SAME  VOICE  (within}. 
God  looketh  on  us,  and  hath  comfort  in  us  ; 
As  Moses  in  his  song  of  old  declared, 
He  in  his  servants  shall  be  comforted. 

THE    MOTHER. 

I  knew  thou  wouldst  not  fail !  —  He  speaks 

no  more, 
He  is  beyond  all  pain  ! 

ANTIOCHUS  (within). 

If  thou  eat  not 
Thou  shalt  be  tortured  throughout  all  the 

members 
Of  thy  whole  body.     Wilt  thou  eat  then  ? 


SECOND  VOICE  (within). 


No. 


THE   MOTHER. 

It  is  Adaiah's  voice.     I  tremble  for  him. 
I  know  his  nature,  devious  as  the  wind, 
And  swift  to  change,  gentle  and  yielding 

always. 
Be  steadfast,  O  my  son  ! 

THE   SAME  VOICE  (within). 

Thou,  like  a  fury, 

Takest  us  from  this  present  life,  but  God, 
Who  rules   the  world,  shall  raise   us   up 

again 
Into  life  everlasting. 


JUDAS   MACCABEUS 


527 


THE   MOTHER. 

God,  I  thank  thee 
That   thou   hast   breathed  into  that  timid 

heart 

Courage  to  die  for  thee.     O  my  Adaiah, 
Witness  of  God  !  if  thou  for  whom  I  feared 
Canst   thus   encounter   death,    I  need  not 

fear  ; 
The  others  will  not  shrink. 

THIRD  VOICE  (within). 

Behold  these  hands 
Held  out  to  thee,  O  King  Antiochus, 
Not  to  implore  thy  mercy,  but  to  show 
That  I  despise  them.     He  who  gave  them 

to  me 
Will  give  them  back  again. 

THE  MOTHER. 

O  Avilan, 

It  is  thy  voice.   For  the  last  time  I  hear  it ; 
For  the  last  time  on  earth,  but  not  the  last. 
To  death  it  bids  defiance,  and  to  torture. 
It  sounds  to  me  as  from  another  world, 
And  makes  the  petty  miseries  of  this 
Seem  unto  me  as   naught,   and   less  than 

naught. 

Farewell,  my  Avilan  ;  nay,  I  should  say 
Welcome,  my  Avilan  ;  for  I  am  dead 
Before  thee.     I  am  waiting  for  the  others. 
Why  do  they  linger  ? 

FOURTH  VOICE  (within). 

It  is  good,  O  King, 
Being  put  to  death  by  men,  to  look  for 

hope 

From  God,  to  be  raised  up  again  by  Him. 
But  thou  —  no  resurrection  shalt  thou  have 
To  life  hereafter. 

THE  MOTHER. 

Four  !  already  four  ! 
Three  are  still  living  ;  nay,  they  all   are 

living, 

Half  here,  half  there.     Make   haste,   An 
tiochus, 

To  reunite  us  ;  for  the  sword  that  cleaves 
These  miserable  bodies  makes  a  door 
Through  which  our  souls,  impatient  of  re 
lease, 
Rush  to  each  other's  arms. 

FIFTH  VOICE  (within). 

Thou  hast  the  power  ; 
Thou.doest  what  thou  wilt.     Abide  awhile, 


And  thou  shalt  see  the  power  of  God,  and 

how 
He  will  torment  thee  and  thy  seed. 

THE  MOTHER. 

O  hasten ; 
Why  dost   thou  pause  ?     Thou  who  hast 

slain  already 

So  many  Hebrew  women,  and  hast  hung 
Their  murdered  infants  round  their  necks, 

slay  me, 

For  I  too  am  a  woman,  and  these  boys 
Are  mine.     Make  haste  to  slay  us  all, 
And  hang  my  lifeless  babes  about  my  neck. 

SIXTH  VOICE  (within). 

Think  not,  Antiochus,  that  takest  in  hand 
To  strive  against  the  God  of  Israel, 
Thou  shalt  escape  unpunished,  for  his  wrath 
Shall  overtake  thee  and  thy  bloody  house. 

THE  MOTHER. 

One  more,  my  Sirion,  and  then  all  is  ended. 
Having  put  all  to  bed,  then  in  my  turn 
I  will  lie  down  and  sleep  as  sound  as  they. 
My  Sirion,  my  youngest,  best  beloved  ! 
And  those  bright  golden  locks,  that  I  so  oft 
Have  curled  about  these  fingers,  even  now 
Are  foul  with  blood  and  dust,  like  a  lamb's 

fleece, 
Slain   in   the    shambles.  —  Not  a  sound  I 

hear. 

This  silence  is  more  terrible  to  me 
Than  any  sound,  than  any  cry  of  pain, 
That  might  escape  the  lips  of  one  who  dies. 
Doth  his  heart  fail  him?      Doth   he   fall 

away 
In   the   last   hour  from  God?     O  Sirion, 

Sirion, 

Art  thou  afraid  ?     I  do  not  hear  thy  voice. 
Die  as  thy  brothers  died.     Thou  must  not 

live! 


SCENE  II.  —  THE  MOTHER  ;  ANTIOCHUS  ; 
SIRION. 

THE  MOTHER. 

Are  they  all  dead  ? 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Of  all  thy  Seven  Sons 
One  only  lives.     Behold  them  where  they 

lie  ; 
How  dost  thou  like  this  picture  ? 


528 


JUDAS   MACCABEUS 


THE  MOTHER. 

God  in  heaven  ! 

Can  a  man  do  such  deeds,  and  yet  not  die 
By  the  recoil  of  his  own  wickedness  ? 
Ye  murdered,  bleeding,  mutilated  bodies 
That  were  my  children  once,  and  still  are 

mine, 

I  cannot  watch  o'er  you  as  Rizpah  watched 
In  sackcloth  o'er  the  seven  sons  of  Saul, 
Till  water  drop  upon  you  out  of  heaven 
And   wash   this   blood    away  !      I   cannot 

mourn 
As  she,  the  daughter  of  Aiah,  mourned  the 

dead, 

From  the  beginning  of  the  barley-harvest 
Until  the  autumn  rains,  and  suffered  not 
The  birds  of  air  to  rest  on  them  by  day, 
Nor  the  wild  beasts  by  night.     For  ye  have 

died 

A  better  death,  a  death  so  full  of  life 
That    I    ought     rather    to     rejoice    than 

mourn.  — 

Wherefore  art  thou  not  dead,  O  Sirion  ? 
Wherefore  art  thou  the  only  living  thing 
Among  thy  brothers  dead  ?  Art  thou 

afraid  ? 

ANTIOCHUS. 

O  woman,  I  have  spared  him  for  thy  sake, 
For  he  is  fair  to  look  upon  and  comely  ; 
And  I  have  sworn  to  him  by  all  the  gods 
That  I  would  crown  his  life  with  joy  and 

honor, 

Heap  treasures  on  him,  luxuries,  delights, 
Make   him  my  friend  and  keeper  of  my 

secrets, 

If  he  would  turn  from  your  Mosaic  Law 
And  be  as  we  are  ;  but  he  will  not  listen. 

THE  MOTHER. 

My  noble  Sirion  ! 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Therefore  I  beseech  thee, 
Who  art  his  mother,  thou  wouldst  speak 

with  him, 
And  wouldst  persuade  him.     I  am  sick  of 

blood. 

THE  MOTHER. 

Yea,  I  will  speak  with  him  and  will  per 
suade  him. 

O  Sirion,  my  son  !  have  pity  on  me, 
On  me  that  bare  thee,  and  that  gave  thee 
suck, 


And  fed  and  nourished  thee,  and  brought 

thee  up 

With  the  dear  trouble  of  a  mother's  care 
Unto  this  age.     Look  on  the  heavens  above 

thee, 

And  on  the  earth  and  all  that  is  therein  ; 
Consider  that  God  made  them  out  of  things 
That  were  not ;  and  that  likewise  in  this 

manner 
Mankind  was  made.     Then  fear  not  this 

tormentor  ; 

But,  being  worthy  of  thy  brethren,  take 
Thy  death  as  they  did,  that  I  may  receive 

thee 
Again  in  mercy  with  them. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


Yea,  I  am  laughed  to  scorn. 


I  am  mocked, 


SIBION. 


Whom  wait  ye  for  ? 

Never   will  I  obey  the   King's  command 
ment, 

But  the  commandment  of  the  ancient  Law, 
That  was  by  Moses  given  unto  our  fathers. 
And  thou,  O  godless  man,  that  of  all  others 
Art  the  most  wicked,  be  not  lifted  up, 
Nor  puffed  up  with  uncertain  hopes,  up 
lifting 

Thy  hand  against  the  servants  of  the  Lord, 
For  thou  hast   not  escaped   the  righteous 

judgment 
Of  the  Almighty  God,  who  seeth  all  things  1 

ANTIOCHUS. 

He  is  no  God  of  mine  ;  I  fear  Him  not. 


My   brothers,  who  have   suffered  a  brief 

pam, 

Are  dead  ;  but  thou,  Antiochus,  shalt  suffer 
The  punishment  of  pride.     I  offer  up 
My  body  and  my  life,  beseeching  God 
That  He  would  speedily  be  merciful 
Unto  our  nation,  and  that  thou  by  plRgues 
Mysterious  and  by  torments  mayest  confess 
That  He  alone  is  God. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Ye  both  shall  perish 
By    torments  worse   than   any   that  your 

God, 
Here  or  hereafter,  hath  in  store  for  me. 


JUDAS   MACCAB^EUS 


529 


THE  MOTHER. 

My  Sirion,  I  am  proud  of  thee  ! 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Be  silent ! 

Go  to  thy  bed  of  torture  in  yon  chamber, 

Where  lie  so  many  sleepers,  heartless  mo 
ther  ! 

Thy  footsteps  will  not  wake  them,  nor  thy 
voice, 

Nor  wilt  thou  hear,  amid  thy  troubled 
dreams, 

Thy  children  crying  for  thee  in  the  night  ! 

THE  MOTHER. 

0  Death,  that  stretchest  thy  white  hands  to 

me, 

1  fear  them  not,  but  press  them  to  my  lips, 
That   are   as   white   as   thine  ;    for   I   am 

Death, 
Nay,  am  the  Mother  of  Death,  seeing  these 

sons 
All  lying  lifeless.  —  Kiss  me,  Sirion. 


ACT  III 
THE   BATTLE-FIELD   OF  BETH-HORON 

SCENE  I.  —  JUDAS  MACCAB.ZEUS  in  armor  before 
his  tent. 

JUDAS. 

The  trumpets  sound  ;     the  echoes  of  the 

mountains 
Answer  them,    as   the   Sabbath    morning 

breaks 

Over  Beth-horoii  and  its  battle-field, 
Where  the  great  captain  of   the  hosts  of 

God, 
A  slave  brought  up  in  the  brick-fields  of 


O'ercame  the  Amorites.     There  was  no  day 
Like  that,  before  or  after  it,  nor  shall  be. 
The  sun  stood  still  ;    the  hammers  of  the 

hail 
Beat   on  their  harness  ;  and  the  captains 

set 

Their  weary  feet  upon  the  necks  of  kings, 
As  I  will  upon  thine,  Antiochus, 
Thou  man  of    blood  !  —  Behold  the  rising 

sun 
Strikes    on  the  golden  letters  of  my  ban 

ner, 
Be  Elohim  Yehovah  !     Who  is  like 


To   thee,   O   Lord,   among  the   gods  ?  — 

Alas! 

I  am  not  Joshua,  I  cannot  say, 
"  Sun,  stand  thou  still  on  Gibeon,  and  thou 

Moon, 

In  Ajalon  !  "     Nor  am  I  one  who  wastes 
The  fateful  time  in  useless  lamentation  ; 
But  one  who  bears  his  life  upon  his  hand 
To  lose  it  or  to  save  it,  as  may  best 
Serve  the  designs  of  Him  who  giveth  life. 


SCENE  II.  —  JUDAS  MACCABEUS  ;  JEWISH  FU 
GITIVES. 

JUDAS. 
Who  and  what  are  ye,  that  with  furtive 

steps 
Steal  in  among  our  tents  ? 

FUGITIVES. 

O  Maccabseus, 

Outcasts  are  we,  and  fugitives  as  thou  art, 
Jews  of  Jerusalem,  that  have  escaped 
From  the  polluted  city,  and  from  death. 

JUDAS. 
None  can  escape  from  death.     Say  that  ye 

come 

To  die  for  Israel,  and  ye  are  welcome. 
W^hat  tidings  bring  ye  ? 

FUGITIVES. 

Tidings  of  despair. 
The  Temple  is   laid   waste  ;  the   precious 

vessels, 

Censers  of  gold,  vials  and  veils  and  crowns, 
And  golden  ornaments,  and  hidden  trea 
sures, 

Have  all  been  taken  from  it,  and  the  Gen 
tiles 

With  revelling  and  with  riot  fill  its  courts, 
And  dally  with  harlots  in  the  holy  places. 

JUDAS. 
All  this  I  knew  before. 

FUGITIVES. 

Upon  the  altar 

Are  things  profane,  things  oy  the  law  for 
bidden  ; 
Nor   can   we    keep   our   Sabbaths   or   our 

Feasts, 

But  on  the  festivals  of  Dionysus 
Must  walk  in  their  processions,  bearing  ivy 
To  crown  a  drunken  god. 


530 


JUDAS   MACCABEUS 


JUDAS. 

This  too  I  know. 

But  tell  me  of  the  Jews.     How  fare  the 
Jews  ? 

FUGITIVES. 

The  coming  of  this  mischief  hath  been  sore 
And  grievous  to  the  people.     All  the  land 
Is  full  of  lamentation  and  of  mourning. 
The  Princes  and  the  Elders  weep  and  wail  ; 
The  young  men  and  the  maidens  are  made 

feeble  ; 
The    beauty  of    the    women    hath    been 

changed. 


And  are  there  none  to  die  for  Israel  ? 

'T  is  not  enough  to  mourn.      Breastplate 

and  harness 
Are  better  things  than  sackcloth.     Let  the 

women 
Lament  for  Israel  ;  the  men  should  die. 

FUGITIVES. 
Both  men  and  women  die  ;    old  men  and 

young  : 

Old  Eleazer  died  :  and  Mahala 
With  all  her  Seven  Sous. 

JUDAS. 

Antiochus, 

At  every  step  thou  takest  there  is  left 
A  bloody  footprint  in  the  street,  by  which 
The  avenging  wrath  of  God  will  track  thee 

out  ! 

It  is  enough.     Go  to  the  sutler's  tents  : 
Those  of  you  who  are  men,  put  on  such  ar 
mor 
As  ye   may  find  ;    those   of  you  who  are 

women, 

Buckle  that  armor  on  ;  and   for  a  watch 
word 

Whisper,    or  cry  aloud,   "  The    Help   of 
God." 


SCENE  HI.  —  JUDAS  MACCABEUS  ;  NICANOB. 

NICANOB. 

Hail,  Judas  Maccabeus  ! 

JUDAS. 

Hail  !  —  Who  art  thou 
That  comest  here  in  this  mysterious  guise 
Into  our  camp  unheralded  ? 


NICANOB. 


Sent  from  Nicanor. 


A  herald 


JUDAS. 

Heralds  come  not  thus. 
Armed  with  thy  shirt  of  mail  from  head  to 

heel, 

Thou  glidest  like  a  serpent  silently 
Into  my  presence.     Wherefore  dost  thou 

turn 
Thy  face  from  me  ?     A  herald  speaks  his 

errand 
With  forehead  unabashed.      Thou   art  a 

spy 

Sent  by  Nicanor. 

NICANOB. 

No  disguise  avails  ! 
Behold  my  face  ;  I  am  Nicanor's  self. 


Thou  art  indeed  Nicanor.     I  salute  thee. 
What  brings  thee  hither  to  this  hostile  camp 
Thus  unattended  ? 

NICANOB. 

Confidence  in  thee. 

Thou  hast  the  nobler  virtues  of  thy  race, 

Without  the  failings  that  attend  those  vir 
tues. 

Thou  canst  be  strong,  and  yet  not  tyran 
nous, 

Canst  righteous  be  and  not  intolerant. 

Let  there  be  peace  between  us. 


JUDAS. 

What  is  peace  ? 

Is  it  to  bow  in  silence  to  our  victors  ? 
Is  it  to  see  our  cities  sacked  and  pillaged, 
Our  people  slain,  or  sold  as  slaves,  or  flee 
ing 
At  night-time   by  the   blaze   of  burning 

towns  ; 

Jerusalem  laid  waste  ;  the  Holy  Temple 
Polluted   with  strange  gods?      Are  these 
things  peace  ? 

NICANOB. 

These  are  the  dire  necessities  that  wait 
On  war,  whose  loud  and  bloody  enginery 
I  seek  to  stay.     Let  there  be  peace  between 
Antiochus  and  thee. 


JUDAS   MACCABEUS 


JUDAS. 

Antiochus  ? 

What  is  Antiochus,  that  he  should  prate 
Of  peace  to  me,  who  am  a  fugitive  ? 
To-day  he  shall  be  lifted  up  ;  to-morrow 
Shall  not  be  found,  because  he  is  returned 
Unto  his   dust  ;  his  thought  has  come  to 

nothing. 

There  is  no  peace  between  us,  nor  can  be, 
Until  this  banner  floats  upon  the  walls 
Of  our  Jerusalem. 

NICANOB. 

Between  that  city 
And    thee    there    lies  a  waving    wall  of 

tents 

Held  by  a  host  of  forty  thousand  foot, 
And  horsemen  seven  thousand.     What  hast 

thou 
To  bring  against  all  these  ? 

JUDAS. 

The  power  of  God, 
Whose  breath  shall  scatter  your  white  tents 

abroad, 
As  flakes  of  snow. 

NICANOB. 

Your  Mighty  One  in  heaven 
Will  not  do  battle  on  the  Seventh  Day  ; 
It  is  his  day  of  rest. 


Go  to  thy  tents. 


JUDAS. 

Silence,  blasphemer. 

NICANOB. 

Shall  it  be  war  or  peace  ? 


JUDAS. 

War,  war,  and  only  war.     Go  to  thy  tents 
That  shall  be  scattered,  as  by   you  were 

scattered 

The  torn  and  trampled  pages  of  the  Law, 
Blown  through  the  windy  streets. 

NICANOB. 

Farewell,  brave  foe ! 

JUDAS. 

Ho,  there,  my  captains !     Have  safe-con 
duct  given 

Unto  Nicanor's  herald  through  the  camp, 
And  come  yourselves   to  me.  —  Farewell, 
Nicanor  ! 


SCENE  IV.  —  JUDAS  MACCABEUS  ;  CAPTAINS 
AND  SOLDIERS. 

JUDAS. 

The  hour  is  come.  Gather  the  host  to 
gether 

For  battle.  Lo,  with  trumpets  and  with 
songs 

The  army  of  Nicanor  comes  against  us. 

Go  forth  to  meet  them,  praying  in  your 
hearts, 

And  fighting  with  your  hands. 

CAPTAINS. 

Look  forth  and  see  ! 

The  morning  sun  is  shining  on  their  shields 
Of  gold  and  brass  ;    the  mountains  glisten 

with  them, 
And  shine  like  lamps.     And  we,  who  are  so 

few 
And  poorly  armed,  and  ready  to  faint  with 

fasting, 
How  shall  we  fight  against  this  multitude  ? 

JUDAS. 

The  victory  of  a  battle  standeth  not 

In  multitudes,  but  in  the  strength  that  com- 

eth 
From  heaven  above.     The  Lord  forbid  that 

I 
Should  do  this  thing,  and  flee  away  from 

them. 

Nay,  if  our  hour  be  come,  then  let  us  die  ; 
Let  us  not  stain  our  honor. 

CAPTAINS. 

'T  is  the  Sabbath. 

Wilt  thou  fight  on  the  Sabbath,  Macca- 
bseus? 

JUDAS. 

Ay  ;  when  I  fight  the  battles  of  the  Lord, 

I  fight  them  on  his  day,  as  on  all  others. 

Have  ye  forgotten  certain  fugitives 

That  fled  once  to  these  hills,  and  hid 
themselves 

In  caves?  How  their  pursuers  camped 
against  them 

Upon  the  Seventh  Day,  and  challenged 
them? 

And  how  they  answered  not,  nor  cast  a 
stone, 

Nor  stopped  the  places  where  they  lay  con 
cealed, 


532 


JUDAS   MACCABEUS 


But  meekly  perished  with  their  wives  and 

children, 

Even  to  the  number  of  a  thousand  souls  ? 
We  who  are  fighting  for  our  laws  and  lives 
Will  not  so  perish. 

CAPTAINS. 

Lead  us  to  the  battle  ! 

JUDAS. 
And  let  our  watchword  be,  "  The  Help  of 

God  ! " 
Last  night  I  dreamed  a  dream  ;  and  in  my 

vision 

Beheld  Onias,  our  High-Priest  of  old, 
Who  holding  up  his  hands  prayed  for  the 

Jews. 

This  done,   in  the  like  manner  there  ap 
peared 

An  old  man,  and  exceeding  glorious, 
With  hoary  hair,  and  of  a  wonderful 
And  excellent  majesty.     And  Onias  said  : 
"  This  is  a  lover  of  the  Jews,  who  prayeth 
Much  for  the  people  and  the  Holy  City,  — 
God's  prophet  Jeremias."     And  the  pro 
phet 
Held  forth  his  right  hand  and  gave  unto 

me 

A  sword  of  gold  ;  and  giving  it  he  said  : 
"  Take  thou  this  holy  sword,  a  gift  from 

God, 

And  with  it  thou  shalt  wound  thine  adver 
saries." 

CAPTAINS. 
The  Lord  is  with  us  ! 

JUDAS. 

Hark  !  I  hear  the  trumpets 
Sound  from  Beth-horon  ;  from  the  battle 
field 

Of  Joshua,  where  he  smote  the  Amorites, 
Smote  the  Five  Kings  of  Eglon  and  of  Jar- 

muth, 

Of  Hebron,  Lachish,  and  Jerusalem, 
As  we  to-day  will  smite  Nicanor's  hosts 
And  leave  a  memory  of  great  deeds  behind 
us. 

CAPTAINS    AND  SOLDIERS. 

The  Help  of  God  ! 

JUDAS. 

Be  Elohim  Yehovah  ! 

Lord,  thou  didst  send  thine  Angel  in  the 
time 


Of  Esekias,  King  of  Israel, 

And  in  the  armies  of  Sennacherib 

Didst   slay  a  hundred  fourscore  and  five 

thousand. 
Wherefore,  O  Lord  of  heaven,  now  also 

send 

Before  us  a  good  angel  for  a  fear, 
And  through  the  might  of  thy  right  arm  let 

those 
Be  stricken  with  terror  that  have  come  this 

day 
Against  thy  holy  people  to  blaspheme  ! 


ACT  IV 

THE  OUTER  COURTS  OF  THE  TEMPLE 
AT  JERUSALEM 

SCENE    I.— JUDAS  MACCABEUS;  CAPTAINS; 
JEWS. 

JUDAS. 

Behold,  our  enemies  are  discomfited. 
Jerusalem  has  fallen  ;  and  our  banners 
Float  from  her  battlements,  and  o'er  her 

gates 

Nicanor's  severed  head,  a  sign  of  terror, 
Blackens  in  wind  and  sun. 


CAPTAINS. 

O  Maccabseus, 

The  citadel  of  Antiochus,  wherein 
The  Mother  with  her  Seven  Sons  was  mur 
dered, 
Is  still  defiant. 

JUDAS. 
Wait. 

CAPTAINS. 

Its  hateful  aspect 

Insults  us  with  the  bitter  memories 
Of  other  days. 

JUDAS. 

Wait ;  it  shall  disappear 
And  vanish  as  a  cloud.     First  let  us  cleanse 
The  Sanctuary.     See,  it  is  become 
Waste  like  a  wilderness.     Its  golden  gates 
Wrenched  from  their  hinges  and  consumed 

by  fire  ; 

Shrubs  growing  in  its  courts  as  in  a  forest ; 
Upon  its  altars  hideous  and  strange  idols  ; 
And  strewn  about  its  pavement  at  my  feet 


JUDAS   MACCABEUS 


533 


Its  Sacred  Books,  half-burned  and  painted 

o'er 
With  images  of  heathen  gods. 

JEWS. 

Woe  !  woe  ! 

Our  beauty  and  our  glory  are  laid  waste  ! 
The    Gentiles     have    profaned     our    holy 

places  ! 
(Lamentation  and  alarm  of  trumpets.) 

JUDAS. 

This  sound  of  trumpets,  and  this  lamenta 
tion, 
The    heart-cry   of    a    people   toward   the 

heavens, 
Stir  me  to  wrath  and  vengeance.     Go,  my 

captains  ; 

I  hold  you  back  no  longer.     Batter  down 
The  citadel  of  Antiochus,  while  here 
We  sweep  away  his  altars  and  his  gods. 


SCENE  II.  —  JUDAS  MACCABEUS  ;   JASON  ; 
JEWS. 

JEWS. 

Lurking  among  the  ruins  of  the  Temple, 
Deep  in  its  inner  courts,  we  found  this  man, 
Clad  as  High-Priest. 

JUDAS. 

I  ask  not  who  thou  art, 
I  know  thy  face,  writ  over  with  deceit 
As  are  these  tattered  volumes  of  the  Law 
With  heathen  images.     A  priest  of  God 
Wast  thou  in  other  days,  but  thou  art  now 
A  priest  of  Satan.    Traitor,  thou  art  Jason. 

JASON. 

I  am  thy  prisoner,  Judas  Maccabseus, 
And  it  would  ill  become  me  to  conceal 
My  name  or  office. 

JUDAS. 

Over  yonder  gate 
There  hangs  the  head  of  one  who  was  a 

Greek. 
What  should  prevent  me  now,  thou  man  of 

sin, 

From  hanging  at  its  side  the  head  of  one 
Who  born   a  Jew  hath   made   himself   a 

Greek  ? 

JASON. 

Justice  prevents  thee. 


JUDAS. 

Justice  ?     Thou  art  stained 
With  every  crime  'gainst  which  the  Deca 
logue 
Thunders  with  all  its  thunder. 

JASON. 

If  not  Justice, 
Then  Mercy,  her  handmaiden. 

JUDAS. 

When  hast  thou 

At  any  time,  to  any  man  or  woman, 
Or  even  to  any  little  child,  shown  mercy  ? 

JASON. 

I  have  but  done  what  King  Antiochus 
Commanded  me. 

JUDAS. 
True,  thou  hast  been  the  weapon 

With  which  he  struck  ;  but  hast  been  such 
a  weapon, 

So  flexible,  so  fitted  to  his  hand, 

It  tempted  him  to  strike.      So  thou  hast 
urged  him 

To  double  wickedness,  thine  own  and  his. 

Where  is  this  King  ?     Is  he  in  Antioch 

Among  his  women  still,  and  from  his  win 
dows 

Throwing  down  gold  by  handfuls,  for  the 
rabble 

To  scramble  for  ? 

JASON. 

Nay,  he  is  gone  from  there, 
Gone  with  an  army  into  the  far  East. 


And  wherefore  gone  ? 

JASON. 

I  know  not.     For  the  space 
Of  forty  days  almost  were  horsemen  seen 
Running  in  air,  in  cloth  of  gold,  and  armed 
With  lances,  like  a  band  of  soldiery  ; 
It  was  a  sign  of  triumph. 

JUDAS. 

Or  of  death. 
Wherefore  art  thou  not  with  him  ? 


JASON. 
For  service  in  the  Temple. 


I  was  left 


534 


JUDAS   MACCABEUS 


JUDAS. 

To  pollute  it, 

And  to  corrupt  the  Jews  ;  for  there  are  men 
Whose  presence  is  corruption  ;  to  be  with 

them 
Degrades  us  and  deforms  the  things  we  do. 


I  never  made  a  boast,  as  some  men  do, 

Of  my  superior  virtue,  nor  denied 

The  weakness  of  my  nature,  that  hath  made 

me 
Subservient  to  the  will  of  other  men. 

JUDAS. 

Upon  this  day,  the  five-and-twentieth  day 
Of  the  month  Caslan,  was  the  Temple  here 
Profaned  by  strangers,  —  by  Antiochus 
And  thee,  his  instrument.     Upon  this  day 
Shall  it  be  cleansed.    Thou,  who  didst  lend 

thyself 

Unto  this  profanation,  canst  not  be 
A  witness  of  these  solemn  services. 
There  can  be  nothing  clean  where  thou  art 

present. 

The  people  put  to  death  Callisthenes, 
Who   burned  the  Temple   gates  ;    and  if 

they  find  thee 

Will  surely  slay  thee.     I  will  spare  thy  life 
To  punish   thee   the   longer.     Thou  shalt 

wander 
Among  strange   nations.     Thou,  that  hast 

cast  out 
So  many   from   their    native    land,   shalt 

perish 
In  a  strange  land.     Thou,  that  hast  left  so 

many 
Unburied,   shalt   have  none  to  mourn  for 

thee, 

Nor  any  solemn  funerals  at  all, 
Nor  sepulchre  with  thy  fathers.  —  Get  thee 

hence  ! 

Music.  Procession  of  Priests  and  people,  with 
citherns,  harps,  and  cymbals.  JUDAS  MAC 
CABEUS  puts  himself  at  their  head,  and  they 
go  into  the  inner  courts. 

SCENE  HI.  —  JASON  alone. 

JASON. 

Through  the  Gate   Beautiful  I  see   them 

come, 
With  branches  and  green  boughs  and  leaves 

of  palm, 
And  pass  into  the  inner  courts.     Alas  ! 


I  should  be  with  them,  should  be  one  of 

them, 

But  in  an  evil  hour,  an  hour  of  weakness, 
That  cometh  unto  all,  I  fell  away 
From  the  old  faith,  and  did  not  clutch  the 

new, 

Only  an  outward  semblance  of  belief  ; 
For  the  new  faith  I  cannot  make  mine  own, 
Not  being  born  to  it.     It  hath  no  root 
Within  me.     I  am  neither  Jew  nor  Greek, 
But  stand  between  them  both,  a  renegade 
To  each  in  turn  ;  having  no  longer  faith 
In  gods  or  men.     Then   what   mysterious 

charm, 

What  fascination  is  it  chains  my  feet, 
And  keeps  me  gazing  like  a  curious  child 
Into  the  holy  places,  where  the  priests 
Have  raised  their  altar  ?  —  Striking  stones 

together, 
They  take  fire  out  of  them,  and  light  the 

lamps 
In  the  great  candlestick.     They  spread  the 

veils, 
And  set  the  loaves  of  shewbread  on   the 

table. 
The  incense  burns  ;  the  well-remembered 

odor 

Comes  wafted  unto  me,  and  takes  me  back 
To  other  days.     I  see  myself  among  them 
As  I  was  then  ;  and  the  old  superstition 
Creeps    over    me    again  !  —  A    childish 

fancy  !  — 
And   hark  !  they  sing   with   citherns   and 

with  cymbals, 

And  all  the  people  fall  upon  their  faces, 
Praying  and  worshipping  !  —  I  will  away 
Into  the  East,  to  meet  Antiochus 
Upon  his  homeward  journey,  crowned  with 

triumph. 

Alas  !  to-day  I  would  give  everything 
To  see  a  friend's  face,  or  to  hear  a  voice 
That  had   the   slightest  tone   of    comfort 

in  it ! 


ACT  V 
THE  MOUNTAINS  OF  ECBATANA 

SCENE  I.  —  ANTIOCHUS  ;    PHILIP  ;  ATTEND 
ANTS. 

ANTIOCHUS. 
Here  let   us  rest  awhile.     Where  are  we, 

Philip  ? 
What  place  is  this  ? 


JUDAS   MACCABEUS 


535 


PHILIP. 

Ecbatana,  my  Lord  ; 
And  yonder  mountain  range  is  the  Orontes. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

The  Orontes  is  my  river  at  Antioch. 

Why  did  I  leave  it  ?  Why  have  I  been 
tempted 

By  coverings  of  gold  and  shields  and  breast 
plates 

To  plunder  Elymais,  and  be  driven 

From  out  its  gates,  as  by  a  fiery  blast 

Out  of  a  furnace  ? 

PHILIP. 
These  are  fortune's  changes, 

ANTIOCHUS. 

What  a  defeat  it  was  !  The  Persian  horse 
men 

Came  like  a  mighty  wind,  the  wind  Kham£- 
seen, 

And  melted  us  away,  and  scattered  us 

As  if  we  were  dead  leaves,  or  desert  sand. 

PHILIP. 

Be  comforted,  my  Lord ;  for  thou  hast 

lost 
But  what  thou  hadst  not. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

I,  who  made  the  Jews 
Skip  like  the  grasshoppers,  am  made  my 
self 
To  skip  among  these  stones. 

PHILIP. 

Be  not  discouraged. 
Thy  realm  of  Syria  remains  to  thee  ; 
That  is  not  lost  nor  marred. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Oh,  where  are  now 
The  splendors  of  my  court,  my  baths  and 

banquets  ? 
Where   are   my  players   and   my  dancing 

women  ? 
Where  are  my  sweet  musicians  with  their 

pipes, 

That  made  me  merry  in  the  olden  time  ? 
I  am  a  laughing-stock  to  man  and  brute. 
The  very  camels,  with  their  ugly  faces, 
Mock  me  and  laugh  at  me. 


PHILIP. 

Alas  !  my  Lord, 

It  is  not  so.     If  thou  wouldst  sleep  awhile, 
All  would  be  well. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Sleep  from  mine  eyes  is  gone, 
And  my  heart  faiieth  me  for  very  care. 
Dost  thou  remember,  Philip,  the  old  fable 
Told  us  when  we  were  boys,  in  which  the 

bear 

Going  for  honey  overturns  the  hive, 
And  is  stung  blind  by  bees  ?     I  am  that 

beast, 
Stung  by  the  Persian  swarms  of  Elymais. 

PHILIP. 

When  thou  art  come  again  to  Antioch, 

These  thoughts  will  be  as  covered  and  for 
gotten 

As  are  the  tracks  of  Pharaoh's  chariot- 
wheels 

In  the  Egyptian  sands. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Ah  !  when  I  come 

Again  to  Antioch  !     When  will  that  be  ? 
Alas  !  alas  ! 

SCENE  II.  —  ANTIOCHUS  ;  PHILIP  ;  A  MES 
SENGER. 

MESSENGER. 

May  the  King  live  forever  ! 

ANTIOCHUS. 
Who  art  thou,  and  whence  comest  thou  ? 


MESSENGER. 


My  Lord, 


I  am  a  messenger  from  Antioch, 
Sent  here  by  Lysias. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

A  strange  foreboding 
Of  something  evil  overshadows  me. 
I  am  no  reader  of  the  Jewish  Scriptures  ; 
I  know  not  Hebrew  ;  but  my  High-Priest 

Jason, 

As  I  remember,  told  me  of  a  Prophet 
Who  saw  a  little  cloud  rise  from  the  sea 
Like  a  man's  hand,  and  soon  the  heaven 

was  black 
With  clouds  and  rain.     Here,  Philip,  read  ; 

I  cannot ; 


536 


JUDAS   MACCABEUS 


I  see  that  cloud.     It  makes  the  letters  dim 
Before  mine  eyes. 

PHILIP  (reading). 

"  To  King  Antiochus, 
The  God,  Epiphanes." 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Oh  mockery  ! 
Even  Lysias  laughs  at  me  !  —  Go  on,  go  on  ! 

PHILIP  (reading). 
"  We   pray  thee  hasten  thy  return.     The 

realm 
Is  falling  from  thee.     Since  thou  hast  gone 

from  us 

The  victories  of  Judas  Maccabseus 
Form  all  our  aimals.     First  he  overthrew 
Thy  forces  at  Beth-horon,  and  passed  on, 
And  took  Jerusalem,  the  Holy  City. 
And  then  Emmaus  fell ;  and  then  Bethsura, 
Ephrou  and  all  the  towns  of  Galaad, 
And  Maccabseus  marched  to  Carnion." 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Enough,    enough  1     Go   call   my   chariot- 
men  ; 
We  will  drive  forward,  forward,  without 

ceasing, 

Until  we  come  to  Antioch.     My  captains, 
My  Lysias,  Gorgias,  Seron,  and  Nicanor, 
Are  babes  in  battle,  and  this  dreadful  Jew 
Will  rob  me  of  my  kingdom  and  my  crown. 
My  elephants  shall  trample  him  to  dust  ; 
I  will  wipe  out  his  nation,  and  will  make 
Jerusalem  a  common  burying-place, 
And  every  home  within  its  walls  a  tomb  ! 

Throws  up  his  hands,  and  sinks  into  the  arms  of 
attendants,  who  lay  him  upon  a  bank, 

PHILIP. 

Antiochus  !   Antiochus  !     Alas, 

The  King  is  ill !     What  is  it,  O  my  Lord  ? 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Nothing.     A  sudden  and  sharp   spasm   of 

pain, 

As  if  the  lightning  struck  me,  or  the  knife 
Of  an  assassin  smote  me  to  the  heart. 
'T  is  passed,  even  as  it  came.     Let  us  set 

forward. 

PHILIP. 

See  that  the  chariots  be  in  readiness  ; 
We  will  depart  forthwith. 


ANTIOCHUS. 

A  moment  more. 

I  cannot  stand.     I  am  become  at  once 
Weak  as  an  infant.     Ye  will  have  to  lead 

me. 

Jove,  or  Jehovah,  or  whatever  name 
Thou  wouldst  be  named,  —  it  is  alike  to 

me, — 

If  I  knew  how  to  pray,  I  would  entreat 
To  live  a  little  longer. 

PHILIP. 

O  my  Lord, 

Thou  shalt  not  die  ;  we  will  not  let  thee 
die! 

ANTIOCHUS. 

How  canst  thou  help  it,   Philip  ?     Oh  the 

pain  ! 
Stab    after    stab.     Thou    hast    no    shield 

against 

This  unseen  weapon.     God  of  Israel, 
Since  all  the  other  gods  abandon  me, 
Help  me.     I  will  release  the  Holy  City, 
Garnish  with  goodly  gifts  the  Holy  Temple. 
Thy   people,    whom  I  judged    to    be    un 
worthy 

To  be  so  much  as  buried,  shall  be  equal 
Unto  the  citizens  of  Antioch. 
I  will  become  a  Jew,  and  will  declare 
Through  all  the  world  that  is  inhabited 
The  power  of  God  ! 

PHILIP. 

He  faints.     It  is  like  death. 
Bring  here  the  royal  litter.     We  will  bear 

him 
Into  the  camp,  while  yet  he  lives. 

ANTIOCHUS. 

O  Philip, 

Into  what  tribulation  am  I  come  ! 
Alas  !     I  now  remember  all  the  evil 
That  I  have  done  the  Jews  ;  and  for  this 

cause 

These  troubles  are  upon  me,  and  behold 
I  perish  through  great  grief  in  a  strange 
land. 

PHILIP. 

Antiochus  !  my  King  ! 

ANTIOCHUS. 

Nay,  King  no  longer. 

Take  thou  my  royal  robes,  my  signet  ring, 
My  crown  and  sceptre,  and  deliver  them 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


537 


Unto  ray  son,  Antiochus  Eupator  ; 

And  unto  the  good  Jews,  my  citizens, 

In  all  my  towns,  say  that  their  dying 
monarch 

Wisheth  them  joy,  prosperity,  and  health. 

I  who,  puffed  up  with  pride  and  arro 
gance, 


Thought  all   the    kingdoms   of   the  earth 

mine  own, 
If  I  would  but   outstretch  my  hand  and 

take  them, 

Meet  face  to  face  a  greater  potentate, 
King  Death  —  Epiphanes  —  the  Illustrious  ! 

[Dies. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO:    A   FRAGMENT 


Michel  piii  che  mortal,  Angel  divino. 

AKIOSTO. 

Similamente  operando  all'  artista 
Ch'  a  1'  abito  dell'  arte  e  man  che  trema. 

DANTE,  Par.  xiii.  st.  77. 

The  relation  of  Michael  Angelo  to  Mr.  Longfellow's 
life  and  work  is  dwelt  on  in  the  biographical  sketch 
prefixed  to  this  edition. 

The  notes  at  the  end  of  this  volume  point  out  some  of 
the  more  interesting  indications  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  authorities  used  were  made  to  contribute  to  the 
realism  of  the  poem.  It  was  the  poet's  intention  at  one 
time  to  insert  in  the  poem  translations  of  some  of  the 
sonnets  and  other  verses  of  Michael  Angelo,  and  to 
this  he  refers  in  his  Dedication  when  he  says  — 

Flowers  of  song  have  thrust 
Their  roots  among  the  loose  disjointed  stones. 


These  translations  with  one  exception  he  withdrew 
and  published  instead  in  the  volume  entitled  Keramos 
and  other  Poems ;  they  may  be  found  in  their  place 
among  the  Translations  in  this  edition.  Another  inti 
mation  of  the  connection  of  his  poetry  with  this  study 
appears  in  the  poem  Vittoria  Colonna,  written  in  1877. 
and  published  in  Flight  the  Fifth  of  Birds  of  Pas 
sage. 

Michael  Angelo  was  found  in  the  poet's  desk  after 
his  death,  and  while  in  one  or  two  instances  some  doubt 
arose  as  to  Mr.  Longfellow's  final  choice  of  alternative 
scenes,  it  was  reasonably  clear  what  his  latest  decision 
was  as  to  the  sequence  and  form  of  the  poem. 

The  reader  who  is  interested  in  the  poet's  develop, 
ment  of  the  theme  and  in  his  several  experiments  will 
find  the  material  at  his  hand  in  the  poem  as  printed  and 
annotated  in  vol.  vi.  of  the  Riverside  edition. 


DEDICATION 

NOTHING  that  is  shall  perish  utterly, 
But  perish  only  to  revive  again 
In    other    forms,   as    clouds   restore  in 

rain 

The  exhalations  of  the  land  and  sea. 
Men  build  their  houses  from  the  masonry 
Of  ruined  tombs  ;    the  passion  and  the 

pain 
Of  hearts,  that  long  have  ceased  to  beat, 

remain 
To  throb  in  hearts  that  are,  or  are  to 

be. 
So   from   old   chronicles,    where    sleep   in 

dust 
Names   that  once  filled  the  world  with 

trumpet  tones/ 
I  build  this  verse  ;   and  flowers  of  song 

have  thrust 
Their  roots    among  the   loose    disjointed 

stones, 

Which  to  this  end  I  fashion  as  I  must. 
Quickened    are    they    that     touch     the 

Prophet's  bones. 


PART  FIRST 

I 
PROLOGUE   AT   ISCHIA 

The  Castle  Terrace.    VITTORIA  COLONNA  and 
JULIA  GONZAGA. 

VITTORIA. 

WILL   you   then  leave  me,  Julia,  and  so 

soon, 
To  pace  alone  this  terrace  like  a  ghost  ? 

JULIA. 
To-morrow,  dearest. 

VITTORIA. 

Do  not  say  to-morrow. 
A  whole   month  of  to-morrows  were   too 

soon. 
You  must  not  go.     You  are  a  part  of  me. 

JULIA. 
I  must  return  to  Fondi. 


538 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


VITTOKJA. 

The  old  castle 
Needs  not  your  presence.      No  one  waits 

for  you.  r- 

Stay  one  day  longer  with  me.     They  who 

go 

Feel  not  the  pain  of  parting  j  it  is  they 
Who  stay  behind  that  suffer.  J  I  was  think 
ing 

But  yesterday  how  like  and  how  unlike 
Have  been,  and  are,  our  destinies.      Your 

husband, 
The   good   Vespasian,   an    old    man,   who 

seemed 

A  father  to  you  rather  than  a  husband, 
Died  in  your  arms  ;  but  mine,  in  all  the 

flower 
And  promise  of  his  youth,  was  taken  from 

me 
As   by   a   rushing  wind.      The   breath  of 

battle 
Breathed  on  him,  and  I  saw  his  face  no 

more, 
Save  as  in  dreams  it  haunts  me.     As  our 

love 
Was  for  these  men,  so  is  our  sorrow  for 

them. 
Yours  a  child's  sorrow,  smiling  through  its 

tears  ; 
But    mine   the    grief   of    an    impassioned 

woman, 
Who  drank  her  life  up  in  one  draught  of 

love. 

JULIA. 

Behold  this  locket.      This  is  the  white  hair 
Of  my  Vespasian.     This  the  flower-of-love, 
This  amaranth,  and  beneath  it  the  device, 
Non  moritura.     Thus  my  heart  remains 
True   to   his   memory  ;    and    the    ancient 

castle, 
Where  we  have  lived  together,  where  he 

died, 
Is  dear  to  me  as  Ischia  is  to  you. 

VITTORIA. 
I  did  not  mean  to  chide  you. 

JULIA. 

Let  your  heart 

Find,  if  it  can,  some  poor  apology 
For  one  who  is  too  young,  and  feels  too 

keenly 

The  joy  of  life,  to  give  up  all  her  days 
To  sorrow  for  the  dead.     While  I  am  true 


To  the  remembrance  of  the  man  I  loved 
And  mourn  for  still,  I  do  not  make  a  show 
Of  all  the  grief  I  feel,  nor  live  secluded 
And,  like  Veronica  da  Gambara, 
Drape  my  whole  house  in  mourning,  and 

drive  forth 

In  coach  of  sable  drawn  by  sable  horses, 
As  if  I  were  a  corpse.     Ah,  one  to-day 
Is  worth  for  me  a  thousand  yesterdays. 

VITTORIA. 

Dear  Julia  !     Friendship  has  its  jealousies 
As  well  as  love.)   Who  waits  for  you  at 
Fondi  ? 


A  friend  of  mine  and  yours  ;  a  friend  and 

friar. 

You  have  at  Naples  your  Fra  Bernardino  ; 
And  I  at  Fondi  have  my  Fra  Bastiano, 
The   famous   artist,   who  has   come   from 

Rome 
To  paint  my  portrait.     That  is  not  a  sin. 


Only  a  vanity. 


VITTORIA. 

JULIA. 

He  painted  yours. 

VITTORIA. 

Do  not  call  up  to  me  those  days  departed, 
When  I  was  young,  and   all   was   bright 

about  me, 

And  the  vicissitudes  of  life  were  things 
But  to  be  read  of  in  old  histories, 
Though  as  pertaining  unto  me  or  mine 
Impossible.      Ah,    then   I   dreamed    your 

dreams, 
And   now,  grown   older,  I  look   back  and 

see 
They  were  illusions. 

JULIA. 

\  Yet  without  illusions 
What  would   our  lives  become,  what  we 

ourselves  ? 
Dreams  or  illusions,  call  them  what  you 

will, 

They  lift  us  from  the  commonplace  of  life 
To  better  things.) 

VITTORIA. 

Are  there  no  brighter  dreams, 
No  higher  aspirations,  than  the  wish 
To  please  and  to  be  pleased  ? 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


539 


JULIA. 

For  you  there  are  : 

I  am  no  saint  ;  I  feel  the  world  we  live  in 
Comes  before  that  which  is  to  be  hereafter, 
And  must  be  dealt  with  first. 

VITTOBIA. 

But  in  what  way  ? 

JULIA. 

Let  the  soft  wind  that  wafts  to  us  the  odor 
Of  orange  blossoms,  let  the  laughing  sea 
And   the   bright   sunshine   bathing  all  the 

world, 
Answer  the  question. 

VITTOBIA. 

And  for  whom  is  meant 
This  portrait  that  you  speak  of  ? 


JULIA. 
The  Cardinal  Ippolito. 

VITTOBIA. 


For  my  friend 


For  him  ? 


Yes,  for  Ippolito  the  Magnificent. 

}T  is  always  flattering  to  a  woman's  pride 

To  be  admired  by  one  whom  all  admire. 

VITTOBIA. 

Ah,  Julia,  she  that  makes  herself  a  dove 
Is  eaten  by  the  hawk.     Be  on  your  guard. 
He  is  a  Cardinal  ;  and  his  adoration 
Should  be  elsewhere  directed. 

JULIA. 

You  forget 

The  horror  of  that  night,  when  Barbarossa, 
The  Moorish  corsair,  landed  on  our  coast 
To  seize  me  for  the  Sultan  Soliman  ; 
How  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  all  were 

sleeping, 

He  scaled  the  castle  wall  ;  how  I  escaped, 
And  in  my  night-dress,  mounting  a  swift 

steed, 
Fled   to  the  mountains,   and  took  refuge 

there 
Among   the   brigands.      Then   of  all  my 

friends 

The  Cardinal  Ippolito  was  first 
To  come  with  his  retainers  to  my  rescue. 
Could  I  refuse  the  only  boon  he  asked 
At  such  a  time,  my  portrait  ? 


VITTOBIA. 

I  have  heard 

Strange  stories  of  the  splendors  of  his  pal 
ace, 

And  how,  apparelled  like  a  Spanish  Prince, 

He  rides  through  Rome  with  a  long  reti 
nue 

Of  Ethiopians  and  Numidians 

And  Turks  and  Tartars,  in  fantastic  dresses, 

Making  a  gallant  show.     Is  this  the  way 

A  Cardinal  should  live  ? 

JULIA. 

He  is  so  young  ; 

Hardly  of  age,  or  little  more  than  that ; 
Beautiful,  generous,  fond  of  arts  and  let 
ters, 

A  poet,  a  musician,  and  a  scholar  ; 
Master  of  many  languages,  and  a  player 
On  many  instruments.     In  Rome,  his  pal 
ace 

Is  the  asylum  of  all  men  distinguished 
In  art  or  science,  and  all  Florentines 
Escaping  from  the  tyranny  of  his  cousin, 
Duke  Alessandro. 

VITTOBIA. 

I  have  seen  his  portrait, 
Painted  by  Titian.     You  have  painted  it 
In  brighter  colors. 

JULIA. 

And  my  Cardinal, 

At  Itri,  in  the  courtyard  of  his  palace, 
Keeps  a  tame  lion  ! 

VITTOBIA. 

And  so  counterfeits 
St.  Mask,  the  Evangelist ! 


Is  Michael  Angelo. 


Ah,  your  tame  lion 


VITTOBIA. 

You  speak  a  name 

That  always  thrills  me  with  a  noble  sound, 
As  of  a  trumpet !     Michael  Angelo  ! 
A  lion  all  men  fear  and  none  can  tame  ; 
A  man  that  all  men  honor,  and  the  model 
That  all  should  follow  ;  one  who  works  and 

prays, 
For   work   is  prayer,  and  consecrates  his 

life 

To  the  sublime  ideal  of  his  art, 
Till  art  and  life  are  one  ;  a  man  who  holds 


540 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 


Such  place  in  all  men's  thoughts,  that  when 

they  speak 
Of   great  things   done,  or  to  be  done,  his 

name 
Is  ever  on  their  lips. 

JULIA. 

You  too  can  paint 

The  portrait  of  your  hero,  and  in  colors 
Brighter  than  Titian's  ;  I  might  warn  you 

also 

Against  the  dangers  that  beset  your  path  ; 
But  I  forbear. 

VITTORIA. 

If  I  were  made  of  marble, 
Of  Fior  di  Persico  or  Pavonazzo, 
He  might  admire  me  :  being  but  flesh  and 

blood, 

I  am  no  more  to  him  than  other  women  ; 
That  is  am  nothing. 


Does  he  ride  through  Rome 
Upon  his  little  mule,  as  he  was  wont, 
With  his  slouched  hat,  and  boots  of  Cor 
dovan, 
As  when  I  saw  him  last  ? 

VITTORIA. 

Pray  do  not  jest. 

I  cannot  couple  with  his  noble  name 
A   trivial  word  !     Look,    how  the   setting 

sun 

Lights  up  Castel-a-mare  and  Sorrento, 
And  changes  Capri  to  a  purple  cloud  ! 
And  there  Vesuvius  with  its  plume  of 

smoke, 
And   the  great   city    stretched    upon   the 

shore 
As  in  a  dream  ! 

JULIA. 

Parthenope  the  Siren ! 

VITTORIA. 
And  yon  long  line  of   lights,   those  sunlit 

windows 

Blaze  like  the  torches  carried  in  procession 
To  do  her  honor  !     It  is  beautiful ! 

JULIA. 

I  have  no  heart  to  feel  the  beauty  of  it  ! 
My  feet  are  weary,  pacing  up  and  down 
These   level   flags,    and   wearier    still   my 
thoughts 


Treading  the  broken  pavement  of  the  Past, 
It  is  too  sad.     I  will  go  in  and  rest, 
And  make  me  ready  for  to-inorrow's  jour 
ney. 

VITTORIA. 

I  will  go  with  you  ;  for  I  would  not  lose 
One   hour   of  your   dear   presence.     'T  is 

enough 

Only  to  be  in  the  same  room  with  you. 
I  need   not   speak   to  you,  nor   hear  you 

speak  ; 
If  I  but  see  you,  I  am  satisfied. 

[They  go  in. 


MONOLOGUE :  THE  LAST  JUDGMENT 

MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  Studio.    He  is  at  work  on 
the  cartoon  of  the  Last  Judgment. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Why  did  the  Pope  and  his  ten  Cardinals 
Come   here  to   lay  this  heavy  task   upon 

me  ? 
Were   not   the    paintings   on    the   Sistine 

ceiling 
Enough  for  them  ?     They  saw  the  Hebrew 

leader 
Waiting,   and   clutching    his   tempestuous 

beard, 

But  heeded  not.     The  bones  of  Julius 
Shook   in   their    sepulchre.      I   heard   the 

sound  ; 
They  only  heard  the  sound  of  their  own 


Are  there  no  other  artists  here  in  Rome 
To  do  this  work,  that  they  must  needs  seek 

me? 
Fra  Bastian,  my  Fra  Bastian,  might  have 

done  it, 

But  he  is  lost  to  art.     The  Papal  Seals, 
Like   leaden  weights   upon   a  dead  man's 

eyes, 
Press  down  his   lids  ;  and  so  the   burden 

falls 

On  Michael  Angelo,  Chief  Architect 
And  Painter  of  the  Apostolic  Palace. 
That  is  the  title  they  cajole  me  with, 
To  make  me  do  their  work  and  leave  my 

own  ; 

But  having  once  begun,  I  turn  not  back. 
Blow,  ye   bright  angels,   on  your  golden 

trumpets 
To  the  four  corners  of  the  earth,  and  wake 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 


541 


The   dead   to    judgment !      Ye   recording 

angels, 
Open  your  books   and  read !      Ye   dead, 

awake  ! 
Rise  from  your  graves,  drowsy  and  drugged 

with  death, 

As  men  who  suddenly  aroused  from  sleep 
Look  round  amazed,  and  know  not  where 

they  are  ! 
^— 

jfm 

In  happy  hours,  when  the  imagination 
Wakes  like  a  wind  at  midnight,  and  the 

soul 

Trembles  in  all  its  leaves,  it  is  a  joy 
To  be  uplifted  on  its  wings,  and  listen 
To  the  prophetic  voices  in  the  air 
That  call  us  onward.    Then  the  work  we  do 
Is  a  delight,  and  the  obedient  hand 
Never  grows   weary.     But   how   different 

is  it 

In  the  disconsolate,  discouraged  hours, 
When  all  the  wisdom  of  the  world  appears 
As  trivial  as  the  gossip  of  a  nurse 
In  a  sick-room,  and  all  our  work  seems 

useless. 

What  is  it  guides  my  hand,  what  thoughts 

possess  me, 
That  I  have   drawn  her,  face  among  the 

angels, 
Where  she  will   be   hereafter?     O  sweet 

dreams, 
That  through  the  vacant  chambers  of  my 

heart 

Walk  in  the  silence,  as  familiar  phantoms 
Frequent  an  ancient  house,  what  will  ye 

with  me  ? 
'T  is  said  that  Emperors  write  their  names 

in  green 
When   under    age,    but    when    of   age    in 

purple. 

So  Love,  the  greatest  Emperor  of  them  all, 
Writes  his  in  green  at  first,  but  afterwards 
In  the  imperial  purple  of  our  blood. 
'  First  love  or  last  love,  —  which  of  these 

two  passions 

Is  more  omnipotent  ?     Which  is  more  fair, 
The  star  of  morning,  or  the  evening  star  ? 
The  sunrise  or  the  sunset  of  the  heart)? 
The  hour  when  we  look  forth  to  Tne  un 
known, 
And    the    advancing    day    consumes    the 

shadows, 
Or   that    when   all   the   landscape  of   our 

lives 


Lies  stretched  behind  us,  and  familiar 
places 

Gleam  in  the  distance,  and  sweet  memo 
ries 

Rise  like  a  tender  haze,  and  magnify 

The  objects  we  behold,  that  soon  must 
vanish  ? 

What  matters  it  to  me,  whose  counte 
nance 

Is  like  Laocoon's,  full  of  pain  ?  whose  fore 
head 

Is  a  ploughed  harvest-field,  where   three 
score  years 
Have  sown  in  sorrow  and  have  reaped  in 

anguish  ? 

To  me,  the  artisan,  to  whom  all  women 
Have  been  as  if  they  were  not,  or  at  most 
A  sudden  rush  of  pigeons  in  the  air, 
A  flutter  of  wings,  a  sound,   and   then  a 

silence  ? 

I  am  too  old  for  love  ;  I  am  too  old 
To  flatter  and  delude  myself  with  visions 
Of    never-ending     friendship    with     fair 

women, 

Imaginations,  fantasies,  illusions, 
In  which  the  things   that  cannot  be  take 

shape, 
And  seem  to  be,  and  for  the  moment  are. 

Convent  bells  ring. 
Distant   and  near  and  low  and    loud   the 

bells, 

Dominican,  Benedictine,  and  Franciscan, 
Jangle  and  wrangle  in  their  airy  towers, 
Discordant  as  the  brotherhoods  themselves 
In   their   dim   cloisters.     The    descending 

sun 

Seems  to  caress  the  city  that  he  loves, 
And  crowns  it  with  the  aureole  of  a  saint. 
I  will  go  forth  and  breathe  the  air  awhile. 


II 


SAN    SILVESTRO 

A  Chapel  in  the   Church  of  San  Silvestro  on 
Monte  Cavallo. 

VlTTORIA  COLONNA,  CLAUDIO  TOLOMMEI,  and 

others. 

VlTTORIA. 

Here  let  us  rest  awhile,  until  the  crowd 
Has  left  the  church.     I  have  already  sent 
For  Michael  Angelo  to  join  us  here. 


542 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


MESSER  CLAUDIO. 

After  Fra  Bernardino's  wise  discourse 
On  the  Pauline  Epistles,  certainly 
Some  words  of  Michael  Angelo  on  Art 
Were  not  amiss,  to  bring  us  back  to  earth. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,    at  the  door. 

How  like  a  Saint  or  Goddess  she  appears  ! 
Diana  or  Madonna,  which  I  know  not, 
In  attitude  and  aspect  formed  to  be 
At  once  the  artist's  worship  and  despair  ! 

VITTORIA. 

Welcome,  Maestro.  We  were  waiting  for 
you. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  met  your  messenger  upon  the  way, 
And  hastened  hither. 

VITTORIA. 

It  is  kind  of  you 

To  come  to  us,  who  linger  here  like  gossips 
Wasting  the  afternoon  in  idle  talk. 
These  are  all  friends  of  mine  and  friends 
of  yours. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

If  friends  of  yours,  then  are  they  friends  of 
mine. 

Pardon  me,  gentlemen.  But  when  I  en 
tered 

I  saw  but  the  Marchesa. 

VITTORIA. 

Take  this  seat 

Between  me  and  Ser  Claudio  Tolommei, 
Who  still  maintains  that  our  Italian  tongue 
Should  be   called   Tuscan.     But   for   that 

offence 
We  will  not  quarrel  with  him. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


Eccellenza  — 


VITTORIA. 


Ser  Claudio  has  banished  Eccellenza 

And  all  such  titles  from  the  Tuscan  tongue. 

MESSER  CLAUDIO. 

'T  is  the  abuse  of  them,  and  not  the  use, 
I  deprecate. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

The  use  or  the  abuse, 
It  matters  not.    Let  them  all  go  together, 


As  empty  phrases  and  frivolities, 

And  common  as  gold-lace  upon  the  collar 

Of  an  obsequious  lackey. 

VITTORIA. 

That  may  be, 
But  something  of  politeness  would  go  with 

them  ; 
We  should  lose  something  of  the  stately 

manners 
Of  the  old  school. 

MESSER  CLAUDIO. 

Undoubtedly. 

VITTORIA. 

But  that 
Is    not    what    occupies    my   thoughts    at 

present, 

Nor  why  I  sent  for  you,  Messer  Michele. 
It  was  to  counsel  me.     His  Holiness 
Has  granted  me  permission,  long  desired, 
To  build  a  convent  in  this  neighborhood, 
Where    the   old   tower  is   standing,   from 

whose  top 
Nero  looked  down  upon  the  burning  city. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

It  is  an  inspiration  ! 

VITTORIA. 

I  am  doubtful 
How  I  shall  build;  how  large  to  make  the 

convent, 
And  which  way  fronting. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Ah,  to  build,  to  build  ! 
That  is  the  noblest  art  of  all  the  arts. 
Painting  and  sculpture  are  but  images, 
Are    merely    shadows    cast    by    outward 

things 

On  stone  or  canvas,  having  in  themselves 
No  separate  existence.     Architecture, 
Existing  in  itself,  and  not  in  seeming 
A  something  it  is  not,  surpasses  them 
As  substance  shadow.      Long,  long  years 

ago, 
Standing  one  morning  near  the  Baths  of 

Titus, 

I  saw  the  statue  of  Laocoon 
Rise  from   its   grave  of   centuries,  like  a 

ghost 
Writhing  in  pain  ;  and  as  it  tore  away 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 


543 


The   knotted   serpents   from    its   limbs,  I 

heard, 

Or  seemed  to  hear,  the  cry  of  agony 
From  its  white,  parted   lips.     And  still  I 

marvel 
At    the    three   Rhodian  artists,  by  whose 

hands 

This  miracle  was  wrought.     Yet  he  beholds 
Far  nobler  works  who  looks  upon  the  ruins 
Of  temples  in  the  Forum  here  in  Rome. 
If  God  should  give  me  power  in  my  old 

age 

To  build  for  Him  a  temple  half  as  grand 
As  those  were    in    their   glory,    I  should 

count 

My  age  more  excellent  than  youth  itself, 
And  all  that  I  have  hitherto  accomplished 
As  only  vanity. 

VITTORIA. 

I  understand  you. 

Art  is  the  gift  of  God,  and  must  be  used 
Unto  His  glory.  That  in  art  is  highest 
Which  aims  at  this.  When  St.  Hilarion 

blessed 

The  horses  of  Italicus,  they  won 
The  race  at  Gaza,  for  his  benediction 
O'erpowered   all    magic  ;   and  the  people 

shouted 
That  Christ  had    conquered  Marnas.      So 

that  art 

Which  bears  the  consecration  and  the  seal 
Of  holiness  upon  it  will  prevail 
Over  all   others.      Those    few    words    of 

yours 

Inspire  me  with  new  confidence  to  build. 
What  think  you  ?     The   old   walls  might 

serve,  perhaps, 
Some  purpose  still.     The  tower  can  hold 

the  bells. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

If  strong  enough. 

VITTORIA. 

If  not,  it  can  be  strengthened. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  see  no  bar  nor  drawback  to  this  building, 
And  on  our  homeward  way,  if  it  shall  please 

you, 
We  may  together  view  the  site. 

VITTOKIA. 

I  thank  you. 
I  did  not  venture  to  request  so  much. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Let  us  now  go  to  the  old  walls  you  spakt 

of, 
Vossignoria  — 

VITTORIA. 

What,  again,  Maestro  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Pardon  me,  Messer  Claudio,  if  once  more 
I  use  the  ancient  courtesies  of  speech. 
I  am  too  old  to  change. 


Ill 


CARDINAL    IPPOLITO 

SCENE  I.  —  A  richly  furnished    apartment  in 
the  Palace  of  CARDINAL  IPPOLITO.    Night. 

JACOPO  NARDI,  an  old  man,  alone. 

NARDI. 

I  am  bewildered.     These  Numidian  slaves, 

In  strange  attire  ;  these  endless  antecham 
bers  ; 

This  lighted  hall,  with  all  its  golden  splen 
dors, 

Pictures,  and  statues  !  Can  this  be  the 
dwelling 

Of  a  disciple  of  that  lowly  Man 

Who  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head  ?  These 
statues 

Are  not  of  Saints  ;  nor  is  this  a  Madonna, 

This  lovely  face,  that  with  such  tender 
eyes 

Looks  down  upon  me  from  the  painted  can 
vas. 

My  heart  begins  to  fail  me.  What  can 
he 

Who  lives  in  boundless  luxury  at  Rome 

Care  for  the  imperilled  liberties  of  Flor 
ence, 

Her  people,  her  Republic  ?     Ah,  the  rich 

Feel  not  the  pangs  of  banishment.  All 
doors 

Are  open  to  them,  and  all  hands  extended. 

The  poor  alone  are  outcasts  ;  they  who 
risked 

All  they  possessed  for  liberty,  and  lost  ; 

And  wander  through  the  world  without  a 
friend, 

Sick,  comfortless,  distressed,  unknown,  un- 
cared  for. 


544 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 


SCENE  II.  —  JACOPO  NARDI  ;  CARDINAL  IPPO- 
LITO,  in  Spanish  cloak  and  slouched  hat. 

IPPOLITO. 

I  pray  you  pardon  me  if  I  have  kept  you 


1  pray  you  pardon  me  i 
Waiting  so  long  alone. 


NARDI. 


I  wait  to  see 


The  Cardinal. 


And  you  ? 


IPPOLITO. 

I  am  the  Cardinal  ; 


NARDI. 

Jacopo  Nardi. 


IPPOLITO. 

You  are  welcome. 

I  was  expecting  you.     Philippo  Strozzi 
Had  told  me  of  your  coming. 

NARDI. 

'T  was  his  son 
That  brought  me  to  your  door. 

IPPOLITO. 

Pray  you,  be  seated. 
You  seem  astonished  at  the  garb  I  wear, 
But  at  my  time  of  life,  and  with  my  habits, 
The  petticoats  of  a  Cardinal  would  be  — 
Troublesome  ;    I   could   neither    ride    nor 

walk, 

Nor  do  a  thousand  things,  if  I  were  dressed 
Like   an   old   dowager.     It   were    putting 

wine 

Young  as  the  young  Astyanax  into  goblets 
As  old  as  Priam. 

NARDI. 

Oh,  your  Eminence 
Knows  best  what  you  should  wear. 

IPPOLITO. 

Dear  Messer  Nardi, 

You  are  no  stranger  to  me.     I  have  read 
Your  excellent  translation  of  the  books 
Of  Titus  Livius,  the  historian 
Of  Rome,  and  model  of  all  historians 
That  shall   come  after  him.     It  does  you 

honor  ; 

But  greater  honor  still  the  love  you  bear 
To  Florence,  our  dear  country,  and  whose 

annals 
I  hope  your  hand    will    write,    in  happier 

days 
Than  we  now  see. 


NARDI. 

Your  Eminence  will  pardon 
The  lateness  of  the  hour. 

IPPOLITO. 

The  hours  I  count  not 
As  a  sun-dial ;  but  am  like  a  clock, 
That  tells  the  time  as  well  by  night  as  day. 
So,    no  excuse.     I  know  what  brings  you 

here. 
You  come  to  speak  of  Florence. 


NARDI. 


And  her  woes. 


IPPOLITO. 

The  duke,  my  cousin,  the  black  Alessandro, 
Whose  mother  was  a  Moorish  slave,  that 

fed 

The  sheep  upon  Lorenzo's  farm,  still  lives 
And  reigns. 


Alas,  that  such  a  scourge 
Should  fall  on  such  a  city  ! 

IPPOLITO. 

When  he  dies, 

The  Wild  Boar  in  the  gardens  of  Lorenzo, 
The  beast  obscene,  should  be  the  monument 
Of  this  bad  man. 

NARDI. 

He  walks  the  streets  at  night 
With  revellers,  insulting  honest  men. 
No  house   is  sacred  from  his  lusts.     The 

convents 
Are   turned   by  him   to   brothels,  and  the 

honor 

Of  woman  and  all  ancient  pious  customs 
Are  quite  forgotten  now.     The  offices 
Of  the  Priori  and  Gonfalonieri 
Have  been  abolished.     All  the  magistrates 
Are  now  his  creatures.     Liberty  is  dead. 
The  very  memory  of  all  honest  living 
Is  wiped  away,  and  even  our  Tuscan  tongue 
Corrupted  to  a  Lombard  dialect. 

IPPOLITO. 

And,  worst   of  all,  his   impious   hand   has 

broken 

The  Martinella,  —  our  great  battle  bell, 
That,  sounding  through  three  centuries,  has 

led 
The  Florentines  to  victory,  —  lest  its  voice 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


545 


Should  waken  in  their  soul  some  memory 
Of  far-off  times  of  glory. 

NARDI. 

What  a  change 

Ten  little  years  have  made  !     We  all  re 
member 

Those  better  days,  when  Niccolk  Capponi, 
The  Gonfaloniere,  from  the  windows 
Of  the  Old  Palace,  with  the  blast  of  trum 
pets, 

Proclaimed  to  the  inhabitants  that  Christ 
Was  chosen  King  of  Florence  ;  and  already 
Christ  is  dethroned,  and  slain  ;  and  in  his 

stead 
Keigns  Lucifer  !     Alas,  alas,  for  Florence  ! 

IPPOLITO. 

Lilies  with  lilies,  said  Savonarola  ; 
Florence  and  France  !     But  I  say  Florence 

only, 

Or  only  with  the  Emperor's  hand  to  help  us 
In  sweeping  out  the  rubbish. 

NARDI. 

Little  hope 

Of  help  is  there  from  him.      He  has  be 
trothed 
His  daughter  Margaret  to  this  shameless 

Duke. 

What   hope  have  we  from   such  an   Em 
peror  ? 

IPPOLITO. 

Baccio  Valori  and  Philippo  Strozzi, 
Once  the  Duke's  friends  and  intimates,  are 

with  us, 

And  Cardinals  Salvati  and  Ridolfi. 
We  shall  soon  see,  then,  as  Valori  says, 
Whether  the  Duke  can  best  spare  honest 

men, 
Or  honest  men  the  Duke. 

NARDI. 

We  have  determined 
To  send  ambassadors  to  Spain,  and  lay 
Our  griefs  before  the  Emperor,  though  I 

fear 
More  than  I  hope. 

IPPOLITO. 

The  Emperor  is  busy 
With  this  new  war  against  the  Algerines, 
And  has  no  time  to  listen  to  complaints 
From  our  ambassadors  ;    nor  will  I  trust 
them, 


But  go  myself.     All  is  in  readiness 
For  my  departure,  and  to-morrow  morning 
I  shall  go  down  to  Itri,  where  I  meet 
Dante  da  Castiglione  and  some  others, 
Republicans  and  fugitives  from  Florence, 
And  then  take  ship  at  Gaeta,  and  go 
To  join  the  Emperor  in  his  new  crusade 
Against   the   Turk.      I   shall    have    time 

enough 
And  opportunity  to  plead  our  cause. 

NARDI,  rising. 

It  is  an  inspiration,  and  I  hail  it 
As  of   good  omen.     May  the   power  that 

sends  it 

Bless  our  beloved  country,  and  restore 
Its  banished  citizens.    The  soul  of  Florence 
Is  now  outside  its  gates.     What  lies  within 
Is  but  a  corpse,  corrupted  and  corrupting. 
Heaven   help    us   all.      I   will    not    tarry 

longer, 
For  you  have  need  of  rest.     Good-night. 


IPPOLITO. 


Good-night ! 


SCENE  III.  —  CARDINAL  IPPOLITO  ;   FRA  SE- 
BASTIANO  ;  Turkish  attendants. 

IPPOLITO. 

Fra  Bastiano,  how  your  portly  presence 
Contrasts  with  that  of  the  spare  Florentine 
Who  has  just  left  me  ! 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

As  we  passed  each  other, 
I  saw  that  he  was  weeping. 


IPPOLITO. 


Poor  old  man  ! 


Who  is  he  ? 


FRA  SEBASTIANO. 


IPPOLITO. 


Jacopo  Nardi.     A  brave  soul  ; 
One  of  the  Fuorusciti,  and  the  best 
And  noblest  of  them  all  ;  but  he  has  made 

me 

Sad  with  his  sadness.     As  I  look  on  you 
My  heart  grows  lighter.     I  behold  a  man 
Who  lives  in  an  ideal  world,  apart 
From  all  the  rude  collisions  of  our  life, 
In  a  calm  atmosphere. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

Your  Eminence 


546 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


Is  surely  jesting.     If  you  knew  the  life 
Of  artists  as  I  know  it,  you  might  think 
Far  otherwise. 

IPPOLITO. 

But  wherefore  should  I  jest  ? 
The  world  of  art  is  an  ideal  world,  — 
The  world  I  love,  and  that  I  fain  would 

live  in  ; 

So  speak  to  me  of  artists  and  of  art, 
Of  all  the  painters,  sculptors,  and  musicians 
That  now  illustrate  Rome. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

Of  the  musicians, 

I  know  but  Gondimel,  the  brave  maestro 
And  chapel-master  of  his  Holiness, 
Who  trains  the  Papal  choir. 

IPPOLITO. 

In  church,  this  morning, 
I  listened  to  a  mass  of  Goudimel, 
Divinely  chanted.     In  the  Incarnatus, 
In  lieu  of  Latin  words,  the  tenor  sang 
With  infinite  tenderness,  in  plain  Italian, 
A  Neapolitan  love-song. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

You  amaze  me. 
Was  it  a  wanton  song  ? 

IPPOLITO. 

Not  a  divine  one. 

I  am  not  over-scrupulous,  as  you  know, 
In  word  or  deed,  yet  such  a  song  as  that, 
Sung  by  the  tenor  of  the  Papal  choir, 
And  in  a  Papal  mass,  seemed  out  of  place  ; 
There  's  something  wrong  in  it. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

There  's  something  wrong 
In  everything.    We  cannot  make  the  world 
Go  right.    'T  is  not  my  business  to  reform 
The  Papal  choir. 

IPPOLITO. 

Nor  mine,  thank  Heaven  ! 
Then  tell  me  of  the  artists. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Naming  one 

I  name  them  all ;  for  there  is  only  one  : 
His  name  is  Messer  Michael  Angelo. 
All  art  and  artists  of  the  present  day 
Centre  in  him. 


IPPOLITO. 
You  count  yourself  as  nothing  ? 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

Or  less  than  nothing,  since  I  am  at  best 
Only  a  portrait-painter  ;  one  who  draws 
With  greater  or  less  skill,  as  best  he  may, 
The  features  of  a  face. 

IPPOLITO. 

And  you  have  had 

The  honor,  nay,  the  glory,  of  portraying 
Julia  Gonzaga  !    Do  you  count  as  nothing 
A  privilege  like  that  ?     See  there  the  por 
trait 

Rebuking  you  with  its  divine  expression. 
Are  you  not  penitent  ?     He  whose  skilful 

hand 

Painted  that  lovely  picture  has  not  right 
To  vilipend  the  art  of  portrait-painting. 
But  what  of  Michael  Angelo  ? 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

But  lately 

Strolling  together  down  the  crowded  Corso, 
We  stopped,  well  pleased,  to  see  your  Em 
inence 

Pass  on  an  Arab  steed,  a  noble  creature, 
Which  Michael  Angelo,  who  is  a  lover 
Of  all  things  beautiful,  and  especially 
When    they  are    Arab   horses,   much  ad 
mired, 
And  could  not  praise  enough. 

IPPOLITO,  to  an  attendant. 

Hassan,  to-morrow, 

When  I  am  gone,  but  not  till  I  am  gone,  — 
Be  careful  about  that,  —  take  Barbarossa 
To  Messer  Michael  Angelo  the  sculptor, 
Who  lives  there  at  Macello  dei  Corvi, 
Near  to  the  Capitol ;  and  take  besides 
Some   ten   mule-loads   of    provender,   and 

say 
Your    master   sends   them    to   him    as    a 

present. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

A  princely  gift.     Though  Michael  Angelo 
Refuses  presents  from  his  Holiness, 
Yours  he  will  not  refuse. 

IPPOLITO. 

You  think  him  like 

Thymcetes,  who  received  the  wooden  horse 
Info   the  walls   of   Troy.      That   book   of 
Virgil 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


547 


Have  I  translated  in  Italian  verse, 

And  shall,  some  day,  when  we  have  leisure 
for  it, 

Be  pleased  to  read  you.  When  I  speak  of 
Troy 

I  am  reminded  of  another  town 

And  of  a  lovelier  Helen,  our  dear  Coun 
tess 

Julia  Gonzaga.     You  remember,  surely, 

The  adventure  with  the  corsair  Barbarossa, 

And  all  that  followed  ? 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

A  most  strange  adventure  ; 
A  tale  as  marvellous  and  full  of  wonder 
As  any  in  Boccaccio  or  Sacchetti  ; 
Almost  incredible  ! 

IPPOLITO. 

Were  I  a  painter 
I  should    not    want    a  better  theme  than 

that: 

The  lovely  lady  fleeing  through  the  night 
In  wild  disorder  ;  and  the  brigands'  camp 
With  the  red  fire-light  on  their  swarthy 

faces. 
Could  you  not  paint  it  for  me  ? 


FKA  SEBASTIANO. 


It  is  not  in  my  line. 


No,  not  I. 


IPPOLITO. 

Then  you  shall  paint 
The  portrait  of  the  corsair,  when  we  bring 

him 

A  prisoner  chained  to  Naples  ;  for  I  feel 
Something  like  admiration  for  a  man 
Who  dared  this  strange  adventure. 


FRA  SEBASTIANO. 


But  catch  the  corsair  first. 


I  will  do  it. 


IPPOLITO. 

You  may  begin 
To-morrow  with  the  sword.     Hassan,  come 

hither  ; 

Bring  me  the  Turkish  scimitar  that  hangs 
Beneath    the    picture    yonder.      Now   un 
sheathe  it. 

'T  is  a  Damascus  blade  ;  you  see  the  in 
scription 

In  Arabic  :    La  Allah  !  ilia  Allah!  — 
There  is  no  God  but  God. 


FKA   SEBASTIANO. 

How  beautiful 

In  fashion  and  in  finish  !     It  is  perfect. 
The  Arsenal  of  Venice  cannot  boast 
A  finer  sword. 


IPPOLITO. 
You  like  it  ? 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

You  do  not  mean  it. 


It  is  yours. 


IPPOLITO. 

I  am  not  a  Spaniardj 

To  say  that  it  is  yours  and  not  to  mean  it. 
I  have  at  Itri  a  whole  armory 
Full  of  such  weapons.    When  you  paint  the 

portrait 

Of  Barbarossa,  it  will  be  of  use. 
You  have  not  been  rewarded  as  you  should 

be 
For  painting  the   Gonzaga.      Throw   this 

bauble 

Into  the  scale,  and  make  the  balance  equal. 
Till  then  suspend  it  in  your  studio  ; 
You  artists  like  such  trifles. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

I  will  keep  it 
In  memory  of  the  donor.     Many  thanks. 

IPPOLITO. 

Fra  Bastian,  I  am  growing  tired  of  Rome, 
The   old    dead   city,    with    the   old   dead 

people  ; 

Priests  everywhere,  like  shadows  on  a  wall, 
And  morning,  noon,  and  night  the  cease 
less  sound 
Of  convent  bells.     I  must  be  gone  from 

here  ; 
Though  Ovid  somewhere  says  that  Rome  is 

worthy 

To  be  the  dwelling-place  of  all  the  Gods, 
I  must  be  gone  from  here.     To-morrow 

morning 

I  start  for  Itri,  and  go  thence  by  sea 
To  join  the  Emperor,  who  is  making  ivar 
Upon  the  Algerines  ;  perhaps  to  sink 
Some  Turkish  galleys,  and  bring  back  in 

chains 

The  famous  corsair.     Thus  would  I  avenge 
The  beautiful  Gonzaga. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

An  achievement 
Worthy  of  Charlemagne,  or  of  Orlando. 


548 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


Berni  and  Ariosto  both  shall  add 

A  canto  to  their  poems,  and  describe  you 

As  Furioso  and  Innamorato. 

Now  I  must  say  good-night. 

IPPOLITO. 

You  must  not  go  ; 

First  you  shall  sup  \\  ith  me.   My  seneschal, 
Giovan    Andrea    dal    JBorgo    a    San    Se- 

polcro,  — 

I  like  to  give  the  whole  sonorous  name, 
It  sounds  so  like  a  verse  of  the  JEneid,  — 
Has  brought  me  eels  fresh  from  the  Lake 

of  Fondi, 
And    Lucrine    oysters    cradled     in    their 

shells  ; 

These,  with  red  Fondi  wine,  the  Crecuban 
That  Horace  speaks  of,  under  a  hundred 

keys 

Kept  safe,  until  the  heir  of  Posthumus 
Shall  stain  the  pavement  with  it,  make  a 

feast 

Fit  for  Lucullus,  or  Fra  Bastian  even  ; 
So  we  will  go  to  supper,  and  be  merry. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

Beware  !     Remember  that  Bolsena's  eels 
And  Vernage  wine  once  killed  a  Pope  of 
Rome  ! 

IPPOLITO. 
T  was  a  French  Pope  ;   and  then  so  long 

ago  ; 
Who  knows?  —  perhaps  the   story  is  not 

true. 


IV 


BORGO  DELLE  VERGINE  AT  NAPLES 

Boom  in  the  Palace  of  JULIA  GONZAGA.    Night. 
JULIA  GONZAGA,  GIOVANNI  VALDESSO. 


Do  not  go  yet. 


VALDESSO. 


The  night  is  far  advanced  ; 
I  fear  to  stay  too  late,  and  weary  you 
With  these  discussions. 

JULIA. 

I  have  much  to  say. 
v  I  speak  to  you,  Valdesso,  with  that  frank 

ness 

Which  is  the  greatest  privilege  of  friend 
ship,  — 


Speak  as  I  hardly  would  to   ruy  confes 
sor, 
Such  is  my  confidence  in  you. 

VALDESSO. 

Dear  Countess, 

If  loyalty  to  friendship  be  a  claim 
Upon  your  confidence,  then  I  may  claim  it, 

JULIA. 

Then  sit  again,  and  listen  unto  things 
That  nearer  are  to  me  than  life  itself. 

VALDESSO. 

In  all  things  I  am  happy  to  obey  you, 
And  happiest  then  when  you  command  me 
most. 

^  JULIA. 

Laying  aside  all  useless  rhetoric, 
That  is  superfluous  between  us  two, 
I  come  at  once  unto  the  point,  and  say, 
You  know  my  outward  life,  my  rank  and 

fortune  ; 

Countess  of  Fondi,  Duchess  of  Trajetto, 
A  widow  rich  and  flattered,  for  whose  hand 
In  marriage  princes  ask,  and  ask  it  only 
To  be  rejected.     All  the  world  can  offer 
Lies  at  my  feet.     If  I  remind  you  of  it 
It  is  not  in  the  way  of  idle  boasting, 
But  only  to  the  better  understanding 
Of  what  comes  after. 

VALDESSO. 

God  hath  given  you  also 
Beauty  and  intellect ;  and  the  signal  grace 
To  lead  a  spotless  life  amid  temptations 
That  others  yield  to. 

JULIA. 

But  the  inward  life,  — 
That  you  know  not ;  't  is  known  but  to  my 
self, 

And  is  to  me  a  mystery  and  a  pain  : 
A  soul  disquieted  and  ill  at  ease, 
A  mind  perplexed  with  doubts  and  appre 
hensions, 

A  heart  dissatisfied  with  all  around  me, 
And   with    myself,   so    that   sometimes    I 

weep, 
Discouraged  and  disgusted  with  the  worldj 

_  VALDESSO. 

Whene'er  we  cross  a  river  at  a  ford, 

If  we  would  pass  in  safety,  we  must  keep 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


549 


Our  eyes  fixed  steadfast  on  the  shore  be 
yond, 

For  if  we  cast  them  on  the  flowing  stream, 

The  head  swims  with  it ;  so  if  we  would 
cross 

The  running  flood  of  things  here  in  the 
world, 

Our  souls  must  not  look  down,  but  fix  their 
sight  x 

On  the  firm  land  beyond.  /' 

JULIA. 

I  comprehend  you. 

You  think  I  am  too  worldly  ;  that  my  head 
Swims  with  the  giddying  whirl  of  life  about 

me. 
Is  that  your  meaning  ? 

VALDESSO. 

Yes  ;  your  meditations 
Are  more  of  this  world  and  its  vanities 
Than  of  the  world  to  come. 


I  am  confused. 


Between  the  two 


VALDESSO. 


Yet  have  I  seen  you  listen 
Enraptured  when  Fra  Bernardino  preached 
Of  faith  and  hope  and  charity. 

JULIA. 

I  listen, 

But  only  as  to  music  without  meaning. 
It  moves  me  for  the  moment,  and  I  think 
How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  a  saint, 
As  dear  Vittoria  is  ;  but  I  am  weak 
And  wayward,  and  I  soon  fall  back  again 
To  my  old  ways,  so  very  easily. 
There   are   too   many  week-days   for  one 
Sunday. 

VALDESSO. 

Then  take  the   Sunday  with  you  through 

the  week, 
And  sweeten  with  it  all  the  other  days. 

JULIA. 

In  part  I  do  so  ;  for  to  put  a  stop 
To  idle  tongues,  what  men   might  say  of 

me 

If  I  lived  all  alone  here  in  my  palace, 
And  not  from  a  vocation  that  I  feel 
For  the  monastic  life,  I  now  am  living 
With  Sister  Caterina  at  the  convent 
Of  Santa  Chiara,  and  I  come  here  only 


On  certain  days,  for  my  affairs,  or  visits 

Of  ceremony,  or  to  be  with  friends. 

For  I  confess,  to  live  among  my  friends 

Is  Paradise  to  me  ;  my  Purgatory 

Is  living  among  people  I  dislike. 

And  so  I  pass  my  life  in  these  two  worlds, 

This  palace  and  the  convent. 

VALDESSO. 

It  was  then 

The  fear  of  man,  and  not  the  love  of  God, 
That  led  you  to  this  step.     Why  will  you 

not 

Renounce  the  world,  and  give  your  heart 
to  God,1 

JULIA. 

If  God  so  commands  it, 
Wherefore  hath  He  not  made  me  capable 
Of  doing  for  Him  what  I  wish  to  do 
As  easily  as  I  could  offer  Him 
This   jewel   from   my  hand,  this   gown  I 

wear, 
Or  aught  else  that  is  mine  ? 

VALDESSO. 

The  hindrance  lies 
In  that  original  sin,  by  which  all  fell. 

JULIA. 

Ah  me,  I  cannot  bring  my  troubled  mind 
To  wish  well  to  that  Adam,  our  first  parent, 
Who  by  his  sin  lost  Paradise  for  us, 
And  brought  such  ills  upon  us. 

VALDESSO. 

We  ourselves, 

When  we  commit  a  sin,  lose  Paradise, 
As  much  as  he  did.     Let  us  think  of  this, 
And  how  we  may  regain  it. 

JULIA. 

Teach  me,  then. 

To  harmonize  the  discord  of  my  life, 
And  stop  the  painful  jangle  of  these  wires. 

VALDESSO. 

That  is  a  task  impossible,  until 

You  tune  your  heart-strings  to  a  higher  key 

Than  earthly  melodies. 

JULIA. 

How  shall  I  do  it  ? 
Point  out  to  me  the  way  of  this  perfection, 

i  For  some  unexplained  reason,  the  sentence  has  been 
left  incomplete  ;  apparently  the  omission  was  not  mor« 
than  a  half  line. 


550 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


And  I  will  follow  you  ;  for  you  have  made 
My  soul  enamored  with  it,  and  I  cannot 
Rest  satisfied  until  I  find  it  out. 
But  lead  me  privately,  so  that  the  world 
Hear  not  my  steps  ;  I  would  not  give  occa 
sion 
For  talk  among  the  people. 

VALDESSO. 

Now  at  last 

I  understand  you  fully.     Then,  what  need 
Is  there  for  us  to  beat  about  the  bush  ? 
I  know  what  you  desire  of  me. 

JULIA. 

What  rudeness  ! 
If  you  already  know  it,  why  not  tell  me  ? 

VALDESSO. 

Because  I  rather  wait  for  you  to  ask  it 
With  your  own  lips. 

JULIA. 

Do  me  the  kindness,  then, 
To  speak   without   reserve  ;  and  with  all 

frankness, 
If  you  divine  the  truth,  will  I  confess  it. 


I  am  content. 


VALDESSO. 


JULIA. 

Then  speak. 

VALDESSO. 

You  would  be  free 
From  the  vexatious  thoughts  that  come  and 


2fh  i 


Through  your  imagination,  and  would  have 
me 

Point  out  some  royal  road  and  lady-like 

Which  you  may  walk  in,  and  not  wound 
your  feet. 

You  would  attain  to  the  divine  perfection, 

And  yet  not  turn  your  back  upon  the 
world  ; 

You  would  possess  humility  within, 

But  not  reveal  it  in  your  outward  actions  ; 

You  would  have  patience,  but  without  the 
rude 

Occasions  that  require  its  exercise  ; 

You  would  despise  the  world,  but  in  such 
fashion 

The  world  should  not  despise  you  in  return  ; 

Would  clothe  the  soul  with  all  the  Chris 
tian  graces, 

Yet  not  despoil  the  body  of  its  gauds  ; 


Would  feed  the  soul  with  spiritual  food, 
Yet  not  deprive  the  body  of  its  feasts  ; 
Would  seem  angelic  in  the  sight  of  God, 
Yet  not  too  saint-like  in  the  eyes  of  men  ; 
In  short,  would  lead  a  holy  Christian  life 
In  such  a  way  that  even  your  nearest  friend 
Would  not  detect  therein  one  circumstance 
To  show  a  change  from  what  it  was  before., 
Have  I  divined  your  secret  ? 

JULIA. 

You  have  drawn 

The  portrait  of  my  inner  self  as  truly 
As  the  most  skilful  painter  ever  painted 
A  human  face. 

VALDESSO. 

This  warrants  me  in  saying 
You  think  you  can  win  heaven  by  compro 
mise, 
And  not  by  verdict. 

JULIA. 

You  have  often  told  me 
That  a  bad  compromise  was  better  even 
Than  a  good  verdict. 

VALDESSO. 

Yes,  in  suits  at  law  ; 
Not  in  religion.     With  the  human  soul 
There  is  no  compromise.     By  faith  alone 
Can  man  be  justified. 

JULIA. 

Hush,  dear  Valdesso  ; 
That  is  a  heresy.     Do  not,  I  pray  you, 
Proclaim  it  from  the  house-top,  but  preserve 

it 
As   something   precious,    hidden    in  your 

heart, 
As  I,  who  half  believe  and  tremble  at  it. 

VALDESSO. 

I  must  proclaim  the  truth. 

JULIA. 

Enthusiast ! 

Why  must  you  ?     You  imperil  both  your 
self 
And   friends  by   your  imprudence.     Pray, 

be  patient. 

You  have  occasion  now  to  show  that  virtue 
Which  you  lay  stress  upon.  Let  us  return 
To  our  lost  pathway.  Show  me  by  what 

steps 
I  shall  walk  in  it. 

[Convent  bells  are  heard. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


VALDESSO. 

Hark  !  the  convent  bells 
Are  ringing  ;  it  is  midnight  ;  I  must  leave 

you. 

And  yet  I  linger.     Pardon  me,  dear  Coun 
tess, 

Since  you  to-night  have  made  me  your  con 
fessor, 

If  I  so  far  may  venture,  I  will  warn  you 
Upon  one  point. 

JULIA. 

What  is  it  ?     Speak,  I  pray  you, 
For  I  have  no  concealments  in  my  conduct ; 
All  is  as  open  as  the  light  of  day. 
What  is  it  you  would  warn  me  of  ? 


VALDESSO. 


With  Cardinal  Ippolito. 


Your  friendship 


JULIA. 


What  is  there 
To  cause  suspicion  or  alarm  in  that, 
More  than  in  friendships  that  I  entertain 
With  you  and  others?     I  ne'er   sat   with 

him 

Alone  at  night,  as  I  am  sitting  now 
With  you,  Valdesso. 

VALDESSO. 

Pardon  me  ;  the  portrait 
That  Fra  Bastiano  painted  was  for  him. 
Is  that  quite  prudent  ? 


That  is  the  same  question 
Vittoria  put  to  me,  whea  I  last  saw  her. 
I  make  you  the  same  answer.     That  was 

not 

A  pledge  of  love,  but  of  pure  gratitude. 
Recall  the  adventure  of  that  dreadful  night 
When  Barbarossa  with  two  thousand  Moors 
Landed  upon  the  coast,  and  in  the  dark 
ness 

Attacked  my  castle.     Then,  without  delay, 
The  Cardinal  came   hurrying  down   from 

Rome 

To  rescue  and  protect  me.     Was  it  wrong 
That  in  an  hour  like  that  I  did  not  weigh 
Too  nicely  this  or  that,  but  granted  him 
A  boon  that  pleased  him,  and  that  flattered 
me  ? 

VALDESSO. 

Only  beware  lest,  in  disguise  of  friendship, 
Another  corsair,  worse  than  Barbarossa, 


Steal  in  and  seize  the  castle,  not  by  storm 
But  strategy.     And  now  I  take  my  leave. 

JULIA. 
Farewell  ;  but  ere  you  go,  look  forth  and 

see 
How  night  hath  hushed  the  clamor  and  the 

stir 
Of  the  tumultuous  streets.     The  cloudless 

moon 

Roofs  the  whole  city  as  with  tiles  of  silver  ; 
The  dim,  mysterious  sea  in  silence  sleeps, 
And  straight  into  the  air  Vesuvius  lifts 
His  plume  of  smoke.     How  beautiful  it  is  ! 
[Voices  in  the  street. 

GIOVAN  ANDREA. 

Poisoned  at  Itri. 

ANOTHER  VOICE. 

Poisoned  ?     Who  is  poisoned  ? 

GIOVAN  ANDREA. 

The  Cardinal  Ippolito,  my  master. 
Call  it  malaria.    It  was  very  sudden. 

[Julia  swoons. 


VITTORIA   COLONNA 

A  room  in  the  Torre  Argentina. 

VITTORIA  COLONNA  and  JULIA  GONZAGA. 

VITTORIA. 
Come  to  my  arms  and  to  my  heart  once 

more  ; 
My  soul  goes  out  to  meet  you  and  embrace 

you, 

For  we  are  of  the  sisterhood  of  sorrow. 
I  know  what  you  have  suffered. 


JULIA. 


Name  it  not. 


Let  me  forget  it. 


VITTORIA. 

I  will  say  no  more. 

Let  me  look  at  you.     What  a  joy  it  is 
To  see  your  face,  to  hear  your  voice  again  ! 
You   bring   with  you   a  breath  as  of  the 

morn, 

A  memory  of  the  far-off  happy  days 
When   we   were   young.     When   did  you 
come  from  Fondi  ? 


552 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


JULIA. 

I  have  not  been  at  Fondi  since  — 

VITTOKIA. 

Ah  me  ! 

You  need  not  speak  the  word  ;  I   under 
stand  you. 

JULIA. 

I  came  from  Naples  by  the  lovely  valley, 
The  Terra  di  Lavoro. 

VITTORIA. 

And  you  find  me 
But   just   returned   from   a   long   journey 

northward. 

I  have  been  staying  with  that  noble  woman, 
Rende  of  France,  the  Duchess  of  Ferrara. 

JULIA. 

Oh,  tell  me  of  the  Duchess.     I  have  heard 
Flaminio    speak    her    praises    with    such 

warmth 

That  I  am  eager  to  hear  more  of  her 
And  of  her  brilliant  court. 

VITTORIA. 

You  shall  hear  all. 

But  first  sit  down  and  listen  patiently 
While  I  confess  myself. 


Have  you  committed  ? 


What  deadly  sin 


VITTORIA. 

Not  a  sin  ;  a  folly. 
I  chid  you  once  at  Ischia,  when  you  told 

me 

That  brave  Fra  Bastian  was  to  paint  your 
portrait. 

JULIA. 
Well  I  remember  it. 

VITTORIA. 

Then  chide  me  now, 
For   I   confess    to    something    still    more 

strange. 

Old  as  I  am,  I  have  at  last  consented 
To  the  entreaties  and  the  supplications 
Of  Michael  Angelo  — 


To  marry  him  ? 


VITTORIA. 
I  pray  you,  do  not  jest  with   me  !     You 

know, 
Or  you  should   know,  that   never  such  a 

thought 

Entered  my  breast.     I  am  already  married. 
The  Marquis  of  Pescara  is  my  husband, 
And  death  has  not  divorced  us. 


JULIA. 
Have  I  offended  you  ? 


Pardon  me. 


VITTORIA. 

No,  but  have  hurt  me. 
Unto  my  buried  lord  I  give  myself, 
Unto  my  friend  the  shadow  of  myself, 
My  portrait.     It  is  not  from  vanity, 
But  for  the  love  I  bear  him. 

JULIA. 

I  rejoice 
To  hear  these  words.     Oh,  this  will  be  a 

portrait 
Worthy  of  both  of  you  1  [A  knock. 

VITTORIA. 

Hark  !  he  is  coming. 
JULIA. 
And  shall  I  go  or  stay  ? 

VITTORIA. 

By  all  means,  stay. 

The  drawing  will  be  better  for  your  pres 
ence  ; 
You  will  enliven  me. 

JULIA. 

I  shall  not  speak  ; 
The  presence  of  great  men  doth  take  from 

me 

All  power  of  speech.     I  only  gaze  at  them 
In  silent  wonder,  as  if  they  were  gods, 
Or  the  inhabitants  of  some  other  planet. 
Enter  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

VITTORIA. 

Come  in. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  fear  my  visit  is  ill-timed  ; 
I  interrupt  you. 

VITTORIA. 

No  ;  this  is  a  friend 

Of  yours  as  well  as  mine,  —  the  Lady  Julia, 
The  Duchess  of  Trajetto. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


553 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  to  JULIA. 

I  salute  you. 
'T  is  long  since  I  have  seen  your  face,  my 

lady  ; 

Pardon  me  if  I  say  that  having  seen  it, 
One  never  can  forget  it. 

JULIA. 

You  are  kind 
To  keep  me  in  your  memory. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


It  is 


The  privilege  of  age  to  speak  with  frank 
ness. 

You  will  not  be  offended  when  I  say 
That  never  was  your  beauty  more  divine. 

JULIA. 

When  Michael  Angelo  condescends  to  flat 
ter 
Or  praise  me,  I  am  proud,  and  not  offended. 

VITTORIA. 

Now  this  is  gallantry  enough  for  one  ; 
Show  me  a  little. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Ah,  my  gracious  lady, 
You  know  I  have  not  words  to  speak  your 

praise. 

I  think  of  you  in  silence.     You  conceal 
Your  manifold  perfections  from  ail  eyes, 
And  make  yourself  more  saint-like  day  by 

day, 

And  day  by  day  men  worship  you  the  more. 
But  now  your  hour  of  martyrdom  has  come. 
You  know  why  I  am  here. 

VITTORIA. 

Ah  yes,  I  know  it  ; 
And  meet  my   fate   with  fortitude.     You 

find  me 

Surrounded  by  the  labors  of  your  hands  : 
The  Woman  of  Samaria  at  the  Well, 
The  Mater  Dolorosa,  and  the  Christ 
Upon  the  Cross,  beneath  which  you  have 

written 

Those  memorable  words  of  Alighieri, 
"Men  have  forgotten  how  much  blood  it 

costs." 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  now  I  come  to  add  one  labor  more, 
If  you  will  call  that  labor  which  is  pleasure, 
And  only  pleasure. 


VITTORIA. 

How  shall  I  be  seated  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  opening  his  portfolio. 
Just  as  you  are.     The  light  falls  well  upon 
you. 

VITTORIA. 

I  am  ashamed  to  steal  the  time  from  you 
That  should  be  given  to  the  Sistine  Chapel, 
How  does  that  work  go  on  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  drawing. 

But  tardily, 
Old   men   work   slowly.     Brain  and  hand 

alike 

Are  dull  and  torpid.     To  die  young  is  best, 
And  not  to  be  remembered  as  old  men 
Tottering  about  in  their  decrepitude. 

VITTORIA. 

My  dear  Maestro  !  have  you,  then,  forgot 
ten 
The  story  of  Sophocles  in  his  old  age  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

What  story  is  it  ? 

VITTORIA. 

When  his  sons  accused  him, 
Before  the  Areopagus,  of  dotage, 
For  all  defence,  he  read  there  to  his  Judges 
The  Tragedy  of  OEdipus  Coloneus,  — 
The  work  of  his  old  age. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

'T  is  an  illusion, 

A  fabulous  story,  that  will  lead  old  men 
Into  a  thousand  follies  and  conceits. 

VITTORIA. 

So  you  may  show  to  cavillers  your  painting 
Of   the    Last   Judgment    in    the    Sistine 
Chapel. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Now  you  and  Lady  Julia  shall  resume 
The  conversation  that  I  interrupted. 

VITTORIA. 

It  was  of  no  great  import  ;  nothing  more 
Nor  less  than  my  late  visit  to  Ferrara, 
And  what  I  saw  there  in  the  ducal  palace. 
Will  it  not  interrupt  you  ? 


554 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Not  the  least. 

VITTORIA. 

Well,  first,  then,  of  Duke  Ercole  :  a  man 
Cold  in  his  manners,  and  reserved  and  si 
lent, 

And  yet  magnificent  in  all  his  ways  ; 
Not  hospitable  unto  new  ideas, 
But  from  state  policy,  and  certain  reasons 
Concerning  the  investiture  of  the  duchy, 
A  partisan  of  Rome,  and  consequently 
Intolerant  of  all  the  new  opinions. 

JULIA. 
I  should  not  like  the  Duke.     These  silent 

men, 

Who  only  look  and  listen,  are  like  wells 
That  have   no   water  in   them,  deep   and 

empty. 

How  could  the  daughter  of  a  king  of  France 
Wed  such  a  duke  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

The  men  that  women  marry, 
And  why  they  marry  them,  will  always  be 
A  marvel  and  a  mystery  to  the  world. 

VTTTORIA. 

And  then  the  Duchess,  —  how  shall  I  de 
scribe  her, 

Or  tell  the  merits  of  that  happy  nature 
Which  pleases  most  when  least  it  thinks  of 

pleasing  ? 

Not  beautiful,  perhaps,  in  form  and  fea 
ture, 
Yet  with   an   inward   beauty,   that  shines 

through 

Each  look  and  attitude  and  word  and  ges 
ture  ; 

A  kindly  grace  of  manner  and  behavior, 
A  something  in  her  presence  and  her  ways 
That  makes  her  beautiful  beyond  the  reach 
Of  mere  external  beauty  ;  and  in  heart 
So  noble  and  devoted  to  the  truth, 
And  so  in  sympathy  with  all  who  strive 
After  the  higher  life. 


She  draws  me  to  her 
As  much  as  her  Duke  Ercole  repels  me. 

VTTTORIA. 

Then  the  devout  and  honorable  women 
That  grace  her  court,  and  make  it  good  to 
be  there  ; 


Francesca  Bucyronia,  the  true-hearted, 
Lavinia  della  Rovere  and  the  Orsini, 
The  Magdalena  and  the  Cherubina, 
And   Anne    de    Partheuai,   who    sings  so 

sweetly  ; 

All  lovely  women,  full  of  noble  thoughts 
And  aspirations  after  noble  things. 

JULIA. 

Boccaccio  would    have    envied    you  such 
dames. 

VITTORIA. 

No  ;  his  Fiammettas  and  his  Philomenas 
Are  fitter  company  for  Ser  Giovanni ; 
I  fear  he  hardly  would  have  comprehended 
The  women  that  I  speak  of. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Yet  he  wrote 

The  story  of  Griseldis.     That  is  something 
To  set  down  in  his  favor. 

VITTORIA. 

With  these  ladies 

Was  a  young  girl,  Olympia  Morata, 
Daughter  of  Fulvio,  the  learned  scholar, 
Famous  in  all  the  universities  : 
A  marvellous  child,  who  at  the  spinning- 
wheel, 

And  in  the  daily  round  of  household  cares, 
Hath  learned  both  Greek  and  Latin  ;  and 

is  now 

A  favorite  of  the  Duchess  and  companion 
Of  Princess  Anne.     This  beautiful  young 

Sappho 

Sometimes  recited  to  us  Grecian  odes 
That  she  had  written,  with  a  voice  whose 

sadness 
Thrilled  and  o'ermastered  me,   and  made 

me  look 

Into  the  future  time,  and  ask  myself 
What  destiny  will  be  hers. 

JULIA. 

A  sad  one,  surely. 
Frost  kills  the  flowers  that  blossom  out  of 

season  ; 

And  these  precocious  intellects  portend 
A  life  of  sorrow  or  an  early  death. 

VTTTORIA. 

About  the  court  were  many  learned  men  ; 
Chilian  Sinapius  from  beyond  the  Alps, 
And  Celio  Curione,  and  Manzolli, 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


555 


The  Duke's  physician  ;  and  a  pale  young 

man, 
Charles   d'Espeville  of  Geneva,  whom  the 

Duchess 

Doth  much  delight  to  talk  with  and  to  read. 
For  he  hath  written  a  book  of  Institutes 
The  Duchess  greatly  praises,  though  some 

call  it 
The  Koran  of  the  heretics. 

JULIA. 

And  what  poets 
Were   there   to  sing  you   madrigals,   and 

praise 
Olympia's  eyes  and  Cherubina's  tresses  ? 

VITTORIA. 

None  ;  for  great  Ariosto  is  no  more. 
The  voice  that  filled  those  halls  with  mel 
ody 
Has  long  been  hushed  in  death. 

JULIA. 

You  should  have  made 
A  pilgrimage  unto  the  poet's  tomb, 
And  laid  a  wreath  upon  it,  for  the  words 
He  spake  of  you. 

VITTORIA. 

And  of  yourself  no  less, 
And  of  our  master,  Michael  Angelo. 


Of  me? 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


VITTORIA. 


Have  you  forgotten  that  he  calls  you 
Michael,  less  man  than  angel,  and  divine  ? 
You  are  ungrateful. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

A  mere  play  on  words. 
That  adjective  he  wanted  for  a  rhyme, 
To  match  with  Gian  Bellino  and  Urbino. 

VITTORIA. 

Bernardo  Tasso  is  no  longer  there, 
Nor  the  gay  troubadour  of  Gascony, 
Clement  Marot,  surnamed  by  flatterers 
The  Prince  of  Poets  and  the  Poet  of  Princes, 
Who,    being  looked  upon  with  much  dis 
favor 
By  the  Duke  Ercole,  has  fled  to  Venice. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

There  let  him  stay  with  Pietro  Aretino, 
The  Scourge  of  Princes,  also  called  Divine. 
The  title  is  so  common  in  our  mouths, 
That  even  the  Pifferari  of  Abruzzi, 
Who  play  their  bag-pipes  in  the  streets  of 

Rome 

At  the  Epiphany,  will  bear  it  soon, 
And  will  deserve  it  better  than  some  poets. 

VITTORIA. 
What  bee  hath  stung  you  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

One  that  makes  no  honey  ; 
One  that  comes  buzzing  in  through  every 

window, 
And   stabs  men  with  his  sting.     A  bitter 

thought 
Passed  through  my  mind,  but  it  is  gone 

again  ; 
I  spake  too  hastily. 

JULIA. 

I  pray  you,  show  me 
What  you  have  done. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Not  yet ;  it  is  not  finished. 


PART   SECOND 

I 

MONOLOGUE 
A  room  in  MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  house. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Fled  to  Viterbo,  the  old  Papal  city 
Where  once  an  Emperor,  humbled  in  his 

pride, 

Held  the  Pope's  stirrup,  as  his  Holiness 
Alighted  from  his  mule  !     A  fugitive 
From  Cardinal  Caraffa's  hate,  who  hurls 
His  thunders  at  the  house  of  the  Colonna, 
With  endless  bitterness  !  —  Among  the  nuns 
In  Santa  Caterina's  convent  hidden, 
Herself  in  soul  a  nun  !   And  now  she  chides 

me 

For  my  too  frequent  letters,  that  disturb 
Her  meditations,  and  that  hinder  me 
And  keep   me  from  my  work  ;  now  gra 
ciously 


556 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


She  thanks  me  for  the  crucifix  I  sent  her, 
And  says  that  she  will  keep  it  :  with  one 

hand 

Inflicts  a  wound,  and  with  the  other  heals  it. 

[Reading. 
"  Profoundly  I    believed  that  God  would 

grant  you 

A  supernatural  faith  to  paint  this  Christ  ; 
I  wished  for  that  which  now  I  see  fulfilled 
So  marvellously,  exceeding  all  my  wishes. 
Nor  more  could  be  desired,  or  even  so  much. 
And  greatly  I  rejoice  that  you  have  made 
The  angel  on  the  right  so  beautiful  ; 
For  the  Archangel  Michael  will  place  you, 
You,  Michael  Angelo,  on  that  new  day, 
Upon  the  Lord's  right  hand  !    And  waiting 

that, 

How  can  I  better  serve  you  than  to  pray 
To  this  sweet  Christ  for  you,  and  to  beseech 

you 
To  hold  me  altogether  yours  in  all  things." 

Well,  I  will  write  less  often,  or  no  more, 
But  wait  her  coming.      No  one   born   in 

Rome 
Can  live  elsewhere  ;  but  he  must  pine  for 

Rome, 

And  must  return  to  it.     I,  who  am  born 
And  bred  a  Tuscan  and  a  Florentine, 
Feel  the  attraction,  and  I  linger  here 
As  if  I  were  a  pebble  in  the  pavement 
Trodden  by  priestly  feet.     This  I  endure, 
Because  I  breathe  in  Rome  an  atmosphere 
Heavy  with  odors  of  the  laurel  leaves 
That  crowned  great  heroes  of  the  sword 

and  pen, 

In  ages  past.     I  feel  myself  exalted 
To   walk    the    streets   in   which   a   Virgil 

walked, 

Or  Trajan  rode  in  triumph  ;  but  far  more, 
And  most  of  all,  because  the  great  Colonna 
Breathes  the  same  air  I  breathe,  and  is  to 

me 

An  inspiration.     Now  that  she  is  gone, 
Rome  is  no  longer  Rome  till  she  return. 
This  feeling  overmasters  me.     I  know  not 
If  it  be  love,  this  strong  desire  to  be 
Forever  in  her  presence  ;  but  I  know 
That  I,  who  was  the  friend  of  solitude, 
And  ever  was  best  pleased  when  most  alone, 
Now  weary  grow  of  my  own  company. 
For  the  first  time  old  age  seems  lonely  to 

me. 

[Opening  the  Divina  Commedia. 
I  turn  for  consolation  to  the  leaves 


Of  the  great  master  of  our  Tuscan  tongue, 
Whose  words,  like  colored  garnet-shirls  in 

lava, 

Betray  the  heat  in  which   they  were  en 
gendered. 

A  mendicant,  he  ate  the  bitter  bread 
Of  others,  but  repaid  their  meagre  gifts 
With  immortality.     In  courts  of  princes 
He  was  a  by-word,  and  in  streets  of  towns 
Was  mocked  by  children,  like  the  Hebrew 

prophet, 

Himself  a  prophet.     I  too  know  the  cry, 
Go  up,  thou  bald  head  !  from  a  generation 
That,  wanting  reverence,  wanteth  the  best 

food 
The  soul  can  feed  on.     There  's  not  room 

enough 

For  age  and  youth  upon  this  little  planet. 
Age  must  give  way.     There  was  not  room 

enough 

Even  for  this  great  poet.     In  his  song 
I  hear  reverberate  the  gates  of  Florence, 
Closing  upon  him,  never  more  to  open  ; 
But  mingled  with  the  sound  are  melodies 
Celestial  from  the  gates  of  paradise. 
He   came   and  he   is   gone.      The   people 

knew  not 
What  manner  of  man  was  passing  by  their 

doors, 

Until  he  passed  no  more  ;  but  in  his  vision 
He  saw  the  torments  and  beatitudes 
Of  souls  condemned  or  pardoned,  and  hath 

left 
Behind  him  this  sublime  Apocalypse. 

I  strive  in  vain  to  draw  here  on  the  margin 
The  face  of  Beatrice.     It  is  not  hers, 
But  the  Colonna' s.     Each  hath  his  ideal, 
The  image  of  some  woman  excellent, 
That  is  his  guide.      No  Grecian  art,  nor 

Roman, 
Hath  yet  revealed  such  loveliness  as  hers. 


II 

VITERBO 
VITTOBIA  COLONNA  at  the  convent  window. 

VITTORIA. 

Parting  with  friends  is  temporary  death, 
As  all  death  is.     We  see  no  more   their 

faces, 
Nor  hear  their  voices,  save  in  memory. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


557 


But  messages  of  love  give  us  assurance 
That  we  are  not  forgotten!     Who  shall  say 
That  from  the  world  of  spirits  comes  no 

greeting, 

No  message  of  remembrance  ?     It  may  be 
The  thoughts  that  visit   us,  we  know  not 

whence, 

Sudden  as  inspiration,  are  the  whispers 
Of  disembodied  spirits,  speaking  to  us 
As  friends,  who  wait  outside  a  prison  wall, 
Through  the  barred  windows  speak  to  those 

within.  \_A  pause. 

As  quiet  as  the  lake  that  lies  beneath  me, 
As  quiet  as  the  tranquil  sky  above  me, 
As  quiet  as  a  heart  that  beats  no  more, 
This   convent   seems.      Above,   below,  all 

peace  ! 

Silence  and  solitude,  the  soul's  best  friends, 
Are   with   me   here,   and  the   tumultuous 

world 
Makes  no  more  noise  than  the   remotest 

planet.  \_A  pause. 

O  gentle  spirit,  unto  the  third  circle 
Of  heaven   among  the   blessed   souls   as 
cended, 

Who,  living  in  the  faith  and  dying  for  it, 
Have  gone  to  their  reward,  I  do  not  sigh 
For  thee  as  being  dead,  but  for  myself 
That  I  am  still  alive.    Turn  those  dear  eyes, 
Once  so  benignant  to  me,  upon  mine, 
That  open  to  their  tears  such  uncontrolled 
And  such  continual  issue.     Still  awhile 
Have  patience  ;  I  will  come  to  thee  at  last. 
A  few  more  goings  in  and  out  these  doors, 
A   few   more    chimings   of   these    convent 

bells, 
A  few  more  prayers,  a  few  more  sighs  and 

tears, 

And  the  long  agony  of  this  life  will  end, 
And  I  shall  be  with  thee.     If  I  am  wanting 
To  thy  well-being,  as  thou  art  to  mine, 
Have  patience  ;  I  will  come  to  thee  at  last. 
Ye    winds    that    loiter    in    these    cloister 

gardens, 

Or  wander  far  above  the  city  walls, 
Bear  unto  him  this  message,  that  I  ever 
Or  speak  or  think  of  him,  or  weep  for  him. 

By  unseen  hands  uplifted  in  the  light 
Of  sunset,  yonder  solitary  cloud 
Floats,  with  its  white  apparel  blown  abroad, 
And  wafted  up  to  heaven.      It  fades  away, 
And  melts  into  the  air.     Ah,  would  that  I 
Could  thus  be  wafted  unto  thee,  Francesco, 
A  cloud  of  white,  an  incorporeal  spirit  ! 


Ill 


MICHAEL      ANGELO      AND      BENVENUTO 
CELLINI 

SCENE  I.  —  MICHAEL  ANGELO,   BENVENUTO 
CELLINI  in  gay  attire. 

BENVENUTO. 

A  good  day  and  good  year  to  the  divine 
Maestro  Michael  Angelo,  the  sculptor  ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Welcome,  my  Benvenuto. 

BENVENUTO. 

That  is  what 

My  father  said,  the  first  time  he  beheld 
This  handsome  face.     But  say  farewell,  not 

welcome. 
I   come   to  take    my  leave.     I  start  for 

Florence 

As  fast  as  horse  can  carry  me.     I  long 
To  set  once  more  upon  its  level  flags 
These  feet,  made  sore  by  your  vile  Roman 

pavements. 
Come  with  me  ;  you  are  wanted  there  in 

Florence. 
The  Sacristy  is  not  finished. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Speak  not  of  it ! 
How  damp   and   cold   it   was  !     How  my 

bones  ached 
And  my  head  reeled,  when  I  was  working 

there  ! 

I  am  too  old.     I  will  stay  here  in  Rome, 
Where  all  is  old  and  crumbling,  like  myself, 
To  hopeless  ruin.     All  roads  lead  to  Rome. 

BENVENUTO. 

And  all  lead  out  of  it. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

There  is  a  charm, 

A  certain  something  in  the  atmosphere, 
That   all   men   feel,   and  no  man  can  de 
scribe. 

BENVENUTO. 

Malaria  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Yes,  malaria  of  the  mind, 
Out  of  this  tomb  of  the  majestic  Past ; 
The  fever  to  accomplish  some  great  work 
That  will  not  let  us  sleep.     I  must  go  on 
Until  I  die. 


558 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


BENVENUTO. 

Do  you  ne'er  think  of  Florence  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Yes  ;  whenever 

I  think  of  anything  beside  my  work, 
I  think  of  Florence.     I  remember,  too, 
The  bitter  days  I  passed  among  the  quar 
ries 

Of  Seravezza  and  Pietrasauta  ; 
Road  -  building    in    the    marshes  ;    stupid 

people, 
And   cold  and   rain    incessant,   and   mad 

gusts 

Of  mountain  wind,  like  howling  Dervishes, 
That  spun  and  whirled  the  eddying  snow 

about  them 

As  if  it  were  a  garment  ;  aye,  vexations 
And  troubles  of  all  kinds,  that  ended  only 
In  loss  of  time  and  money. 

BENVENUTO. 

True,  Maestro  ; 
But  that  was  not  in  Florence.     You  should 

leave 

Such  work  to  others.     Sweeter  memories 
Cluster  about  you,  in  the  pleasant  city 
Upon  the  Arno. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

In  my  waking  dreams 
I  see  the  marvellous  dome  of  Brunelleschi, 
Ghiberti's   gates   of    bronze,   and  Giotto's 

tower  ; 

And  Ghirlandajo's  lovely  Benci  glides 
With    folded    hands    amid    my    troubled 

thoughts, 

A  splendid  vision  !    Time  rides  with  the  old 
At  a  great  pace./ 'As  travellers  on  swift 

steeds 
See  the  near  landscape  fly  and  flow  behind 

them, 

While  the  remoter  fields  and  dim  horizons 
Go  with  them,  and  seem  wheeling  round  to 

meet  them,  ' 

So  in  old  age  things  near  us  slip  away, 
And  distant  things  go  with  us.     Pleasantly 
Come   back   to   me  the   days  when,  as  a 

youth, 

I  walked  with  Ghirlandajo  in  the  gardens 
Of  Medici,  and  saw  the  antique  statues, 
The  forms  august  of  gods  and  godlike  men, 
And  the  great  world  of  art  revealed  itself 
To   my  young  eyes.     Then   all  that  man 

hath  done 


Seemed  possible  to  me.     Alas  !  how  little 
Of  all  I  dreamed  of  has  my  hand  achieved  t 

BENVENUTO. 

Nay,    let    the    Night    and    Morning,    let 

Lorenzo 

And  Julian  in  the  Sacristy  at  Florence, 
Prophets  and  Sibyls  in  the  Sistine  Chapel, 
And   the   Last  Judgment  answer.     Is   it 

finished  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

The  work  is  nearly  done.     But  this  Last 

Judgment 

Has  been  the  cause  of  more  vexation  to  me 
Than  it  will  be  of  honor.     Ser  Biagio, 
Master  of  ceremonies  at  the  Papal  court, 
A  man  punctilious  and  over  nice, 
Calls  it  improper  ;  says  that  those   nude 

forms, 
Showing  their  nakedness  in  such  shameless 

fashion, 

Are  better  suited  to  a  common  bagnio, 
Or    wayside    wine -shop,    than    a    Papal 

Chapel. 

To  punish  him  I  painted  him  as  Minos 
And  leave  him  there  as   master  of  cere 
monies 

In  the  Infernal  Regions.    What  would  you 
Have  done  to  such  a  man  ? 

BENVENUTO. 

I  would  have  killed  him. 
When  any  one  insults  me,  if  I  can 
I  kill  him,  kill  him. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Oh,  you  gentlemen, 
Who  dress  in  silks  and  velvets,  and  wear 

swords, 

Are  ready  with  your  weapons,  and  have  all 
A  taste  for  homicide. 

BENVENUTO. 

I  learned  that  lesson 

Under  Pope  Clement  at  the  siege  of  Rome, 
Some  twenty  years  ago.    As  I  was  standing 
Upon  the  ramparts  of  the  Campo  Santo 
With  Alessandro  Bene,  I  beheld 
A  sea  of  fog,  that  covered  all  the  plain, 
And  hid  from  us  the  foe  ;  when  suddenly, 
A  misty  figure,  like  an  apparition, 
Rose  up  above  the  fog,  as  if  on  horseback. 
At  this  I  aimed  my  arquebus,  and  fired. 
The  figure  vanished  ;  and  there  rose  a  cry 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


559 


Out  of  the  darkness,  long  and  fierce  and 

loud. 

With  imprecations  in  all  languages. 
It  was  the  Constable  of  France,  the  Bourbon, 
That  I  had  slain. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Rome  should  be  grateful  to  you. 

BENVENUTO. 

But  has   not  t>een  ;  you   shall   hear  pres 
ently. 

During  the  siege  I  served  as  bombardier, 
There  in  St.  Angelo.     His  Holiness 
One  day  was  walking  with  his  Cardinals 
On  the  round  bastion,  while  I  stood  above 
Among   iny   falconets.     All    thought   and 

feeling, 

All  skill  in  art  and  all  desire  of  fame, 
Were  swallowed  up  in  the  delightful  music 
Of  that  artillery.     I  saw  far  off, 
Within  the  enemy's  trenches  on  the  Prati, 
A  Spanish  cavalier  in  scarlet  cloak  ; 
And  firing  at  him  with  due  aim  and  range, 
I  cut  the  gay  Hidalgo  in  two  pieces. 
The  eyes  are   dry  that  wept   for   him   in 

Spain. 

His  Holiness,  delighted  beyond  measure 
With  such  display  of  gunnery,  and  amazed 
To  see  the  man  in  scarlet  cut  in  two, 
Gave  me  his  benediction,  and  absolved  me 
From  all  the  homicides  I  had  committed 
In  service  of  the  Apostolic  Church, 
Or  should  commit  thereafter.     From  that 

day 

I  have  not  held  in  very  high  esteem 
The  life  of  man. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  who  absolved  Pope  Clement  ? 
Now  let  us  speak  of  Art. 

BENVENUTO. 

Of  what  you  will. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Say,  have  you  seen  our  friend  Fra  Bastian 

lately, 

Since  by  a  turn  of  fortune  he  became 
Friar  of  the  Signet  ? 

BENVENUTO. 

Faith,  a  pretty  artist 
To  pass  his  days  in  stamping  leaden  seals 
On  Papal  bulls  ! 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

He  has  grown  fat  and  lazy, 

As  if  the  lead  clung  to  him  like  a  sinker. 

He  paints  no  more  since  he  was  sent  to 
Fondi 

By  Cardinal  Ippolito  to  paint 

The  fair  Gonzaga.  Ah,  you  should  have 
seen  him 

As  I  did,  riding  through  the  city  gate, 

In  his  brown  hood,  attended  by  four  horse 
men, 

Completely  armed,  to  frighten  the  banditti. 

I  think  he  would  have  frightened  them 
alone, 

For  he  was  rounder  than  the  O  of  Giotto. 

BENVENUTO. 

He  must  have  looked  more  like  a  sack  of 

meal 
Than  a  great  painter. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Well,  he  is  not  great, 
But  still  I  like  him  greatly.     Benvenuto, 
Have  faith  in  nothing  but  in  industry. 
Be  at  it  late  and  early  ;  persevere, 
And   work   right  on   through  censure  and 

applause, 
Or  else  abandon  Art. 

BENVENUTO. 

No  man  works  harder 
Than  I  do.     I  am  not  a  moment  idle. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  what  have  you  to  show  me  ? 

BENVENUTO. 

This  gold  ring, 

Made  for  his  Holiness,  —  my  latest  work, 
And  I  am  proud  of  it.     A  single  diamond, 
Presented  by  the  Emperor  to  the  Pope. 
Targhetta  of  Venice  set  and  tinted  it  ; 
I  have  reset  it,  and  retinted  it 
Divinely,  as  you  see.     The  jewellers 
Say  I  've  surpassed  Targhetta. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


A  pretty  jewel. 


Let  me  see  it, 


BENVENUTO. 


That  is  not  the  expression, 
Pretty  is  not  a  very  pretty  word 
To  be  applied  to  such  a  precious  stone, 


56o 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 


Given  by  an  Emperor  to  a  Pope,  and  set 
By  Benvenuto ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Messer  Benvenuto, 

I  lose  all  patience  with  you  ;  for  the  gifts 
That  God  hath  given  you  are  of  such  a  kind, 
They  should  be  put  to  far  more  noble  uses 
Than   setting  diamonds   for   the   Pope   of 

Rome. 
You  can  do  greater  things. 

BENVENUTO. 

The  God  who  made  me 
Knows  why  he  made  me  what  I  am,  —  a 

goldsmith, 
A  mere  artificer. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Oh  no  ;  an  artist, 

Richly  endowed  by  nature,  but  who  wraps 
His  talent  in  a  napkin,  and  consumes 
His  life  in  vanities. 

BENVENUTO. 

Michael  Angelo 

May  say  what  Benvenuto  would  not  bear 
From  any  other  man.    He  speaks  the  truth. 
I  know  my  life  is  wasted  and  consumed 
In  vanities  ;  but  I  have  better  hours 
And  higher  aspirations  than  you  think. 
Once,  when  a  prisoner  at  St.  Angelo, 
Fasting  and  praying  in  the  midnight  dark 
ness, 

In  a  celestial  vision  I  beheld 
A  crucifix   in   the   sun,  of   the  same  sub 
stance 

As  is  the  sun  itself.     And  since  that  hour 
There  is  a  splendor  round  about  my  head, 
That  may  be  seen  at  sunrise  and  at  sunset 
Above  my  shadow  on  the  grass.     And  now 
I  know  that  I  am  in  the  grace  of  God, 
And  none  henceforth  can  harm  me. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

None  but  one,  — 
None  but  yourself,  who  are  your  greatest 

foe. 
He  that  respects    himself    is    safe    from 

others  ; 
He  wears  a  coat  of  mail  that    none  can 

pierce. 

BENVENUTO. 

I  always  wear  one. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

O  incorrigible  ! 

At  least,  forget  not  the  celestial  vision. 
Man  must  have    something    higher   than 

himself 
To  think  of. 

BENVENUTO. 

That  I  know  full  well.     Now  listen. 
I  have  been  sent  for   into  France,    where 

grow 

The  Lilies  that  ill-umine  heaven  and  earth, 
And  carry  in  mine  equipage  the  model 
Of  a  most  marvellous  golden  salt-cellar 
For  the  king's  table  ;  and  here  in  my  brain 
A  statue  of  Mars  Armipotent  for  the  foun 
tain 

Of  Fontainebleau,  colossal,  wonderful. 
I  go  a  goldsmith,  to  return  a  sculptor. 
And  so  farewell,  great  Master.  Think  of 

me 

As  one  who,  in  the  midst  of  all  his  follies, 
Had  also  his  ambition,  and  aspired 
To  better  things. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Do  not  forget  the  vision. 

SCENE  II.  —  MICHAEL   ANGELO    sitting  down 
again  to  the  Divina  Commedia. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Now  in  what  circle  of  his  poem  sacred 
Would  the  great  Florentine  have  placed 

this  man  ? 

Whether  in  Phlegethon,  the  river  of  blood, 
Or  in  the  fiery  belt  of  Purgatory, 
I  know  not,  but  most  surely  not  with  those 
Who  walk  in  leaden  cloaks.     Though  he  is 

one 

Whose  passions,  like  a  potent  alkahest, 
Dissolve  his  better  nature,  he  is  not 
That  despicable  thing,  a  hypocrite  ; 
He  doth  not  cloak  his  vices,  nor  deny  them. 
Come  back,  my  thoughts,  from  him  to  Par 
adise. 


IV 


FRA    SEBASTIANO    DEL    PIOMBO 

SCENE  I. — MICHAEL  ANGELO;    FRA  SEBAS 
TIANO  DEL  PIOMBO. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  not  turning  round, 
Who  is  it  ? 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Wait,  for  I  am  out  of  breath 
In  climbing  your  steep  stairs. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Ah,  my  Bastiano, 

If  you  went  up  and  down  as  many  stairs 
As  I  do  still,  and  climbed  as  many  ladders, 
It  would  be  better  for  you.    Pray  sit  down. 
Your  idle  and  luxurious  way  of  living 
Will  one   day  take  your  breath  away  en 
tirely, 
And  you  will  never  find  it. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Well,  what  then  ? 

That  would  be  better,  in  my  apprehension, 
Than  falling  from  a  scaffold. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

That  was  nothing. 

It  did  not  kill  me  ;  only  lamed  me  slightly  ; 
I  am  quite  well  again. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

But  why,  dear  Master, 
Why  do  you  live  so  high  up  in  your  house, 
When  you  could  live  below  and  have  a  gar 
den, 
As  I  do  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

From  this  window  I  can  look 
On  many  gardens  ;  o'er  the  city  roofs 
See  the  Campagna  and  the  Alban  hills  : 
And  all  are  mine. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Can  you  sit  down  in  them, 
On  summer  afternoons,  and  play  the  lute, 
Or  sing,  or  sleep  the  time  away  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  never 
Sleep  in   the  day-time  ;  scarcely  sleep   at 

night ; 

I  have  not  time.     Did  you  meet  Benvenuto 
As  you  came  up  the  stair  ? 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

He  ran  against  me 

On  the  first  landing,  going  at  full  speed  ; 
Dressed  like  the  Spanish  captain  in  a  play, 
With   his  long  rapier   and    his   short   red 
cloak. 


Why  hurry  through  the  world  at  such  a 


pac 
rillr 


e? 


Life  will  not  be  too  long. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

It  is  his  nature, — 

A  restless  spirit,  that  consumes  itself 
With  useless  agitations.     He  o'erleaps 
The  goal  he  aims  at.     Patience  is  a  plant 
That  grows  not  in  all  gardens.     You  are 

made 
Of  quite  another  clay. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

And  thank  God  for  it. 
And   now,   being  somewhat  rested,  I  will 

tell  you 
Why    I    have    climbed    these   formidable 

stairs. 

I  have  a  friend,  Francesco  Berni,  here, 
A  very  charming  poet  and  companion, 
Who  greatly  honors  you  and  all  your  doings, 
And  you  must  sup  with  us. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Not  I,  indeed. 

I  know  too  well  what  artists'  suppers  are. 
You  must  excuse  me. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

I  will  not  excuse  you. 

You  need  repose  from  your  incessant  work  ; 
Some  recreation,  some  bright  hours  of  plea 
sure. 

MICHAEL  ANGEfcO. 

To  me,  what  you  and  other  men  call  plea 
sure. 

Is  only  pain.     Work  is  my  recreation, 
The  play  of  faculty  ;  a  delight  like  that 
Which  a  bird  feels  in  flying,  or  a  fish 
In   darting  through   the   water,  —  nothing 

more. 

I  cannot  go.     The  Sibylline  leaves  of  life 
Grow  precious  now,  when  only  few  remain. 
I  cannot  go. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Berni,  perhaps,  will  read 
A  canto  of  the  Orlando  Innamorato. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

That  is  another  reason  for  not  going. 
If  aught  is  tedious  and  intolerable, 
It  is  a  poet  reading  his  own  verses. 


562 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


FBA    SEBASTIANO,, 

Berni  thinks  somewhat  better  of  your  verses 
Than  you  of  his.     He  says  that  you  speak 

things, 
,  And  other  poets  words.    So,  pray  you,  come. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

If  it  were  now  the  Improvisatore, 

Luigi  Pulci,  whom  I  used  to  hear 

With  Benvenuto,  in  the  streets  of  Florence, 

I  might  be  tempted.      I  was  younger  then, 

And  singing  in  the  open  air  was  pleasant. 

FKA  SEBASTIAKO. 

There  is  a  Frenchman  here,  named  Rabe 
lais, 

Once  a  Franciscan  friar,  and  now  a  doctor, 
And  secretary  to  the  embassy  : 
A  learned  man,  who  speaks  all  languages, 
And  wittiest  of  men  ;  who  wrote  a  book 
Of  the  Adventures  of  Gargantua, 
So  full  of  strange  conceits  one  roars  with 

laughter 

At  every  page  ;  a  jovial  boon-companion 
And  lover  of  much  wine.   He  too  is  coming. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Then  you  will  not  want  me,  who  am  not 
witty, 

And  have  no  sense  of  mirth,  and  love  not 
wine. 

I  should  be  like  a  dead  man  at  your 
banquet. 

Why  should  I  seek  this  Frenchman,  Rabe 
lais  ? 

And  wherefore  go  to  hear  Francesco  Berni, 

When  I  have  Dante  Alighieri  here, 

The  greatest  of  all  poets  ? 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

And  the  dullest  ; 
And  only  to  be  read  in  episodes. 
His  day  is  past.     Petrarca  is  our  poet. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Petrarca  is  for  women  and  for  lovers, 
And  for  those  soft  Abati,  who  delight 
To  wander  down  long  garden  walks  in 

summer, 

Tinkling  their  little  sonnets  all  day  long, 
As  lap-dogs  do  their  bells. 

FKA  SEBASTIANO. 

I  love  Petrarca. 
How  sweetly  of  his  absent  love  he  sings, 


When  journeying  in  the  forest  of  Ar 
dennes  ! 

"I  seem  to  hear  her,  hearing  the  boughs 
and  breezes 

And  leaves  and  birds  lamenting,  and  the 
waters 

Murmuring  flee  along  the  verdant  herb 
age." 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Enough.     It  is  all  seeming,  and  no  being. 
If  you  would   know  how  a  man  speaks  in 

earnest, 
Read  here  this   passage,  where  St.  Peter 

thunders 

In  Paradise  against  degenerate  Popes 
And  the  corruptions  of  the  church,  till  all 
The  heaven  about  him  blushes  like  a  sunset. 
I  beg  you  to  take  note  of  what  he  says 
About  the  Papal  seals,  for  that  concerns 
Your  office  and  yourself. 

FKA  SEBASTIANO,  reading. 

Is  this  the  passage  ? 
"  Nor  I  be  made  the  figure  of  a  seal 
To  privileges  venal  and  mendacious  ; 
Whereat   I   often   redden   and   flash  with 

fire!"  — 
That  is  not  poetry. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

What  is  it,  then  ? 

FKA  SEBASTIANO. 

Vituperation  ;  gall  that  might  have  spirted 
From  Aretiuo's  pen. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Name  not  that  man  ! 

A  profligate,  whom  your  Francesco  Berni 
Describes  as  having  one  foot  in  the  brothel 
And  the  other  in  the  hospital  ;  who  lives 
By  flattering  or  maligning,  as  best  serves 
His  purpose  at  the  time.      He    writes   to 

me 

Writh  easy  arrogance  of  my  Last  Judgment, 
In  such  familiar  tone  that  one  would  say 
The  great  event  already  had  transpired, 
And  he  was  present,  and  from  observation 
Informed   me  how  the  picture  should  be 

painted. 

FBA  SEBASTIANO. 

What  unassuming,  unobtrusive  men 
These  critics  are  \     Now,  to  have  Aretino 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


563 


Aiming  his  shafts  at  you  brings  back  to 

mind 

The  Gascon  archers  in  the  square  of  Milan, 
Shooting   their   arrows   at   Duke   Sforza's 

statue, 

By  Leonardo,  and  the  foolish  rabble 
Of  envious  Florentines,  that  at  your  David 
Threw    stones    at    night.       But     Aretino 
praised  you. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

His  praises  were  ironical.     He  knows 
How  to  use  words  as  weapons,  and  to  wound 
While  seeming  to  defend.     But  look,  Bas- 

tiano, 

See  how  the  setting  sun  lights  up  that  pic 
ture  ! 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

My  portrait  of  Vittoria  Colonna. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

It  makes  her  look  as  she  will  look  here 
after, 
When  she  becomes  a  saint  ! 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

A  noble  woman  ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Ah,  these   old   hands   can    fashion    fairer 

shapes 

In  marble,  and  can  paint  diviner  pictures, 
Since  I  have  known  her. 

FKA   SEBASTIANO. 

And  you  like  this  picture  ; 
And  yet  it  is  in  oils,  which  you  detest. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

When  that  barbarian  Jan  Van  Eyck  dis 
covered 

The  use  of  oil  in  painting,  he  degraded 
His  art  into  a  handicraft,  and  made  it 
Sign-painting,  merely,  for  a  country  inn 
Or  wayside  wine-shop.      'Tis  an  art   for 

women, 

Or  for  such  leisurely  and  idle  people 
As  you  are,  Era  Bastiano.     Nature  paints 

not 
In  oils,  but   frescoes  the   great   dome  of 

heaven 
With    sunsets,  and    the    lovely   forms   of 

clouds 
And  flying  vapors. 


FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

And  how  soon  they  fade  ! 
Behold    yon    line  of    roofs    and    belfries 

painted 

Upon  the  golden  background  of  the  sky, 
Like  a  Byzantine  picture,  or  a  portrait 
Of  Cimabue.     See  how  hard  the  outline, 
Sharp-cut    and    clear,    not    rounded    into 

shadow. 
Yet  that  is  nature. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

She  is  always  right. 
The    picture    that    approaches     sculpture) 

nearest 
Is  the  best  picture. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Leonardo  thinks 
The  open   air   too  bright.      We  ought  to 

paint 

As  if  the  sun  were  shining  through  a  mist. 
'T  is  easier  done  in  oil  than  in  distemper. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Do  not  revive  again  the  old  dispute  ; 

I  have  an  excellent  memory  for  forgetting, 

But  I  still  feel  the  hurt.      Wounds  are  not 

healed 
By  the  unbending  of  the  bow  that  made 

them. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

So  say  Petrarca  and  the  ancient  proverb. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

But  that  is  past.     Now  I  am  angry  with 

Jou» 
Not  that  you  paint  in  oils,  but  that,  grown 

fat 
And  indolent,  you  do  not  paint  at  all. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Why  should  I  paint  ?     Why  should  I  toil 

and  sweat, 

Who  now  am  rich  enough  to  live  at  ease, 
And  take  my  pleasure  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

When  Pope  Leo  died, 
He  who  had  been  so  lavish  of  the  wealth 
His  predecessors  left  him,  who  received 
A  basket  of  gold-pieces  every  morning, 
Which  every  night  was  empty,  left  behind 
Hardly  enough  to  pay  his  funeral. 


564 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

I  care  for  banquets,  not  for  funerals, 
As  did  his  Holiness.     I  have  forbidden 
All  tapers  at  my  burial,  and  procession 
Of  priests  and  friars  and  monks  ;  and  have 

provided 
The  cost  thereof  be  given  to  the  poor  I 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

You  have  done  wisely,  but  of  that  I  speak 

not. 

Ghiberti  left  behind  him  wealth  and  chil 
dren  ; 
But  who  to-day  would  know  that  he  had 

lived, 

If  he  had  never  made  those  gates  of  bronze 
In   the   old  Baptistery,  —  those   gates   of 

bronze, 

Worthy  to  be  the  gates  of  Paradise. 
His  wealth  is  scattered  to  the  winds  ;  his 

children 
Are  long  since  dead  ;  but   those   celestial 

gates 
Survive,  and  keep  his  name  and  memory 

green. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

But  why  should  I  fatigue  myself  ?    I  think 
That  all  things  it  is  possible  to  paint 
Have  been  already  painted  ;  and  if  not, 
Why,  there   are  painters  in  the  world  at 

present 
Who   can   accomplish  more   in   two  short 

months 

Than  I  could  in  two  years  ;  so  it  is  well 
That  some  one  is  contented  to  do  nothing, 
And  leave  the  field  to  others. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

O  blasphemer  ! 

Not  without  reason  do  the  people  call  you 
Sebastian  del  Piombo,  for  the  lead 
Of  all  the  Papal  bulls  is  heavy  upon  you, 
And  wraps  you  like  a  shroud. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

Misericordia  ! 
Sharp  is  the  vinegar  of  sweet  wine,  and 

sharp 
The  words  you  speak,  because  the  heart 

within  you 
Is  sweet  unto  the  core. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

How  changed  you  are 
From  the  Sebastiano  I  once  knew, 


When  poor,  laborious,  emulous  to  excel, 
You  strove  in  rivalry  with  Baldassare 
And  Raphael  Sanzio. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

Raphael  is  dead ; 

He  is  but  dust  and  ashes  in  his  grave, 
While  I  am  living  and  enjoying  life, 
And  so  am  victor.     One  live  Pope  is  worth 
A  dozen  dead  ones. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Raphael  is  not  dead  ; 

He  doth  but  sleep  ;  for  how  can  he  be  dead 
Who  lives  immortal  in  the  hearts  of  men  ? 
He  only  drank  the  precious  wine  of  youth, 
The  outbreak  of  the  grapes,  before  the 

vintage 
Was  trodden  to  bitterness  by  the  feet  of 

men. 
The  gods  have  given  him  sleep.     We  never 

were 

Nor  could  be  foes,  although  our  followers, 
Who  are  distorted  shadows  of  ourselves, 
Have  striven  to  make  us  so  ;  but  each  one 

worked 

Unconsciously  upon  the  other's  thought, 
Both  giving  and  receiving.     He  perchance 
Caught    strength   from    me,   and   I  some 

greater  sweetness 
And    tenderness    from    his    more    gentle 

nature. 

I  have  but  words  of  praise  and  admiration 
For  his  great  genius  ;  and   the   world  is 

fairer 
That  he  lived  in  it. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

We  at  least  are  friends  ; 
So  come  with  me. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

No,  no  ;  I  am  best  pleased 
When  I  'm  not  asked  to  banquets.     I  have 

reached 
A    time    of    life    when    daily    walks    are 

shortened, 

And  even  the  houses  of  our  dearest  friends, 
That  used  to  be  so  near,  seem  far  away. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Then  we  must  sup  without  you.     We  shall 

laugh 
At  those  who  toil  for  fame,  and  make  their 

lives 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


565 


A  tedious  martyrdom,  that  they  may  live 
A  little  longer  in  the  mouths  of  men  ! 
And  so,  good-night. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Good-night,  my  Fra  Bastiano. 


SCENE  II.  —  MICHAEL  ANGELO,  returning  to  his 

work. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

How  will    men   speak  of  me  when  I  am 

gone, 

When  all  this  colorless,  sad  life  is  ended, 
And  I   am   dust  ?     They   will   remember 

only 

The  wrinkled  forehead,  the  marred  coun 
tenance, 
The  rudeness  of  my  speech,  and  my  rough 

manners, 

And  never  dream  that  underneath  them  all 
There  was  a  woman's  heart  of  tenderness  ; 
They  will  not  know  the  secret  of  my  life, 
Locked  up  in  silence,  or  but  vaguely  hinted 
In   uncouth   rhymes,  that   may  perchanee 

survive 

Some  little  space  in  memories  of  men  ! 
Each  one  performs  his  life-work,  and  then 

leaves  it ; 

Those  that  come  after  him  will  estimate 
His  influence  on  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 


PALAZZO   BELVEDERE 

TITIAN'S  studio.  A  painting  of  Danae  with 
a  curtain  before  it.  TITIAN,  MICHAEL  AN 
GELO,  and  GIORGIO  VASARI. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

So  you  have  left  at  last  your  still  lagoons, 
Your  City  of  Silence  floating  in  the  sea, 
And  come  to  us  in  Rome. 


TITIAN. 

I  come  to  learn, 
But  I  have  come  too  late.     I  should  have 

seen 
Rome  in  my  youth,  when  all  my  mind  was 

open 

To  new  impressions.     Our  Vasari  here 
Leads   me   about,   a   blind    man,   groping 

darkly 


Among  the  marvels  of  the  past.     I  touch 

them, 
But  do  not  see  them. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

There  are  things  in  Rome 
That  one  might  walk  barefooted  here  from 

Venice 
But  to  see  once,  and  then  to  die  content. 

TITIAN. 

I  must  confess  that  these  majestic  ruins 
Oppress   me  with  their  gloom.     I  feel  as 

one 

Who  in  the  twilight  stumbles  among  tombs, 
And   cannot   read  the   inscriptions  carved 

upon  them. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  felt  so  once  ;  but  I  have  grown  familiar 
With  desolation,  and  it  has  become 
No  more  a  pain  to  me,  but  a  delight. 


TITIAN. 

I  could  not  live  here.  I  must  have  the  sea, 
And  the  sea-mist,  with  sunshine  interwoven 
Like  cloth  of  gold  ;  must  have  beneath  my 

windows 

The  laughter  of  the  waves,  and  at  my  door 
Their  pattering  footsteps,  or  I  am  not 

happy. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Then  tell  me  of  your  city  in  the  sea, 
Paved  with  red  basalt  of  the  Paduan  hills. 
Tell   me   of  art  in  Venice.     Three   great 

names, 

Giorgione,  Titian,  and  the  Tintoretto, 
Illustrate  your  Venetian  school,  and  send 
A   challenge   to   the  world.     The   first  is 

dead, 
But  Tintoretto  lives. 


And  paints  with  fire, 
Sudden    and   splendid,    as    the    lightning 

paints 
The  cloudy  vault  of  heaven. 

GIORGIO. 

Does  he  still  keep 

Above  his  door  the  arrogant  inscription 
That  once  was  painted  there,  —  "  The  color 

of  Titian, 
With  the  design  of  Michael  Angelo  "  ? 


566 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


TITIAN. 

Indeed,  I  know  not.    'T  was  a  foolish  boast, 
And  does  no  harm  to  any  but  himself. 
Perhaps  he  has  grown  wiser. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

When  you  two 

Are  gone,  who  is  there  that  remains  behind 
To  seize  the  pencil  falling  from  your  fin 
gers  ? 

GIORGIO. 

Oh,  there  are  many  hands  upraised  already 
To  clutch  at  such  a  prize,  and  hardly  wait 
For  death   to   loose  your  grasp,  —  a  hun 
dred  of  them  : 

Schiavone,  Bonifazio,  Campagnola, 
Moretto,  and  Moroni  ;  who  can  count  them, 
Or  measure  their  ambition  ? 

TITIAN. 

When  we  are  gone, 
The  generation  that  comes  after  us 
Will  have  far  other   thoughts  than   ours. 

Our  ruins 

Will  serve  to  build  their  palaces  or  tombs. 
They  will  possess  the  world  that  we  think 

ours, 
And  fashion  it  far  otherwise. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  hear 

Your  son  Orazio  and  your  nephew  Marco 
Mentioned  with  honor. 


TITIAN. 

Ay,  brave  lads,  brave  lads. 
But  time  will  show.     There  is  a  youth  in 

Venice, 

One  Paul  Cagliari,  called  the  Veronese, 
Still   a  mere  stripling,   but   of  such   rare 

promise 

That  we  must  guard  our  laurels,  or  may 
lose  them. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

These  are  good  tidings  ;  for  I  sometimes 

fear 

That,  when  we  die,  with  us  all  art  will  die. 
'T  is  but  a  fancy.     Nature  will  provide 
Others  to  take  our  places.     I  rejoice 
To  see  the  young  spring  forward  in  the  race, 
Eager  as  we  were,  and  as  full  of  hope 
And  the  sublime  audacity  of  youth. 


Men   die   and   are   forgotten.     The   great 

world 

Goes  on  the  same.     Among  the  myriads 
Of  men  that  live,  or  have  lived,  or  shall 

live, 

What  is  a  single  life,  or  thine  or  mine, 
That   we  should   think   all   nature   would 

stand  still 
If  we  were  gone  ?     We  must  make  room 

for  others.] 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  now,  Maestro,  pray  unveil  your  picture 
Of  Danae,  of  which  I  hear  such  praise. 

TITIAN,  drawing  back  the  curtain. 
What  think  you  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

That  Acrisius  did  well 
To  lock  such  beauty  in  a  brazen  tower, 
And  hide  it  from  all  eyes. 


TITIAN. 


Was  beautiful. 


The  model  truly 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  more,  that  you  were  present, 
And  saw  the  showery  Jove  from  high  Olym 
pus 
Descend  in  all  his  splendor. 

TITIAN. 

From  your  lips 
Such  words  are  full  of  sweetness. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

You  have  caught 

These  golden  hues  from  your  Venetian  sun 
sets. 

TITIAN. 
Possibly. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Or  from  sunshine  through  a  shower 
On  the  lagoons,  or  the  broad  Adriatic. 
Nature  reveals  herself  in  all  our  arts. 
The  pavements  and  the  palaces  of  cities 
Hint  at  the  nature  of  the  neighboring  hills. 
Red  lavas  from  the  Euganean  quarries 
Of  Padua  pave  your  streets  ;  your  palaces 
Are  the  white  stones  of  Istria,  and  gleam 
Reflected  in  your  waters  and  your  pictures. 
And  thus  the  works  of  every  artist  show 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


567 


Something    of   his    surroundings   and   his 

habits. 

The  uttermost  that  can  be  reached  by  color 
Is  here  accomplished.     Warmth  and  light 

and  softness 

Mingle  together.     Never  yet  was  flesh 
Painted  by  hand  of  artist,  dead  or  living, 
With  such  divine  perfection. 

TITIAN. 

I  am  grateful 
For  so.  much  praise  from  you,  who  are  a 

master ; 
While  mostly  those  who  praise  and  those 

who  blame 

Know  nothing  of  the  matter,  so  that  mainly 
Their   censure    sounds    like    praise,   their 
praise  like  censure. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Wonderful !    wonderful  !      The  charm   of 

color 

Fascinates  me  the  more  that  in  myself 
The  gift  is  wanting.     I  am  not  a  painter. 

GIORGIO. 

Messer  Michele,  all  the  arts  are  yours, 
Not  one  alone  ;  and  therefore  I  may  venr 

ture 
To  put  a  question  to  you. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Well,  speak  on. 
GIORGIO. 

Two  nephews  of  the  Cardinal  Farnese 
Have  made  me  umpire  in  dispute  between 

them 

Which  is  the  greater  of  the  sister  arts, 
Painting  or  sculpture.     Solve  for  me  the 
doubt. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Sculpture   and   painting   have   a   common 

goal, 

And  whosoever  would  attain  to  it, 
Whichever  path  he  take,  will  find  that  goal 
Equally  hard  to  reach. 

GIORGIO. 

No  doubt,  no  doubt  ; 
But  you  evade  the  question. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

When  I  stand 
In  presence  of  this  picture,  I  concede 


That  painting  has  attained  its  uttermost  ; 
But  in  the  presence  of  my  sculptured  fig 
ures 

I  feel  that  my  conception  soars  beyond 
All  limit  I  have  reached. 

GIORGIO. 

You  still  evade  me. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Giorgio  Vasari,  I  have  often  said 

That  I  account  that  painting  as  the  best 

Which  most  resembles  sculpture.  Here 
before  us 

We  have  the  proof.  Behold  these  rounded 
limbs  ! 

How  from  the  canvas  they  detach  them 
selves, 

Till  they  deceive  the  eye,  and  one  would 
say, 

It  is  a  statue  with  a  screen  behind  it  ! 


Signori,  pardon  me  ;  but  all  such  questions 
Seem  to  me  idle. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Idle  as  the  wind. 

And  now,  Maestro,  I  will  say  once  more 
How  admirable  I  esteem  your  work, 
And  leave  you,  without  further  interrup 
tion. 

TITIAN. 
Your  friendly  visit  hath  much  honored  me. 


Farewell. 


GIORGIO. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  to  GIORGIO,  going  OUt. 

If  the  Venetian  painters  knew 
But  half  as  much  of  drawing  as  of  color, 
They  would  indeed  work  miracles  in  art, 
And  the  world  see  what  it  hath  never  seen. 


VI 


PALAZZO   CESARINI 

SCENE  I.  — VITTORIA  COLONNA,  seated  in  an 
arm-chair;  JULIA  GONZAGA,  standing  near 
her. 

JULIA. 

It  grieves  me  that  I  find  you  still  so  weak 
And  suffering. 


568 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


VJTTORIA. 

No,  not  suffering  ;  only  dying. 
Death  is  the   chillness   that   precedes  the 

dawn  ; 

We  shudder  for  a  moment,  then  awake 
In  the  broad  sunshine  of  the  other  life. 
I  am  a  shadow,  merely,  and  these  hands, 
These  cheeks,  these  eyes,  these  tresses  that 

my  husband 
Once  thought  so  beautiful,  and  I  was  proud 

of 
Because   he   thought  them   so,  are   faded 

quite,  — 
All  beauty  gone  from  them. 

JULIA. 

Ah,  no,  not  that. 
Paler  you  are,  but  not  less  beautiful. 

VITTORIA,  folding  her  hands. 
O  gentle  spirit,  unto  the  third  circle 
Of  heaven   among  the   blessed   souls   as 
cended, 

Who  living  for  the  faith  and  dying  for  it, 
Have  gone  to  their  reward,  I  do  not  mourn 
For  thee  as  being  dead,  but  for  myself 
That  I  am  still  alive.     A  little  longer 
Have  patience  with  me,  and  if  I  am  want 
ing 

To  thy  well-being  as  thou  art  to  mine, 
Have  patience  ;    I  will  come  to  thee   ere 
long. 

JULIA. 

Do    not    give   way    to    these    foreboding 
thoughts. 

VITTORIA. 

Hand  me  the  mirror.     I  would  fain  behold 
What  change  comes  o'er  our  features  when 

we  die. 
Thank  you.     And  now  sit  down  beside  me 

here. 

How  glad  I  am  that  you  have  come  to-day, 
Above  all  other  days,  and  at  the  hour 
When  most  I  need  you. 

JULIA. 
Do  you  ever  need  me  ? 

VITTORIA. 

Always,  and  most  of  all  to-day  and  now. 
Do  you  remember,  Julia,  when  we  walked, 
One  afternoon,  upon  the  castle  terrace 
At  Ischia,  on  the  day  before  you  left  me  ? 


Well  I  remember  ;  but  it  seems  to  me 
Something  unreal  that  has  never  been, 
Something  that  I  have  read  of  in  a  book, 
Or  heard  of  some  one  else. 

VITTORIA. 

Ten  years  and  more 
Have  passed  since  then  ;  and  many  things 

have  happened 
In  those  ten  years,  and  many  friends  have 

died  : 

Marco  Flaminio,  whom  we  all  admired 
And  loved  as  our  Catullus  ;  dear  Valdesso, 
The  noble  champion  of  free   thought  and 

speech  ; 
And  Cardinal  Ippolito,  your  friend. 

JULIA. 
Oh,   do   not   speak  of  him  !     His   sudden 

death 

O'ercomes  me  now,  as  it  o'ercame  me  then. 
Let  me  forget  it  ;  for  my  memory 
Serves  me  too  often  as  an  unkind  friend, 
And  I  remember  things  I  would  forget, 
While   I   forget    the   things   I   would   re 
member. 

VITTORIA. 

Forgive  me  ;  I  will  speak  of  him  no  more. 
The  good  Fra  Bernardino  has  departed, 
Has  fled  from  Italy,  and  crossed  the  Alps, 
Fearing  Caraffa's  wrath,  because  he  taught 
That  He  who  made  us  all  without  our  help 
Could  also  save  us  without  aid  of  ours. 
Rende  of  France,  the  Duchess  of  Ferrara, 
That  Lily  of  the  Loire,  is  bowed  by  winds 
That  blow  from  Rome  ;  Olympia  Morata 
Banished  from  court  because  of  this  new 

doctrine. 
Therefore  be  cautious.     Keep  your  secret 

thought 
Locked  in  your  breast. 

JULIA. 

I  will  be  very  prudent. 
But   speak   no   more,  I  pray  ;  it   wearies 
you. 

VITTORIA. 

Yes,  I  am  very  weary.     Read  to  me. 

JULIA. 
Most  willingly.     What  shall  I  read  ? 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


569 


VITTORIA. 

Petrarca's 
Triumph  of  Death.     The  book  lies  on  the 

table, 
Beside  the  casket  there.     Read  where  you 

find 
The  leaf  turned  down.     'T  was  there  I  left 

off  reading. 

JULIA  reads. 
"  Not  as   a  flame  that  by  some  force   is 

spent, 

But  one  that  of  itself  consumeth  quite, 
Departed  hence  in  peace  the  soul  con 
tent, 
In  fashion  of  a  soft  and  lucent  light 

Whose    nutriment    by    slow    gradation 

goes, 

Keeping  until  the  end  its  lustre  bright. 
Not  pale,   but  whiter  than  the   sheet   of 

snows 
That  without  wind  on  some  fair  hill-top 

lies, 

Her   weary  body   seemed    to    find    re 
pose. 

Like  a  sweet  slumber  in  her  lovely  eyes, 
When    now   the    spirit    was    no   longer 

there, 

Was   what  is   dying  called  by  the  un 
wise. 

E'en  Death  itself  in  her  fair  face  seemed 
fair." 

Is  it  of  Laura  that  he  here  is  speaking  ?  — 
She  doth  not  answer,  yet  is  not  asleep  ; 
Her  eyes  are  full  of  light   and  fixed   on 

something 

Above  her  in  the  air.     I  can  see  naught 
Except  the  painted  angels  on  the  ceiling. 
Vittoria  !    speak  !      What  is  it  ?     Answer 

me!  — 
She    only   smiles,   and   stretches    out   her 

hands. 

[The  mirror  falls  and  breaks. 

VITTORIA. 

Call  my  confessor  !  — 

Not  disobedient  to  the  heavenly  vision  ! 

Pescara  !  my  Pescara  !  [Dies. 

JULIA. 

Holy  Virgin  ! 

Her  body  sinks  together,  —  she  is  dead  ! 
[Kneels,  and  hides  her  face  in  Vittoria's  lap. 


SCENE  II.  —  JULIA  GONZAGA,  MICHAEL  AN 
GELO. 

JULIA. 
Hush  !  make  no  noise. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

How  is  she  ? 


JULIA. 


Never  better. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Then  she  is  dead  ! 


Alas  !  yes,  she  is  dead  ! 
Even  death  itself  in  her  fair  face  seems 
fair. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

How  wonderful  !  The  light  upon  her  face 
Shines  from  the  windows  of  another  world. 
Saints  only  have  such  faces.  Holy  Angels  ! 
Bear  her  like  sainted  Catherine  to  her 
rest !  [Kisses  Vittoria's  hand. 


PART   THIRD 

I 
MONOLOGUE 

Macello  de1  Corvi.    A  room  in  MICHAEL  AN- 
GELO'S  house. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  standing  before  a  model  of 
St.  Peter's. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Better  than  thou  I  cannot,  Brunelleschi, 
And   less   than  thou  I  will   not  !     If  the 

thought 
Could,  like  a  windlass,  lift  the  ponderous 

stones 
And   swing   them    to  their    places  ;   if  a 

breath 
Could   blow  this  rounded   dome  into   the 

air, 

As  if  it  were  a  bubble,  and  these  statues 
Spring  at  a  signal  to  their  sacred  stations, 
As  sentinels  mount  guard  upon  a  wall, 
Then    were    my   task    completed.      Now, 

alas  ! 

Naught  am  I  but  a  Saint  Sebaldus,  holding 
Upon  his  hand  the  model  of  a  church, 


570 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


As  German  artists  paint  him  ;  and  what 
years, 

What  weary  years,  must  drag  themselves 
along, 

Ere  this  be  turned  to  stone  !     What  hin 
drances 

Must    block    the    way ;    what   idle   inter 
ferences 

Of  Cardinals  and  Canons  of  St.  Peter's, 

Who  nothing  know  of  art  beyond  the  color 

Of  cloaks  and  stockings,  nor  of  any  build 
ing 

Save  that  of  their  own  fortunes  !  And  what 
then  ? 

I    must    then    the    short-coming    of    my 
means 

Piece  out  by  stepping  forward,  as  the  Spar 
tan 

Was  told  to  add  a  step  to  his  short  sword. 
'<x*  \_A  pause. 

<A.nd  is  Fra  Bastian  dead  ?   Is  all  that  light 

Gone  out  ?  that   sunshine   darkened  ?   all 
that  music 

And   merriment,   that  used    to   make  our 
lives 

Less  melancholy,  swallowed  up  in  silence 

Like  madrigals  sung  in  the  street  at  night 

By  passing  revellers?      It   is  strange  in 
deed 

That  he  should  die  before  me.    'T  is  against 

The  laws  of  nature  that  the  young  should 
die, 

And  the  old  live  ;  unless  it  be  that  some 

Have  long  been  dead  who  think  themselves 
alive, 

Because  not  buried.     Well,  what  matters 
it, 

Since  now  that  greater  light,  that  was  my 
sun, 

Is  set,  and  all  is  darkness,  all  is  darkness  ! 

Death's  lightnings  strike  to  right  and  left 
of  me, 

And,  like  a  ruined  wall,  the  world  around 
me 

Crumbles  away,  and  I  am  left  alone. 

I  have    no   friends,  and  want   none.     My 
own  thoughts 

Are  now  my  sole  companions,  —  thoughts 
of  her, 

That  like  a  benediction  from  the  skies 

Come  to  me  in  my  solitude  and  soothe  me. 

When  men  are  old,  the  incessant  thought 
of  Death 

Follows  them  like  their  shadow  ;  sits  with 
them 


At   every   meal ;  sleeps   with  them   when 

they  sleep  ; 

And  when  they  wake  already  is  awake, 
And  standing  by  their  bedside.    Then,  what 

folly 

It  is  in  us  to  make  an  enemy 
Of  this  importunate  follower,  not  a  friend  I 
To  me  a  friend,  and  not  an  enemy, 
Has   he   become  since  all  my  friends  are 

dead. 


II 


VIGNA   DI   PAPA   GIULIO 

SCENE  I.  —  POPE  JULIUS  III.  seated  by  the 
Fountain  of  Acqua  Vergine,  surrounded  by 
Cardinals. 

JULIUS. 

Tell  me,  why  is  it  ye  are  discontent, 
You,  Cardinals  Salviati  and  Marcello, 
With   Michael    Angelo  ?      What   has  he 

done, 
Or  left  undone,   that  ye   are   set  against 

him? 

When  one  Pope  dies,  another  is  soon  made  ; 
And  I  can  make  a  dozen  Cardinals, 
But  cannot  make  one  Michael  Angelo. 

CARDINAL  SALVIATI. 

Your  Holiness,  we  are  not  set  against  him  j 
We  but  deplore  his  incapacity. 
He  is  too  old. 


You,  Cardinal  Salviati, 
Are  an  old  man.     Are  you  incapable  ? 
'Tis  the  old  ox  that  draws  the  straightest 
furrow. 

CARDINAL  MARCELLO. 

Your  Holiness  remembers  he  was  charged 
With  the  repairs  upon  St.  Mary's  bridge  ; 
Made  cofferdams,  and  heaped  up  load  on 

load 
Of  timber   and   travertine  ;  and    yet    for 

years 
The   bridge   remained  unfinished,    till   we 

gave  it 
To  Baccio  Bigio. 


Always  Baccio  Bigio  ! 
Is  there  no  other  architect  on  earth  ? 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


Was  it  not  he  that  sometime  had  in  charge 
The  harbor  of  Ancona  ? 


CARDINAL  MARCELLO. 


Ay,  the  same. 


JULIUS. 


Then  let   me   tell  you   that   your  Baccio 

Bigio 

Did  greater  damage  in  a  single  day 
To  that  fair  harbor  than  the  sea  had  done 
Or  would  do  in  ten  years.     And  him  you 

think 

To  put  in  place  of  Michael  Angelo, 
In  building  the  Basilica  of  St.  Peter  ! 
The  ass  that  thinks  himself  a  stag  discovers 
His  error  when  he  comes  to  leap  the  ditch. 

CARDINAL  MARCELLO. 

He  does  not  build  ;  he  but  demolishes 
The  labors  of  Bramante  and  San  Gallo. 

JULIUS. 
Only  to  build  more  grandly. 

CARDINAL  MARCELLO. 

But  time  passes  ; 

Year  after  year  goes  by,  and  yet  the  work 
Is  not  completed.     Michael  Angelo 
Is  a  great  sculptor,  but  no  architect. 
His  plans  are  faulty. 

JULIUS. 

I  have  seen  his  model, 
And   have  approved   it.     But  here  comes 

the  artist. 
Beware  of  him.     He  may  make  Persians 

of  you, 
To  carry  burdens  on  your  backs  forever. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  same :  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

JULIUS. 
Come    forward,   dear   Maestro.     In   these 

gardens 

All  ceremonies  of  our  court  are  banished. 
Sit  down  beside  me  here. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  sitting  down. 

How  graciously 

Your  Holiness  commiserates  old  age 
And  its  infirmities  ! 

JULIUS. 

Say  its  privileges. 
Art  I  respect.    The  building  of  this  palace 


And  laying  out  of  these  pleasant  garden 

walks 

Are  my  delight,  and  if  I  have  not  asked 
Your  aid  in  this,  it  is  that  I  forbear 
To  lay  new  burdens  on  you  at  an  age 
When    you    need    rest.      Here   I    escape 

from  Rome 

To  be  at  peace.     The  tumult  of  the  city 
Scarce  reaches  here. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

How  beautiful  it  is, 
And  quiet  almost  as  a  hermitage  ! 

JULIUS. 
We  live  as  hermits  here  ;  and  from  these 

heights 

O'erlook  all  Rome  and  see  the  yellow  Tiber 
Cleaving  in  twain  the  city,  like  a  sword, 
As  far  below  there  as  St.  Mary's  bridge, 
What  think  you  of  that  bridge  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  would  advise 

Your  Holiness  not  to  cross  it,  or  not  often  ; 
It  is  not  safe. 

JULIUS. 
It  was  repaired  of  late. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Some  morning  you  will  look  for  it  in  vain  ; 
It  will  be  gone.     The  current  of  the  river 
Is  undermining  it. 

JULIUS. 

But  you  repaired  it. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  strengthened  all  its  piers,  and  paved  its 

road 

With  travertine.     He  who  came  after  me 
Removed  the  stone  and  sold  it,  and  filled  in 
The  space  with  gravel. 

JULIUS. 

Cardinal  Salviati 

And  Cardinal  Marcello,  do  you  listen  ? 
This  is  your  famous  Nanni  Baccio  Bigio. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  aside. 

There  is  some  mystery  here.    These  Car 
dinals 
Stand  lowering  at  me  with  unfriendly  eyes. 


572 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


JULIUS. 

Now  let  us  come  to  what  concerns  us  more 

Than  bridge  or  gardens.  Some  complaints 
are  made 

Concerning  the  Three  Chapels  in  St.  Pe 
ter's  ; 

Certain  supposed  defects  or  imperfections, 

You  doubtless  can  explain. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

This  is  no  longer 

The  golden  age  of  art.     Men  have  become 
Iconoclasts  and  critics.     They  delight  not 
In  what  an  artist  does,  but  set  themselves 
To  censure  what  they  do  not  comprehend. 
You  will  not  see  them  bearing  a  Madonna 
Of  Cimabue  to  the  church  in  triumph, 
But  tearing  down  the  statue  of  a  Pope 
To  cast  it  into  cannon.     Who  are  they 
That  bring  complaints  against  me  ? 

JULIUS. 

Deputies 

Of  the  Commissioners  ;  and  they  complain 
Of  insufficient  light  in  the  Three  Chapels. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Your  Holiness,  the  insufficient  light 

Is  somewhere  else,  and  not  in  the  Three 

Chapels. 

Who  are  the  deputies  that  make  com 
plaint  ? 

JULIUS. 

The  Cardinals  Salviati  and  Marcello, 
Here  present. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  rising. 

With  permission,  Monsignori, 
What  is  it  ye  complain  of  ? 

CARDINAL  MARCELLO. 

We  regret 

You  have  departed  from  Bramante's  plan, 
And  from  San  Gallo's. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Since  the  ancient  time 
No  greater  architect  has  lived  on  earth 
Than  Lazzari  Bramante.     His  design, 
Without    confusion,    simple,    clear,    well- 
lighted. 

Merits  all  praise,  and  to  depart  from  it 
Would  be  departing  from  the  truth.     San 
Gallo, 


Building  about  with  columns,  took  all  light 
Out   of   this  plan  ;  left  in  the  choir  dark 

corners 

For  infinite  ribaldries,  and  lurking  places 
For  rogues  and  robbers  ;  so  that  when  the 

church 
Was  shut  at  night,  not  five   and  twenty 

men 
Could   find  them  out.     It  was  San  Gallo, 

then, 
That  left  the  church  in  darkness,  and  not  I. 

CARDINAL  MARCELLO. 

Excuse    me  ;    but  in  each   of   the  Three 

Chapels 
Is  but  a  single  window. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Monsignore, 

Perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  in  the  vault 
ing 
Above  there  are  to  go  three  other  windows. 

CARDINAL  SALVIATI. 

How  should  we   know  ?     You  never  told 
us  of  it. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  neither  am  obliged,  nor  will  I  be, 
To  tell  your  Eminence  or  any  other 
What  I  intend  or  ought  to  do.     Your  office 
Is   to   provide    the    means,   and   see   that 

thieves 

Do  not  lay  hands  upon  them.     The  designs 
Must  all  be  left  to  me. 

CARDINAL  MARCELLO. 

Sir  architect, 
You    do   forget    yourself,    to   speak    thus 

rudely 

In  presence  of  his  Holiness,  and  to  us 
Who  are  his  Cardinals. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  putting  on  his  hat. 

I  do  not  forget 

I  am  descended  from  the  Counts  Canossa, 
Linked  with  the  Imperial   line,  and   with 

Matilda, 

Who  gave  the  Church  Saint  Peter's  Patri 
mony. 

I,  too,  am  proud  to  give  unto  the  Church 
The  labor  of  these  hands,  and  what  of  life 
Remains  to  me.     My  father  Buonarotti 
Was  Podesta  of  Chiusi  and  Caprese. 
I  am  not  used  to  have  men  speak  to  me 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


573 


As  if  I  were  a  mason,  hired  to  build 
A  garden  wall,  and  paid  on  Saturdays 
So  much  an  hour. 

CARDINAL  SALVIATI,   aside. 

No  wonder  that  Pope  Clement 
Never  sat  down  in  presence  of  this  man, 
Lest  he  should  do  the  same  ;  and  always 

bade  him 
Put   on  his   hat,   lest  he    unasked   should 

doit! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

If  any  one  could  die  of  grief  and  shame, 
I   should.     This   labor  was  imposed  upon 

me; 

I  did  not  seek  it ;  and  if  I  assumed  it, 
'T  was  not  for  love  of  fame  or  love  of  gain, 
But  for  the  love  of  God.     Perhaps  old  age 
Deceived  me,  or  self-interest,  or  ambition  ; 
I  may  be  dcing  harm  instead  of  good. 
Therefore,  I   pray  your  Holiness,   release 

me  ; 

Take  off  from  me  the  burden  of  this  work  ; 
Let  me  go  back  to  Florence. 

JULIUS. 

Never,  never, 
While  I  am  living. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Doth  your  Holiness 

Remember  what  the  Holy  Scriptures  say 
Of  the  inevitable  time,  when  those 
Who  look    out  of    the  windows    shall   be 

darkened, 
And  the  almond-tree  shall  flourish  ? 

JULIUS. 

That  is  in 
Ecclesiastes. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  the  grasshopper 
Shall  be  a  burden,  and  desire  shall  fail, 
Because  man  goeth  unto  his  long  home. 
Vanity   of   Vanities,  saith  the    Preacher  ; 

all 
Is  vanity. 

JULIUS. 

Ah,  were  to  do  a  thing 
As  easy  as  to  dream  of  doing  it, 
We  should  not  want  for  artists.     But  the 

men 

Who  carry  out  in  act  their  great  designs 
Are   few   in  number  ;  aye,   they   may   be 
counted 


Upon  the  fingers  of  this  hand. 
Is  at  St.  Peter's. 


Your  place 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  have  had  my  dream, 
And  cannot  carry  out  my  great  conception, 
And  put  it  into  act. 

JULIUS. 

Then  who  can  do  it  ? 
You  would  but  leave  it  to  some   Baccio 

Bigio 
To  mangle  and  deface. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Rather  than  that, 

I  will  still  bear  the  burden  on  my  shoulders 
A  little  longer.     If  your  Holiness 
Will  keep  the  world  in  order,  and  will  leave 
The  building  of  the  church  to  me,  the  work 
Will  go  on  better  for  it.     Holy  Father, 
If  all  the  labors  that  I  have  endured, 
And  shall  endure,  advantage  not  my  soul, 
I  am  but  losing  time. 

JULIUS,  laying  his  hands  on  MICHAEL  ANGELO'S 
shoulders. 

You  will  be  gainer 
Both  for  your  soul  and  body. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Not  events 

Exasperate  me,  but  the  funest  conclusions 
I  draw  from  these  events  ;  the  sure  decline 
Of  art,  and  all  the  meaning  of  that  word  ; 
All  that  embellishes  and  sweetens  life, 
And  lifts  it  from  the  level  of  low  cares 
Into  the  purer  atmosphere  of  beauty  ; 
The  faith  in  the  Ideal ;  the  inspiration 
That  made  the  canons  of  the  church  of  Se 
ville 

Say,  "  Let  us  build,  so  that  all  men  here 
after 
Will  say  that  we  were  madmen."      Holy 

Father, 
I  beg  permission  to  retire  from  here. 

JULIUS. 
Go  ;  and  my  benediction  be  upon  you. 

SCENE  III.  —  POPE  JULIUS  and  the  CARDINALS. 

JULIUS. 

My  Cardinals,  this  Michael  Angelo 
Must  not  be  dealt  with  as  a  common  mason. 


574 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


He  comes  of  noble  blood,  and  for  his  crest 
Bears  two  bull's  horns  ;  and  he  has  given 

us  proof 
That   he  can  toss   with  them.     From  this 

day  f ortli 

Unto  the  end  of  time,  let  no  man  utter 
The  name  of  Baccio  Bigio  in  my  presence. 
All   great  achievements    are   the   natural 

fruits 

Of  a  great  character.     As  trees  bear  not 
Their  fruits  of  the  same  size  and  quality, 
But  each  one  in  its  kind  with  equal  ease, 
So  are  great  deeds  as  natural  to  great  men 
As  mean  things  are  to  small  ones.     By  his 

work 
We  know  the  master.     Let  us  not  perplex 

him. 

Ill 
BINDO   ALTOVITI 

A  street  in  Rome.  BINDO  ALTOVITI,  standing 
at  the  door  of  his  house.  MICHAEL  ANGELO, 
passing. 

BINDO. 

Good-morning,  Messer  Michael  Angelo  ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Good-morning,  Messer  Bindo  Altoviti  ! 

BINDO. 
What  brings  you  forth  so  early  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

The  same  reason 
That  keeps  you  standing  sentinel  at  your 

door,  — 

The  air  of  this  delicious  summer  morning. 
What  news  have  you  from  Florence  ? 

BINDO. 

Nothing  new  ; 

The  same  old  tale  of  violence  and  wrong. 
Since  the  disastrous  day  at  Monte  Murlo, 
When  in  procession,  through  San  Gallo's 

gate, 
Bareheaded,    clothed    in    rags,    on   sorry 

steeds, 

Philippe  Strozzi  and  the  good  Valori 
Amid  the  shouts  of  an  ungrateful  people 
Were  led  as  prisoners  down  the  streets  of 

Florence, 

Hope  is  no  more,  and  liberty  no  more. 
Duke  Cosimo,  the  tyrant,  reigns  supreme. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Florence    is    dead  :   her    houses    are   but 

tombs  ; 
Silence  and  solitude  are  in  her  streets. 


Ah  yes  ;  and  often  I  repeat  the  words 
You  wrote  upon  your  statue  of  the  Night, 
There  in  the  Sacristy  ot  San  Lorenzo  : 
"  Grateful  to  me  is  sleep  ;  to  be  of  stone 
More  grateful,  while  the  wrong  and  shame 

endure  ; 

To  see  not,  feel  not,  is  a  benediction  ; 
Therefore   awake   me   not ;  oh,   speak    in 

whispers." 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Ah,  Messer  Bindo,  the  calamities, 
The  fallen  fortunes,  and  the  desolation 
Of  Florence  are  to  me  a  tragedy 
Deeper  than  words,  and  darker  than  de 
spair. 
I,  who  have  worshipped  freedom  from  my 

cradle, 

Have  loved  her  with  the  passion  of  a  lover, 
And  clothed  her  with  all  lovely  attributes 
That  the  imagination  can  conceive, 
Or  the  heart  conjure  up,  now  see  her  dead, 
And  trodden  in  the  dust  beneath  the  feet 
Of  an  adventurer  !     It  is  a  grief 
Too  great  for  me  to  bear  in  my  old  age. 


I  say  no  news  from  Florence  :  I  am  wrong, 
For  Benvenuto  writes  that  he  is  coming 
To  be  my  guest  in  Rome. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Those  are  good  tidings. 
He  hath  been  many  years  away  from  us. 

BINDO. 
Pray  you,  come  in. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  have  not  time  to  stay, 
And  yet  I  will.  I  see  from  here  your  house 
Is  filled  with  works  of  art.  That  bust  in 

bronze 

Is  of  yourself.     Tell  me,  who  is  the  master 
That  works  in  such  an  admirable  way, 
And  with  such  power  and  feeling  ? 

BINDO. 

Benveuuto, 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


575 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Ah  ?     Benvenuto  ?     'T  is  a  masterpiece  ! 
It  pleases  me  as  much,  and  even  more, 
Than  the  antiques  about  it ;  and  yet  they 
Are  of  the  best  one  sees.     But  you  have 

placed  it 
By  far  too  high.      The  light  comes  from 

below, 
And  injures  the  expression.      Were  these 

windows 

Above  and  not  beneath  it,  then  indeed 
It  would  maintain  its   own   among  these 

works 

Of  the  old  masters,  noble  as  they  are. 
I  will  go  in  and  study  it  more  closely. 
I  always  prophesied  that  Benvenuto, 
With  all  his  follies  and  fantastic  ways, 
Would  show  his  genius  in  some  work  of 

art 
That   would   amaze   the  world,  and   be  a 

challenge 
Unto  all  other  artists  of  his  time. 

[They  go  in. 


IV 

IN   THE   COLISEUM 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  and  TOMASO  DE'  CAVA 
LIERI. 

CAVALIEKI. 

What  do  you  here  alone,  Messer  Michele  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  come  to  learn. 

CAVALIEKI. 

You  are  already  master, 
And  teach  all  other  men. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Nay,  I  know  nothing  ; 
Not  even  my  own  ignorance,  as  some 
Philosopher  hath  said.     I  am  a  school-boy 
Who  hath  not  learned  his  lesson,  and  who 

stands 

Ashamed  and  silent  in  the  awful  presence 
Of  the  great  master  of  antiquity 
Who  built  these  walls  cyclopean. 

CAVALIERI. 

Gaudentius 
His  name  was,  I  remember.     His  reward 


Was  to  be  thrown  alive  to  the  wild  beasts 
Here  where  we  now  are  standing. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


CAVALIERI. 


Idle  tales. 


But  you  are  greater  than  Gaudentius  was, 
And  your  work  nobler. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Silence,  I  beseech  you. 

CAVALIERI. 

Tradition  says  that  fifteen  thousand  men 
Were  toiling  for  ten  years  incessantly 
Upon  this  amphitheatre. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Behold 
How    wonderful    it    is !      The    queen    of 

flowers, 

The  marble  rose  of  Rome  !    Its  petals  torn 
By  wind  and  rain  of  thrice  five  hundred 

years  ; 

Its  mossy  sheath  half  rent  away,  and  sold 
To  ornament  our  palaces  and  churches, 
Or  to  be  trodden  under  feet  of  man 
Upon  the  Tiber's  bank  ;  yet  what  remains 
Still  opening  its  fair  bosom  to  the  sun, 
And  to  the  constellations  that  at  night 
Hang  poised  above  it  like  a  swarm  of  bees.\ 

CAVALIERI. 

The  rose  of  Rome,  but  not  of  Paradise  ; 
Not  the  white  rose  our  Tuscan  poet  saw, 
With  saints  for  petals.  When  this  rose 

was  perfect 
Its    hundred    thousand    petals    were    not 

saints, 

But  senators  in  their  Thessalian  caps, 
And  all  the  roaring  populace  of  Rome  ; 
And    even    an    Empress    and    the  Vestal 

Virgins, 

Who  came  to  see  the  gladiators  die, 
Could  not  give  sweetness  to  a  rose  like  this. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  spake  not  of  its  uses,  but  its  beauty. 

CAVALIERI. 

The  sand  beneath  our  feet  is  saturate 
With  blood  of  martyrs  ;   and  these  rifted 

stones 

Are  awful  witnesses  against  a  people 
Whose  pleasure  was  the  pain  of  dying  men. 


576 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Tomaso  Cavalieri,  on  my  word, 

You  should  have  been  a  preacher,  not  a 

painter  ! 

Think  you  that  I  approve  such  cruelties, 
Because  I  marvel  at  the  architects 
Who  built  these  walls,  and  curved  these 

noble  arches  ? 

Oh,  I  am  put  to  shame,  when  I  consider 
How  mean  our  work  is,  when   compared 

with  theirs  ! 

Look  at  these  walls  about  us  and  above  us  ! 
They  have  been    shaken   by  earthquakes, 

have  been  made 
A   fortress,   and    been    battered    by  long 

sieges  ; 
The    iron    clamps,  that   held    the    stones 

together, 
Have  been  wrenched  from  them  ;  but  they 

stand  erect 
And  firm,  as  if  they  had  been  hewn  and 

hollowed 

Out  of  the  solid  rock,  and  were  a  part 
Of  the  foundations  of  the  world  itself. 

CAVALIERI. 

Your  work,  I  say  again,  is  nobler  work, 
In  so  far  as  its  end  and  aim  are  nobler  ; 
And  this  is  but  a  ruin,  like  the  rest. 
Its  vaulted  passages  are  made  the  caverns 
Of  robbers,  and  are  haunted  by  the  ghosts 
Of  murdered  men. 

IHICHAEL  ANGELO. 

'  A  thousand  wild  flowers  bloom 
From  every  chink,  and  the  birds  build  their 

nests 

Among  the  ruined  arches,  and  suggest 
New  thoughts  of  beauty  to  the  architect. 
Now  let  us  climb  the  broken  stairs  that 

lead 

Into  the  corridors  above,  and  study 
The  marvel  and  the  mystery  of  that  art 
In  which  I  am  a  pupil,  not  a  master. 

All  things  must  have  an  end  ;  the  world 

itself 

Must  have  an  end,  as  in  a  dream  I  saw  it. 
There  came  a  great  hand  out  of  heaven, 

and  touched 
The  earth,    and   stopped  it  in  its  course. 

The  seas 

Leaped,  a  vast  cataract,  into  the  abyss  ; 
The   forests   and   the   fields   slid  off,  and 

floated 


Like  wooded  islands  in  the  air.     The  dead 
Were  hurled  forth  from  their  sepulchres  ; 

the  living 
Were  mingled  with  them,  and  themselves 

were  dead,  — 
All   being    dead ;    and    the    fair,   shining 

cities 
Dropped   out   like   jewels   from  a  broken 

crown. 

Naught  but  the  core  of  the  great  globe  re 
mained, 

A  skeleton  of  stone.     And  over  it 
The  wrack  of  matter  drifted  like  a  cloud, 
And  then  recoiled  upon  itself,  and  fell 
Back  on  the  empty  world,  that  with  the 

weight 

Reeled,  staggered,  righted,  and  then  head 
long  plunged 

Into  the  darkness,  as  a  ship,  when  struck 
By  a  great  sea,  throws  off   the  waves   at 

first 

On  either  side,  then  settles  and  goes  down 
Into  the  dark  abyss,  with  her  dead  crew.^ 

CAVALIERI. 
But  the  earth  does  not  move. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Who  knows  ?  who  knows  ? 
There   are   great   truths   that  pitch   their 

shining  tents 
Outside  our  walls,  and  though  but  dimly 

seen 

In  the  gray  dawn,  they  will  be  manifest 
When  the  light  widens  into  perfect  day. 
A  certain  man,  Copernicus  by  name, 
Sometime    professor  here    in   Rome,    has 

whispered 

It  is  the  earth,  and  not  the  sun,  that  moves. 
What  I  beheld  was  only  in  a  dream, 
Yet  dreams  sometimes  anticipate  events, 
Being  unsubstantial  images  of  things 
As  yet 


MACELLO   DE     CORVI 
MICHAEL  ANGELO,  BENVENUTO  CELLINI. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

So,  Benvenuto,  you  return  once  more 
To  the  Eternal  City.     'T  is  the  centre 
To  which  all  gravitates.     One  finds  no  rest 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


577 


Elsewhere  than  here.     There  may  be  other 

cities 

That  please  us  for  a  while,  but  Rome  alone 
Completely  satisfies.     It  becomes  to  all 
A  second  native  land  by  predilection, 
And  not  by  accident  of  birth  alone. 

BENVENUTO. 

I  am  but  just  arrived,  and  am  now  lodging 
With  Bindo  Altoviti.     I  have  been 
To  kiss  the  feet  of  our  most  Holy  Father, 
And   now  am  come  in  haste   to  kiss  the 

hands 
Of  my  miraculous  Master. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  to  find  him 
Grown  very  old. 

BENVENUTO. 

You  know  that  precious  stones 
Never  grow  old. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Half  sunk  beneath  the  horizon, 
And  yet  not  gone.      Twelve  years  are   a 

long  while. 
Tell  me  of  France. 

BENVENUTO. 

It  were  too  long  a  tale 
To  tell  you  all.     Suffice  in  brief  to  say 
The  King  received  me  well,  and  loved  me 

well; 
Gave  me   the  annual  pension  that  before 

me 

Our  Leonardo  had,  nor  more  nor  less, 
And  for  my  residence  the  Tour  de  Nesle, 
Upon  the  river-side. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

A  princely  lodging. 

BENVENUTO. 

What  in  return  I  did  now  matters  not, 
For  there  are  other  things,  of  greater  mo 
ment, 

I  wish  to  speak  of.     First  of  all,  the  letter 
You  wrote  me,  not  long  since,  about  my 

bust 
Of   Bindo   Altoviti,   here   in  Rome.     You 

said, 

"  My  Benvenuto,  I  for  many  years 
Have   known   you   as   the  greatest  of  all 
goldsmiths, 


And  now  I  know  you  as  no  less  a  sculp 
tor." 

Ah,  generous  Master  !  How  shall  I  e'er 
thank  you 

For  such  kind  language  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

By  believing  it, 

I  saw  the  bust  at  Messer  Bindo' s  house, 
And  thought  it  worthy  of  the  ancient  mas 
ters, 
And  said  so.     That  is  all. 

BENVENUTO. 

It  is  too  much  ; 
And  I  should  stand  abashed  here  in  your 

presence, 
Had   I   done    nothing    worthier    of    your 

praise 
Than  Biudo's  bust. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

What  have  you  done  that  's  better  ? 

BENVENUTO. 

When  I  left  Rome  for  Paris,  you  remem 
ber 

I  promised  you  that  if  I  went  a  goldsmith 
I  would  return  a  sculptor.     I  have  kept 
The  promise  I  then  made. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Dear  Benvenuto, 

I  recognized  the  latent  genius  in  you, 
But  feared  your  vices. 

BENVENUTO. 

I  have  turned  them  all 
To  virtues.  My  impatient,  wayward  nature, 
That  made  me  quick  in  quarrel,  now  has 

served  me 
Where   meekness    could    not,   and   where 

patience  could  not, 
As   you   shall   hear  now.     I   have  cast  in 

bronze 

A  statue  of  Perseus,  holding  thus  aloft 
In  his  left  hand  the  head  of  the  Medusa, 
And  in  his  right  the  sword  that  severed  it ; 
His  right  foot  planted  on  the  lifeless  corse  ; 
His  face  superb  and  pitiful,  with  eyes 
Down-looking   on   the   victim  of   his  ven 
geance. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  see  it  as  it  should  be. 


578 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


BENVENUTO. 

As  it  will  be 

When  it  is  placed  upon  the  Ducal  Square, 
Half-way  between  your  David  and  the  Ju 
dith 
Of  Donatello. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Rival  of  them  both  ! 

BENVENUTO. 

But  ah,  what  infinite  trouble  have  I  had 
With  Bandinello.,  and  that  stupid  beast, 
The  major-domo  of  Duke  Cosimo, 
Francesco  Ricci,  and  their  wretched  agent 
Gorini,  who  came  crawling1  round  about  me 
Like  a  black  spider,  with  his  whining  voice 
That  sounded  like  the  buzz  of  a  mosquito  ! 
Oh,  I  have  wept  in  utter  desperation, 
And  wished  a  thousand  times  I  had   not 

left 
My  Tour   de  Nesle,  nor  e'er   returned  to 

Florence, 
Nor  thought  of  Perseus.     What  malignant 

falsehoods 
They  told  the  Grand  Duke,  to  impede  my 

work, 
And  make  me  desperate  ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

The  nimble  lie 

Is  like  the  second-hand  upon  a  clock  ; 
We  see  it  fly,  while  the  hour-hand  of  truth 
Seems  to  stand  still,  and  yet  it  moves  un 
seen, 
And  wins  at  last,  for  the   clock  will   not 

strike 

Till  it  has  reached  the  goal.  ^ 
Xx 

BENVENDTO. 

My  obstinacy 
Stood  me  in  stead,  and  helped  me  to  o'er- 

come 

The  hindrances  that  envy  and  ill-will 
Put  in  my  way. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

When  anything  is  done 
People  see  not  the  patient  doing  of  it, 
Nor  think  how  great  would  be  the  loss  to 

man 

If  it  had  not  been  done.     As  in  a  building 
Stone  rests  on  stone,  and  wanting  the  foun 
dation 
All  would  be  wanting,  so  in  human  life 


Each  action  rests  on  the  foregone  event, 
That  made  it  possible,  but  is  forgotten 
And  buried  in  the  earth. 

BENVENUTO. 

Even  Bandinello, 

Who  never  yet  spake  well  of  anything, 
Speaks  well  of  this  ;  and  yet  he  told  the 

Duke 
That,  though   I    cast    small   figures  well 

enough, 
I  never  could  cast  this. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

But  you  have  done  it, 

And  proved  Ser  Bandinello  a  false  prophet. 
That  is  the  wisest  way. 

BENVENUTO. 

And  ah,  that  casting  ! 
What  a  wild  scene  it  was,  as  late  at  night, 
A  night  of  wind  and  rain,  we  heaped  the 

furnace 

With  pine  of  Serristori,  till  the  flames 
Caught  in  the  rafters  over  us,  and  threat 
ened 

To  send  the  burning  roof  upon  our  heads  ; 
And  from  the  garden  side  the  wind  and 

rain 
Poured  in  upon  us,  and  half  quenched  our 

fires. 

I  was  beside  myself  with  desperation. 
A  shudder  came  upon  me,  then  a  fever  ; 
I  thought  that  I  was  dying,  and  was  forced 
To  leave  the  work-shop,  and  to  throw  my 
self 

Upon  my  bed,  as  one  who  has  no  hope. 
And  as  I  lay  there,  a  deformed  old  man 
Appeared  before  me,  and  with  dismal  voice, 
Like  one  who  doth  exhort  a  criminal 
Led  forth  to  death,  exclaimed,  "  Poor  Ben- 

venuto, 

Thy  work  is    spoiled  !     There  is  no  rem 
edy  !  " 
Then  with  a   cry  so   loud   it   might  have 

reached 

The  heaven  of  fire,  I  bounded  to  my  feet, 
And  rushed  back  to  my  workmen.     They 

all  stood 

Bewildered  and  desponding  ;  and  I  looked 
Into  the  furnace,  and  beheld  the  mass 
Half  molten  only,  and  in  my  despair 
I  fed  the  fire  with  oak,  whose  terrible  heat 
Soon   made  the  sluggish  metal  shine  and 
sparkle. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


579 


Then  followed  a  bright  flash,  and  an  explo 
sion, 

As  if  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  among  us. 
The  covering  of  the  furnace  had  been  rent 
Asunder,  and  the  bronze  was  flowing  over  ; 
So  that  I  straightway  opened  all  the  sluices 
To   fill   the  mould.     The   metal 


ran   like 


lava, 


Sluggish  and  heavy  ;  and  I  sent  my  work 
men 

To  ransack  the  whole  house,  and  bring  to 
gether 

My  pewter  plates  and  pans,  two  hundred 
of  them, 

And  cast  them  one  by  one  into  the  furnace 

To  liquefy  the  mass,  and  in  a  moment 

The  mould  was  filled  !  I  fell  upon  my 
knees 

And  thanked  the  Lord  ;  and  then  we  ate 
and  drank 

And  went  to  bed,  all  hearty  and  contented. 

It  was  two  hours  before  the  break  of  day. 

My  fever  was  quite  gone. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

A  strange  adventure, 

That  could  have  happened  to  no  man  alive 
But  you,  my  Benvenuto. 

BENVENUTO. 

As  my  workmen  said 
To  major-domo  Ricci  afterward 
When  he  inquired  of  them  :  "  'T  was  not 

a  man, 
But  an  express  great  devil." 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  the  statue  ? 

BENVENUTO. 

Perfect  in  every  part,  save  the  right  foot 
Of  Perseus,  as  I  had  foretold  the  Duke. 
There   was  just  bronze  enough  to  fill  the 

mould  ; 

Not  a  drop  over,  not  a  drop  too  little. 
I  looked  upon  it  as  a  miracle 
Wrought  by  the  hand  of  God. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

And  now  I  see 

How  you  have  turned  your  vices  into  vir 
tues. 

BENVENUTO. 

But  wherefore  do  I  prate  of  this  ?     I  came 
To  speak  of  other  things.     Duke  Cosiino 


Through  me  invites  you  to  return  to  Flor 
ence, 

And  offers  you  great  honors,  even  to  make 
you 

One  of  the  Forty-Eight,  his  Senators. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

His   Senators  !      That   is  enough.      Since 

Florence 
Was  changed  by  Clement  Seventh  from  a 

Republic 

Into  a  Dukedom,  I  no  longer  wish 
To  be  a  Florentine.     That  dream  is  ended. 
The  Grand  Duke  Cosimo  now  reigns   su 
preme  ; 

All  liberty  is  dead.     Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
I  hoped  to  see  my  country  rise  to  heights 
Of  happiness  and  freedom  yet  unreached 
By  other  nations,  but  the  climbing  wave 
Pauses,  lets  go  its  hold,  and  slides  again 
Back  to  the  common  level,  with  a  hoarse 
Death-rattle  in  its  throat.     I  am  too  old 
To  hope  for  better  days.     I  will  stay  here 
And  die  in  Rome.     The  very  weeds,  that 

grow 

Among  the  broken  fragments  of  her  ruins, 
Are  sweeter  to  me  than  the  garden  flow 
ers 

Of  other  cities  ;  and  the  desolate  ring 
Of  the  Campagna  round  about  her  walls 
Fairer  than  all  the  villas  that  encircle 
The  towns  of  Tuscany. 

BENVENUTO. 

But  your  old  friends  ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

All  dead  by  violence.     Baccio  Valori 
Has  been  beheaded  ;  Guicciardini  poisoned  ; 
Philippo  Strozzi  strangled  in  his  prison. 
Is  Florence  then  a  place  for  honest  men 
To  flourish   in  ?      What   is  there  to  pre 
vent 
My  sharing  the  same  fate  ? 

BENVENUTO. 

Why,  this  :  if  all 
Your  friends  are  dead,  so  are  your  enemies. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Is  Aretino  dead  ? 

BENVENUTO. 

He  lives  in  Venice, 
And  not  in  Florence. 


58o 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

'Tis  the  same  to  me. 

This  wretched  mountebank,  whom  flatterers 
Call  the  Divine,  as  if  to  make  the  word 
Unpleasant  in  the   mouths  of   those    who 

speak  it 
And  in  the  ears  of  those  who  hear  it,  sends 

me 

A  letter  written  for  the  public  eye, 
And  with  such  subtle  and  infernal  malice, 
I  wonder  at  his  wickedness.     'T  is  he 
Is  the  express  great  devil,  and  not  you. 
Some  years  ago  he  told  me  how  to  paint 
The  scenes  of  the  Last  Judgment. 

BENVENUTO. 

I  remember. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Well,  now  he  writes  to  me  that,  as  a  Chris 
tian, 

He  is  ashamed  of  the  unbounded  freedom 
With  which  I  represent  it. 


BENVENUTO. 


Hypocrite  ! 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

He  says  I  show  mankind  that  I  am  want 
ing 

In  piety  and  religion,  in  proportion 
As  I  profess  perfection  in  my  art. 
Profess  perfection  ?     Why,  't  is  only  men 
Like  Bugiardini  who  are  satisfied 
With  what  they  do.     I  never  am  content, 
But  always  see  the  labor  of  my  hand 
Fall  short  of  my  conception. 

BENVENUTO. 

I  perceive 
The  malice  of  this  creature.      He  would 

taint  you 

With  heresy,  and  in  a  time  like  this  ! 
'T  is  infamous  ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  represent  the  angels 
Without    their    heavenly   glory,   and    the 

saints 
Without  a  trace  of  earthly  modesty. 

BENVENUTO. 

Incredible  audacity  ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

The  heathen 
Veiled  their  Diana  with  some  drapery, 


And  when  they  represented  Venus  naked 
They  made  her  by  her  modest  attitude 
Appear  half  clothed.      But  I,  who  am  a 

Christian, 

Do  so  subordinate  belief  to  art 
That  I  have  made  the  very  violation 
Of  modesty  in  martyrs  and  in  virgins 
A  spectacle  at  which  all  men  would  gaze 
With  half-averted  eyes  even  in  a  brothel. 

BENVENUTO. 

He  is  at  home  there,  and  he  ought  to  know 
What  men  avert  their  eyes  from  in  such 

places  ; 
From  the  Last  Judgment  chiefly,  I  imagine. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

But  divine  Providence  will  never  leave 
The  boldness  of  my  marvellous  work  un 
punished  ; 

And  the  more  marvellous  it  is,  the  more 
'T  is  sure  to  prove  the  ruin  of  my  fame  ! 
And  finally,  if  in  this  composition 
I  had  pursued  the  instructions  that  he  gave 

me 

Concerning  heaven  and  hell  and  paradise, 
In   that   same    letter,   known    to    all  the 

world, 

Nature  would  not  be  forced,  as  she  is  now, 
To  feel  ashamed  that  she  invested  me 
With    such    great    talent  ;    that  I   stand 

myself 

A  very  idol  in  the  world  of  art. 
He  taunts  me  also  with  the  Mausoleum 
Of  Julius,  still  unfinished,  for  the  reason 
That  men  persuaded  the  inane  old  man 
It  was  of  evil  augury  to  build 
His  tomb  while   he  was   living ;    and   he 

speaks 
Of  heaps  of  gold  this  Pope  bequeathed  to 

me, 
And  calls  it  robbery  ;  —  that   is  what  he 

says. 
What  prompted  such  a  letter  ? 

BENVENUTO. 

Vanity. 

He  is  a  clever  writer,  and  he  likes 
To  draw  his  pen,  and  nourish  it  in  the  face 
Of  every  honest  man,  as  swordsmen  do 
Their  rapiers  on  occasion,  but  to  show 
How   skilfully  they  do  it.      Had  you  fol 
lowed 

The  advice  he  gave,  or  even  thanked  him 
for  it, 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


You   would    have   seen    another   style   of 

fence. 

'T  is  but  his  wounded  vanity,  and  the  wish 
To  see  his  name  in  print.     So  give  it  not 
A  moment's  thought  ;  it  will  soon  be  for 
gotten. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  will  not  think  of  it,  but  let  it  pass 

For  a   rude  speech  thrown  at  me  in  the 

street, 
As  boys  threw  stones  at  Dante. 

BENVENUTO. 

And  what  answer 

Shall  I  take  back  to  Grand  Duke  Cosimo  ? 
He  does  not  ask  your  labor  or  your  service  ; 
Only  your  presence  in  the  city  of  Florence, 
With  such  advice  upon  his  work  in  hand 
As  he  may  ask,  and  you  may  choose  to 
give. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

You   have   my  answer.      Nothing   he   can 

offer 
Shall  tempt  me  to  leave  Rome.     My  work 

is  here, 

And  only  here,  the  building  of  St.  Peter's. 
What  other  things  I  hitherto  have  done 
Have  fallen  from  me,  are  no  longer  mine  ; 
I  have  passed  on  beyond  them,  and  have 

left  them 

As  milestones  on  the  way.     What  lies  be 
fore  me, 

That  is  still  mine,  and  while  it  is  unfinished 
No  one  shall  draw  me  from  it,  or  persuade 

me, 

By  promises  of  ease,  or  wealth,  or  honor, 
Till  I  behold  the  finished  dome  uprise 
Complete,  as  now  I  see  it  in  my  thought. 

BENVENUTO. 

And  will  you  paint  no  more  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

No  more. 

BENVENUTO. 

'T  is  well. 
Sculpture  is  more  divine,  and   more  like 

Nature, 

That  fashions  all  her  works  in  high  relief, 
And  that  is  sculpture.     This  vast  ball,  the 

Earth, 
Was   moulded  out  of  clay,  and  baked  in 

fire  ; 
Men,  women,  and  all  animals  that  breathe 


Are  statues  and  not  paintings.     Even  the 

plants, 
The  flowers,  the  fruits,  the  grasses,  were 

first  sculptured, 

And  colored  later.     Painting  is  a  lie, 
A  shadow  merely. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Truly,  as  you  say, 
Sculpture   is   more   than   painting.      It   is 

greater 

To  raise  the  dead  to  life  than  to  create 
Phantoms   that   seem  to  live.     The   most 

majestic 

Of  the  three  sister  arts  is  that  which  builds  ; 
The  eldest  of  them  all,  to  whom  the  others 
Are  but  the  handmaids  and  the  servitors, 
Being  but  imitation,  not  creation. 
Henceforth  I  dedicate  myself  to  her. 

BENVENUTO. 

And  no  more  from  the  marble  hew  those 

forms 
That  fill  us  all  with  wonder  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Many  statues 
Will  there  be  room  for  in  my  work.    Their 

station 

Already  is  assigned  them  in  my  mind. 
But  things  move  slowly.     There  are  hin 
drances, 

Want  of  material,  want  of  means,  delays 
And  interruptions,  endless  interference 
Of  Cardinal  Commissioners,  and  disputes 
And  jealousies  of  artists,  that  annoy  me. 
But  I  will  persevere  until  the  work 
Is  wholly  finished,  or  till  I  sink  down 
Surprised  by  Death,  that  unexpected  guest, 
Who  waits  for  no  man's  leisure,  but  steps  in, 
Unasked  and  unannounced,  to  put  a  stop 
To  all  our  occupations  and  designs. 
And  then  perhaps  I  may  go  back  to  Flor 
ence  ; 

This  is  my  answer  to  Duke  Cosimo.       \ 

•^  x. 


VI 


MICHAEL   ANGELO'S    STUDIO 
MICHAEL  ANGELO  and  URBINO. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  pausing  in  his  work. 
Urbino,  thou  and  I  are  both  old  men. 
My  strength  begins  to  fail  me. 


582 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


URBINO. 

Eccellenza, 

That  is  impossible.     Do  I  not  see  you 
Attack   the    marble  blocks  with  the  same 

fury 
As  twenty  years  ago  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

'T  is  an  old  habit. 

I  must  have  learned  it  early  from  my  nurse 
At  Setignano,  the  stone-mason's  wife  ; 
For  the  first  sounds  I  heard  were  of  the 

chisel 
Chipping  away  the  stone. 

TJRBINO. 

At  every  stroke 
You  strike  fire  with  your  chisel. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Aye,  because 
The  marble  is  too  hard. 

URBINO. 

It  is  a  block 

That  Topolino  sent  you  from  Carrara. 
He  is  a  judge  of  marble. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  remember. 

With  it  he  sent  me  something  of  his  mak 
ing?  — 

A  Mercury,  with  long  body  and  short  legs, 
As  if  by  any  possibility 
A  messenger  of  the  gods  could  have  short 

legs. 
It  was   no   more  like    Mercury  than   you 

are, 

But  rather  like  those  little  plaster  figures 
That  peddlers  hawk  about  the  villages 
As  images  of  saints.     But  luckily 
For  Topolino,  there  are  many  people 
Who   see   no  difference   between   what   is 

best 

And  what  is  only  good,  or  riot  even  good  ; 
So  that  poor  artists  stand  in  their  esteem 
On  the  same  level  with  the  best,  or  higher. 

URBINO. 
How  Eccellenza  laughed  ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Poor  Topolino  1 

All  men  are  not  born  artists,  nor  will  labor 
E'er  make  them  artists. 


URBINO. 

No,  no  more 

Than  Emperors,  or  Popes,  or  Cardinals. 
One  must  be  chosen  for  it.     I  have  been 
Your  color-grinder  six  and  twenty  years, 
And  am  not  yet  an  artist. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Some  have  eyes 

That  see  not  ;  but  in  every  block  of  mar 
ble 

I  see  a  statue,  —  see  it  as  distinctly 
As   if  it  stood  before  me  shaped  and  per 
fect 

In  attitude  and  action.    1  have  only 
To  hew  away  the  stone  walls  that  imprison 
The  lovely  apparition,  and  reveal  it 
To  other  eyes  as  mine  already  see  it. 
But  I  grow  old  and  weak.     What  wilt  thou 

do 
When  I  am  dead,  Urbino  ? 

URBINO. 

Eccellenza, 
I  must  then  serve  another  master. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Never  ! 

Bitter  is  servitude  at  best.     Already 
So  many  years  hast  thou  been  serving  me  ; 
But  rather  as  a  friend  than  as  a  servant. 
We  have  grown  old  together.     Dost  thou 

think 

So  meanly  of  this  Michael  Angelo 
As  to  imagine  he  would  let  thee  serve, 
When  he  is  free  from  service  ?     Take  this 

purse, 
Two  thousand  crowns  in  gold, 

URBINO. 

Two  thousand  crowns  I 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Ay,  it  will  make  thee  rich.     Thou  shalt  not 

die 
A  beggar  in  a  hospital. 


URBINO. 


Oh,  Master ! 


MICHAEL  ANGELOc 

I  cannot  have  them  with  me  on  the  jour 
ney 

That  I  am  undertaking.     The  last  garment 
That  men  will  make  for  me  will  have  no 
pockets. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


583 


UKBINO,  kissing  the  hand  of  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 
My  generous  master  ! 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Hush! 


URBINO. 


My  Providence  .* 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Not  a  word  more.  Go  now  to  bed,  old 
man. 

Thou  hast  served  Michael  Angelo.  Re 
member, 

Henceforward  thou  shalt  serve  no  other 
master. 


VII 

THE    OAKS    OF    MONTE    LUCA 
MICHAEL  ANGELO,  alone  in  the  woods. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

How  still  it  is  among  these  ancient  oaks  ! 

Surges  and  undulations  of  the  air 

Uplift  the  leafy  boughs,  and  let  them  fall 

With  scarce  a  sound.  Such  sylvan  quie 
tudes 

Become  old  age.  These  huge  centennial 
oaks, 

That  may  have  heard  in  infancy  the  trum 
pets 

Of  Barbarossa's  cavalry,  deride 

Man's  brief  existence,  that  with  all  his 
strength 

He  cannot  stretch  beyond  the  hundredth 
year. 

This  little  acorn,  turbaned  like  the  Turk, 

Which  wi£h  my  foot  I  spurn,  may  be  an 
oak 

Hereafter,  feeding  with  its  bitter  mast 

The  fierce  wild-boar,  and  tossing  in  its 
arms 

The  cradled  nests  of  birds,  when  all  the 
men 

That  now  inhabit  this  vast  universe, 

They  and  their  children,  and  their  chil 
dren's  children, 

Shall  be  but  dust  and  mould,  and  nothing 
more. 

Through  openings  in  the  trees  I  see  below 
me 

The  valley  of  Clitumnus,  with  its  farms 


And  snow-white  oxen  grazing  in  the  shade 
Of  the  tall  poplars  on  the  river's  brink. 
O  Nature,  gentle  mother,  tender  nurse  ! 
I,  who  have  never  loved  thee  as  I  ought, 
But  wasted  all  my  years  immured  in  cities, 
And    breathed  the   stifling  atmosphere  of 

streets, 

Now  come  to  thee  for  refuge.  Here  is  peace. 
Yonder  I  see  the  little  hermitages 
Dotting  the  mountain  side  with  points  of 

light, 

And  here  St.  Julian's  convent,  like  a  nest 
Of  curlews,  clinging  to  some  windy  cliff. 
Beyond  the  broad,  illimitable  plain 
Down  sinks  the  sun,  red  as  Apollo's  quoit, 
That,  by  the  envious  Zephyr  blown  aside, 
Struck  Hyacinthus   dead,  and  stained  the 

earth 
With  his  young  blood,  that  blossomed  into 

flowers. 

And  now,  instead  of  these  fair  deities, 
Dread  demons   haunt   the  earth  ;   hermits 

inhabit 

The  leafy  homes  of  sylvan  Hamadryads  ; 
And  jovial  friars,  rotund  and  rubicund, 
Replace  the  old  Silenus  with  his  ass. 

Here  underneath  these  venerable  oaks, 
Wrinkled  and  brown  and  gnarled  like  them 

with  age, 

A  brother  of  the  monastery  sits, 
Lost  in  his  meditations.     What  may  be 
The  questions  that  perplex,  the  hopes  that 

cheer  him  ?  — 
Good-evening,  holy  father. 


MONK. 


God  be  with  you. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Pardon  a  stranger  if  he  interrupt 
Your  meditations. 

MONK. 

It  was  but  a  dream.  — 
The  old,  old  dream,  that  never  will  come 

true  ; 
The   dream  that  all  my  life  I  have  been 

dreaming, 
And  yet  is  still  a  dream. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

All  men  have  dreams, 
I  have  had  mine  ;  but  none  of  them  came 
true  ; 


584 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


They  were  but  vanity.!   Sometimes  I  think 
The  happiness  of  man  lies  in  pursuing, 
Not  in  possessing  ;  for  the  things  possessed 
Lose   half  their  value-J  Tell   me  of  your 
dream. 

MONK. 

The  yearning  of  my  heart,  my  sole  desire, 
That  like  the  sheaf  of  Joseph  stands  up 
right, 

While  all  the  others  bend  and  bow  to  it  ; 
The  passion  that  torments   me,  and   that 

breathes 
New    meaning    into   the   dead    forms   of 

prayer, 

Is  that  with  mortal  eyes  I  may  behold 
The  Eternal  City. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Rome? 

MONK. 

There  is  but  one  ; 

The  rest  are  merely  names.     I  think  of  it 
As  the  Celestial  City,  paved  with  gold, 
And  sentinelled  with  angels. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Would  it  were. 

I  have  just  fled  from  it.     It  is  beleaguered 
By  Spanish  troops,  led  by  the  Duke  of  Alva. 

MONK. 

But  still  for  me  't  is  the  Celestial  City, 
And  I  would  see  it  once  before  I  die. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Each  one  must  bear  his  cross. 

MONK. 

Were  it  a  cross 
That  had  been  laid  upon  me,  I  could  bear 

it, 

Or  fall  with  it.     It  is  a  crucifix  ; 
I  am  nailed  hand  and  foot,  and  I  am  dying  ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

What  would  you  see  in  Rome  ? 

MONK. 

His  Holiness. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Him  that  was  once  the  Cardinal  Caraffa  ? 
You   would  but  see   a  man  of  fourscore 

years, 
With  sunken  eyes,  burning  like  carbuncles, 


Who  sits  at  table  with  his  friends  for  hours, 
Cursing  the  Spaniards  as  a  race  of  Jews 
And   miscreant   Moors.      And  with  what 

soldiery 
Think   you  he   now  defends   the   Eternal 

City? 

MONK. 

With  legions  of  bright  angels. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

So  he  calls  them  ; 

And  yet  in  fact  these  bright  angelic  legions 
Are  only  German  Lutherans. 

MONK,  crossing  himself. 

Heaven  protect  us  1 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

What  further  would  you  see  ? 

MONK. 

The  Cardinals, 
Going  in  their  gilt  coaches  to  High  Mass. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Men  do  not  go  to  Paradise  in  coaches. 

MONK. 

The    catacombs,    the    convents,    and    the 

churches  ; 

The  ceremonies  of  the  Holy  Week 
In  all  their  pomp,  or,  at  the  Epiphany, 
The  feast  of  the  Santissimo  Bambino 
At  Ara  Coeli.     But  I  shall  not  see  them. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

These  pompous  ceremonies  of  the  Church 
Are  but  an  empty  show  to  him  who  knows 
The  actors  in  them.  Stay  here  in  your 

convent, 
For  he  who  goes   to   Rome  may   see   too 

much. 
What  would  you  further  ? 

MONK. 

I  would  see  the  painting 
Of  the  Last  Judgment  in  the  Sistine  Chapel. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

The  smoke  of  incense  and  of  altar  candles 
Has  blackened  it  already. 

MONK. 

Woe  is  me  ! 

Then  I  would  hear  Allegri's  Miserere, 
Sung  by  the  Papal  choir. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


585 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

A  dismal  dirge  ! 

I  am  an  old,  old  man,  and  I  have  lived 
In  Rome   for  thirty  years  and  more,  and 

know 
The   jarring   of   the  wheels  of  that  great 

world, 

Its  jealousies,  its  discords,  and  its  strife. 
Therefore  I  say  to  yon,  remain  content 
Here   in   your    convent,  here  among  your 

woods, 
Where   only   there   is   peace.     Go   not   to 

Rome. 

There  was  of  old  a  monk  of  Wittenberg 
Who  went  to  Rome  ;  you  may  have  heard 

of  him  ; 
His   name    was   Luther  ;    and    you   know 

what  followed. 

[The  convent  bell  rings. 

MONK,  rising. 

It  is  the  convent  bell ;  it  rings  for  vespers. 
Let  us  go  in  ;  we  both  will  pray  for  peace. 


VIII 
THE    DEAD    CHRIST 

MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  Studio.  MICHAEL  AN 
GELO  with  a  light,  working  upon  the  Dead 
Christ.  Midnight. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

0  Death,  why  is  it  I  cannot  portray 

Thy  form  and  features  ?     Do  I  stand  too 

near  thee  ? 
Or  dost  thou  hold  my  hand,  and  draw  me 

back, 

As  being  thy  disciple,  not  thy  master  ? 
Let   him  who  knows  not  what  old  age  is 

like 
Have   patience   till  it  comes,  and  he  will 

know. 

1  once  had  skill  to  fashion  Life  and  Death 
And   Sleep,  which   is   the     counterfeit   of 

Death  ; 

And  I  remember  what  Giovanni  Strozzi 
Wrote  underneath  my  statue  of  the  Night 
In  San  Lorenzo,  ah,  so  long  ago  ! 
Grateful   to  me  is  sleep  !     More  grateful 

now 
Than  it  was  then  ;  for  all  my  friends  are 

dead  ; 
And  she  is  dead,  the  noblest  of  them  all. 


I  saw  her  face,    when   the  great  sculptor 

Death, 
Whom  men   should  call  Divine,  had  at  a 

blow 

Stricken  her  into  marble  ;  and  I  kissed 
Her  cold  white  hand.     What  was  it   held 

me  back 
From  kissing  her  fair  forehead,  and  those 

lips, 
Those  dead,  dumb  lips  ?     Grateful  to  me 

is  sleep  ! 

Enter  GIORGIO  VASARI. 

GIORGIO. 

Good-evening,  or  good-morning,  for  I  know 

not 
Which  of  the  two  it  is. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

How  came  you  in  ? 

GIORGIO. 

Why,  by  the  door,  as  all  men  do. 


Ascanio 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Must  have  forgotten  to  bolt  it. 

GIORGIO. 

Probably. 

Am  I  a  spirit,  or  so  like  a  spirit, 
That  I  could  slip  through  bolted  door  or 

window  ? 

As  I  was  passing  down  the  street,  I  saw 
A   glimmer  of  light,  and  heard  the  well- 
known  chink 

Of  chisel  upon  marble.     So  I  entered, 
To  see  what  keeps  you  from  your  bed  so 
late. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO,    coming  forward  with   the 
lamp. 

You  have  been  revelling  with  your  boon 

companions, 

Giorgio  Vasari,  and  you  come  to  me 
At  an  untimely  hour. 

GIORGIO. 

The  Pope  hath  sent  me. 
His  Holiness  desires  to  see  again 
The  drawing  you  once  showed  him  of  the 

dome 
Of  the  Basilica. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

We  will  look  for  it. 


586 


TRANSLATIONS 


GIORGIO. 

What  is  the  marble  group  that  glimmers 

there 
Behind  you  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Nothing,  and  yet  everything,  — 
As  one  may  take  it.     It  is  my  own  tomb 
That  I  am  building. 

GIORGIO. 

Do  not  hide  it  from  me. 
By  our  long  friendship  and  the  love  I  bear 

you, 
Refuse  me  not  ! 


MICHAEL  ANGELO,  letting  fall  the  lamp. 

Life  hath  become  to  me 

An  empty  theatre,  —  its  lights  extinguished, 

The  music  silent,  and  the  actors  gone  ; 

And  I  alone  sit  musing  on  the  scenes 

That  once  have  been.     I  am  so  old  that 
Death 

Oft  plucks  me  by  the  cloak,  to  come  with 
him  ; 

And  some  day,  like  this  lamp,  shall  I  fall 
down, 

And   my   last   spark   of  life   will  be   ex 
tinguished. 

Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  what  darkness  of  despair  ! 

So  near  to  death,  and  yet  so  far  from  God. 


TRANSLATIONS 


In  accordance  with  the  plan  determined  upon  for  this 
edition,  the  Translations  are  collected  from  the  separate 
volumes  put  forth  by  Mr.  Longfellow  and  re-arranged 
here.  As  shown  in  the  Biographical  Sketch,  translating 
played  an  important  part  in  the  development  of  Mr. 
Longfellow's  powers.  Before  he  had  begun  to  write 
those  poems  which  at  once  attested  his  poetic  calling, 
and  while  he  was  busying  himself  with  study  and  prose 
expression,  he  was  finding  an  outlet  for  his  metrical 
thought  and  emotion  in  the  translation  of  lyrics  and 
pastoral  verse,  and  occasionally  of  epic  and  dramatic 
fragments.  Tasks  thus  early  begun  passed  easily  into 
pleasant  avocations,  and  to  the  end  of  his  life  he  found 
an  ever  grateful  occupation  in  recasting  the  foreign 
thought  of  other  men  in  moulds  of  his  own.  It  has 
been  deemed  most  expedient  to  group  these  translations 
by  the  several  literatures  from  which  they  are  derived, 
following  in  each  group  a  chronological  order  of  com 
position,  as  far  as  possible.  As  the  first  most  impor 
tant  work  in  this  field  by  Mr.  Longfellow  was  in  a 
translation  from  the  Spanish,  the  group  from  the  liter 
ature  of  Spain  takes  precedence. 

The  successive  publication  of  Coplas  de  Manrique  in 
dicates  the  importance  attached  to  it  by  Mr.  Long 
fellow,  and  both  the  treatment  which  it  received  at  his 
hands  and  the  formal  statement  of  his  theory  of  trans 
lation  have  an  interest,  for  the  contrast  which  they 
afford  to  his  later  judgment  and  practice. 

The  preface  to  the  book,  dated  Bowdoin  College, 
August  9,  1833,  besides  a  brief  notice  of  Don  Jorge 
Manrique  and  some  characterization  of  the  poem  which 
will  be  found  in  the  notes,  contained  the  following  re 
marks  on  the  translator's  task  :  — 

"The  object  of  this  little  work  is  to  place  in  the 
hands  of  the  lovers  of  Spanish  literature  the  most  beau 
tiful  moral  poem  of  that  language.  The  original  is 
printed  with  the  translation,  that  in  the  estimate  of 
those  at  least  who  are  versed  in  the  Spanish  tongue  the 
author  may  not  suffer  for  the  imperfections  of  the 
translator 

"  The  great  art  of  translating  well  lies  in  the  power 
of  rendering  literally  the  words  of  a  foreign  author 
while  at  the  same  time  we  preserve  the  spirit  of  the 
original.  But  how  far  one  of  these  requisites  of  a 
good  translation  may  be  sacrificed  to  the  other  —  how 
far  a  translator  is  at  liberty  to  embellish  the  original 
before  him,  while  clothing  it  in  a  new  language,  is  a 


question  which  has  been  decided  differently  by  persons 
of  different  tastes.  The  sculptor,  when  he  transfers  to 
the  inanimate  marble  the  form  and  features  of  a  living 
being,  may  be  said  not  only  to  copy,  but  to  translate. 
But  the  sculptor  cannot  represent  in  marble  the  beauty 
and  expression  of  the  human  eye ;  and  in  order  to  rem 
edy  this  defect  as  far  as  possible,  he  is  forced  to  trans 
gress  the  rigid  truth  of  nature.  By  sinking  the  eye 
deeper,  and  making  the  brow  more  prominent  above  it, 
he  produces  a  stronger  light  and  shade,  and  thus  gives 
to  the  statue  more  of  the  spirit  and  life  of  the  original 
than  he  could  have  done  by  an  exact  copy.  So,  too, 
the  translator.  As  there  are  certain  beauties  of  thought 
and  expression  in  a  good  original,  which  cannot  be  fully 
represented  in  the  less  flexible  material  of  another  lan 
guage,  he,  too,  at  times  may  be  permitted  to  transgress 
the  rigid  truth  of  language,  and  remedy  the  defect,  as 
far  as  such  a  defect  can  be  remedied,  by  slight  and  judi 
cious  embellishments. 

"  By  this  principle  I  have  been  guided  in  the  follow 
ing  translations.  I  have  rendered  literally  the  words 
of  the  original,  when  it  could  be  done  without  injuring 
their  spirit ;  and  when  this  could  not  be  done,  1  have 
occasionally  used  the  embellishment  of  an  additional 
epithet,  or  a  more  forcible  turn  of  expression.  How  far 
I  have  succeeded  in  my  purpose,  the  reader  shall  deter 
mine." 

It  may  be  added  that  the  translator  did  not  keep  to 
the  exact  metre  and  rhyme  of  the  Spanish  original,  but 
adopted  what  he  regarded  as  an  equivalent  stanza.  He 
afterward  adopted  a  much  stricter  rule  of  translation, 
indicated  by  the  couplet  from  Spenser  prefixed  to  his 
version  of  Dante :  — 

"  I  follow  here  the  footing  of  thy  feete, 
That  with  thy  meaning  so  I  may  the  rather  meete." 

Besides  the  translations  preserved  by  Mr.  Longfellow 
in  successive  volumes,  there  are  several  published  in 
periodicals  and  elsewhere  which  are  directly  traceable 
to  his  pen,  and  are  included  in  the  Appendix  to  this 
volume,  including  one  found  among  his  manuscripts. 
As  a  fitting  prelude  to  the  entire  series,  the  poem,  not 
a  translation,  which  was  used  for  a  similar  purpose  in 
the  posthumous  collection  In  the  Harbor,  is  he 
at  the  outset. 


COPLAS    DE   MANRIQUE 


587 


PRELUDE 

As  treasures  that  men  seek, 
Deep  buried  in  sea-sands, 

Vanish  if  they  but  speak, 
And  elude  their  eager  hands,  • 

So  ye  escape  and  slip, 
0  songs,  and  fade  away, 

When  the  word  is  on  my  lip 
To  interpret  what  ye  say. 

Were  it  not  better,  then, 
To  let  the  treasures  rest 

Hid  from  the  eyes  of  men 
Locked  in  their  iron  chest  ? 

I  have  but  marked  the  place, 
But  half  the  secret  told, 

That,  following  this  slight  trace, 
Others  may  find  the  gold. 


FROM   THE   SPANISH 
COPLAS  DE    MANRIQUE 

OH  let  the  soul  her  slumbers  break, 
Let  thought  be  quickened,  and  awake  ; 
Awake  to  see 

How  soon  this  life  is  past  and  gone, 
And  death  comes  softly  stealing  on, 
How  silently  ! 

Swiftly  our  pleasures  glide  away, 
Our  hearts  recall  the  distant  day 
With  many  sighs  ; 
The  moments  that  are  speeding  fast 
We     heed     not,    but    the     past,  —  the 

past, 
More  highly  prize. 

Onward  its  course  the  present  keeps, 
Onward  the  constant  current  sweeps, 
Till  life  is  done  ; 

And,  did  we  judge  of  time  aright, 
The  past  and  future  in  their  flight 
Would  be  as  one. 

Let  no  one  fondly  dream  again, 
That  Hope  and  all  her  shadowy  train 
Will  not  decay  ; 
Fleeting  as  were  the  dreams  of  old, 


Remembered  like  a  tale  that  's  told, 
They  pass  away. 

Our  lives  are  rivers,  gliding  free 
To  that  unfathomed,  boundless  sea, 
The  silent  grave  ! 
Thither  all  earthly  pomp  and  boast 
Roll,  to  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  one  dark  wave. 

Thither  the  mighty  torrents  stray, 
Thither  the  brook  pursues  its  way, 
And  tinkling  rill. 
There  all  are  equal  ;  side  by  side 
The  poor  man  and  the  son  of  pride 
Lie  calm  and  still. 

I  will  not  here  invoke  the  throng 

Of  orators  and  sons  of  song, 

The  deathless  few  ; 

Fiction  entices  and  deceives, 

And,  sprinkled  o'er  her  fragrant  leaves, 

Lies  poisonous  dew. 

To  One  alone  my  thoughts  arise, 

The  Eternal  Truth,  the  Good  and  Wise, 

To  Him  I  cry, 

Who  shared  on  earth  our  common  lot, 

But  the  world  comprehended  not 

His  deity. 

This  world  is  but  the  rugged  road 
Which  leads  us  to  the  bright  abode 
Of  peace  above  ; 

So  let  us  choose  that  narrow  way, 
Which  leads  no  traveller's  foot  astray 
From  realms  of  love. 

Our  cradle  is  the  starting-place, 
Life  is  the  running  of  the  race, 
We  reach  the  goal 
When,  in  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 
Death  leaves  to  its  eternal  rest 
The  weary  soul. 

Did  we  but  use  it  as  we  ought, 

This  world  would  school  each  wandering 

thought 

To  its  high  state. 

Faith  wings  the  soul  beyond  the  sky, 
Up  to  that  better  world  on  high, 
For  which  we  wait. 

Yes,  the  glad  messenger  of  love, 
To  guide  us  to  our  home  above, 
The  Saviour  came  ; 


588 


TRANSLATIONS 


Born  amid  mortal  cares  and  fears, 
He  suffered  in  this  vale  of  tears 
A  death  of  shame. 

I  Behold  of  what  delusive  worth 
The  bubbles  we  pursue  on  earth, 
The  shapes  we  chase 
Amid  a  world  of  treachery  ! 
They  vanish  ere  death  shuts  the  eye, 
And  leave  no  trace. 

Time  steals  them  from  us,  chances  strange, 

Disastrous  accident,  and  change, 

That  come  to  all ; 

Even  in  the  most  exalted  state, 

Relentless  sweeps  the  stroke  of  fate  ; 

The  strongest  fall. 

Tell  me,  the  charms  that  lovers  seek 
In  the  clear  eye  and  blushing  cheek, 
The  hues  that  play 
O'er  rosy  lip  and  brow  of  snow, 
When  hoary  age  approaches  slow, 
Ah;  where  are  they  ? 

\  The  cunning  skill,  the  curious  arts, 
The  glorious  strength  that  youth  imparts 
In  life's  first  stage  ; 
These  shall  become  a  heavy  weight, 
When  Time  swings  wide  his  outward  gate 
To  weary  age. 

The  noble  blood  of  Gothic  name, 
Heroes  emblazoned  high  to  fame, 
In  long  array  ; 

How,  in  the  onward  course  of  time, 
The  landmarks  of  that  race  sublime 
Were  swept  away  ! 

Some,  the  degraded  slaves  of  lust, 
Prostrate  and  trampled  in  the  dust, 
Shall  rise  no  more  ; 
Others,  by  guilt  and  crime,  maintain 
The  scutcheon,  that,  without  a  stain, 
Their  fathers  bore. 

Wealth  and  the  high  estate  of  pride, 

With  what  untimely  speed  they  glide, 

How  soon  depart ! 

Bid  not  the  shadowy  phantoms  stay, 

The  vassals  of  a  mistress  they, 

Of  fickle  hearty 

These  gifts  in  Fortune's  hands  are  found; 
Her  swift  revolving  wheel  turns  round, 
And  they  are  gone  ! 


No  rest  the  inconstant  goddess  knows, 
But  changing,  and  without  repose, 
Still  hurries  on. 

(Even  could  the  hand  of  avarice  save 
'its  gilded  baubles,  till  the  grave 

Reclaimed  its  prey, 

Let  none  on  such  poor  hopes  rely  ; 

Life,  like  an  empty  dream,  flits  by, 

And  where  are  they  ? 

Earthly  desires  and  sensual  lust 
Are  passions  springing  from  the  dust, 
They  fade  and  die  ; 
But,  in  the  life  beyond  the  tomb, 
They  seal  the  immortal  spirit's  doom 
Eternally  ! 

The  pleasures  and  delights,  which  mask 
In  treacherous  smiles  life's  serious  task. 
What  are  they  all 
But  the  fleet  coursers  of  the  chase, 
And  death  an  ambush  in  the  race, 
Wherein  we  fall  ? 

No  foe,  no  dangerous  pass,  we  heed, 
Brook  no  delay,  but  onward  speed 
With  loosened  rein  ; 
And,  when  the  fatal  snare  is  near, 
We  strive  to  check  our  mad  career, 
But  strive  in  vain. 

Could  we  new  charms  to  age  impart, 
And  fashion  with  a  cunning  art 
The  human  face, 

As  we  can  clothe  the  soul  with  light, 
And  make  the  glorious  spirit  bright 
With  heavenly  grace, 

How  busily  each  passing  hour 
Should  we  exert  that  magic  power  ! 
What  ardor  show, 
To  deck  the  sensual  slave  of  sin, 
Yet  leave  the  freeborn  soul  within, 
In  weeds  of  woe  ! 

Monarchs,  the  powerful  and  the  strong, 

Famous  in  history  and  in  song 

Of  olden  time, 

Saw,  by  the  stern  decrees  of  fate, 

Their  kingdoms  lost,  and  desolate 

Their  race  sublime. r 


Who  is  the  champion  ?  who  the  strong  ? 
Pontiff  and  priest,  and  sceptred  throng  ? 
On  these  shall  fall 


COPLAS   DE  MANRIQUE 


589 


As  heavily  the  hand  of  Death, 

As  when  it  stays  the  shepherd's  breath  • 

Beside  his  stall. 

I  speak  not  of  the  Trojan  name, 

Neither  its  glory  nor  its  shame 

Has  met  our  eyes  ; 

Nor  of  Rome's  great  and  glorious  dead, 

Though  we  have  heard  so  oft,  and  read, 

Their  histories. 

Little  avails  it  now  to  know 
Of  ages  passed  so  long  ago, 
Nor  how  they  rolled  ; 
Our  theme  shall  be  of  yesterday, 
Which  to  oblivion  sweeps  away, 
Like  days  of  old. 

Where  is  the  King,  Don  Jnan  ?     Where 

Each  royal  prince  and  noble  heir 

Of  Aragon  ? 

Where  are  the  courtly  gallantries  ? 

The  deeds  of  love  and  high  emprise, 

In  battle  done  ? 

Tourney    and    joust,    that    charmed    the 

eye, 

And  scarf,  and  gorgeous  panoply, 
And  nodding  plume, 
What  were  they  but  a  pageant  scene  ? 
What  but  the  garlands,  gay  and  green, 
That  deck  the  tomb  ? 

Where    are    the    high-born   dames,   and 

where 

Their  gay  attire,  and  jewelled  hair, 
And  odors  sweet  ? 

Where  are  the  gentle  knights,  that  came 
To     kneel,    and     breathe     love's     ardent 

flame, 
Low  at  their  feet  ? 

Where  is  the  song  of  Troubadour  ? 

Where  are  the  lute  and  gay  tambour 

They  loved  of  yore  ? 

Where  is  the  rnazy  dance  of  old, 

The  flowing  robes,  inwrought  with  gold, 

The  dancers  wore  ? 

And  he  who  next  the  sceptre  swayed, 
Henry,  whose  royal  court  displayed 
Such  power  and  pride  ; 
Oh,  in  what  winning  smiles  arrayed, 
The  world  its  various  pleasures  laid 
His  throne  beside  ! 


But  oh,  how  false  and  full  of  guile 
That  world,  which  wore  so  soft  a  smile 
But  to  betray  ! 

She,  that  had  been  his  friend  before, 
Now  from  the  fated  monarch  tore 
Her  charms  away. 

The  countless  gifts,  the  stately  walls, 

The  royal  palaces,  and  halls, 

All  filled  with  gold  ; 

Plate  with  armorial  bearings  wrought, 

Chambers  with  ample  treasures  fraught 

Of  wealth  untold  ; 

The  noble  steeds,  and  harness  bright, 
And  gallant  lord,  and  stalwart  knight, 
In  rich  array, 

Where  shall  we  seek  them  now  ?     Alas  ! 
Like  the  bright  dewdrops  on  the  grass, 
They  passed  away. 

His  brother,  too,  whose  factious  zeal 
Usurped  the  sceptre  of  Castile, 
Unskilled  to  reign  ; 
What  a  gay,  brilliant  court  had  he, 
When  all  the  flower  of  chivalry 
Was  in  his  train  ! 

But  he  was  mortal  ;  and  the  breath 
That  flamed  from  the  hot  forge  of  Death 
Blasted  his  years  ; 

Judgment  of  God  !  that  flame  by  thee, 
When  raging  fierce  and  fearfully, 
Was  quenched  in  tears  ! 

Spain's  haughty  Constable,  the  true 
And  gallant  Master,  whom  we  knew 
Most  loved  of  all  ; 
Breathe  not  a  whisper  of  his  pride, 
He  on  the  gloomy  scaffold  died, 
Ignoble  fall  ! 

The  countless  treasures  of  his  care, 

His  villages  and  villas  fair, 

His  mighty  power, 

What  were  they  all  but  grief  and  shame, 

Tears  and  a  broken  heart,  when  came 

The  parting  hour  ? 

His  other  brothers,  proud  and  high, 
Masters,  who,  in  prosperity, 
Might  rival  kings  ; 
Who  made  the  bravest  and  the  best 
The  bondsmen  of  their  high  behest, 
Their  underlings  ; 


590 


TRANSLATIONS 


What  was  their  prosperous  estate, 
When  high  exalted  and  elate 
With  power  and  pride  ? 
What,  but  a  transient  gleam  of  light, 
A  flame,  which,  glaring  at  its  height, 
Grew  dim  and  died  ? 

So  many  a  duke  of  royal  name, 
Marquis  and  count  of  spotless  fame, 
And  baron  brave, 

That  might  the  sword  of  empire  wield, 
All  these,  O  Death,  hast  thou  concealed 
In  the  dark  grave  ! 

Their  deeds  of  mercy  and  of  arms, 
In  peaceful  days,  or  war's  alarms,  . 
When  thou  dost  show, 
O  Death,  thy  stern  and  angry  face, 
One  stroke  of  thy  all-powerful  mace 
Can  overthrow. 

Unnumbered  hosts,  that  threaten  nigh, 
Pennon  and  standard  flaunting  high, 
And  flag  displayed  ; 
High  battlements  intrenched  around, 
Bastion,  and  moated  wall,  and  mound, 
And  palisade, 

And  covered  trench,  secure  and  deep, 

All  these  cannot  one  victim  keep, 

O  Death,  from  thee, 

When  thou  dost  battle  in  thy  wrath, 

And  thy  strong  shafts  pursue  their  path 

Unerringly. 

I"  O  World  !  so  few  the  years  we  live, 

'  Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 

Were  life  indeed  ! 

Alas  !  thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 

Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 

The  soul  is  freed. 

Our  days  are  covered  o'er  with  grief. 

And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 

Veil  all  in  gloom  ; 

Left  desolate  of  real  good, 

Within  this  cheerless  solitude 

No  pleasures  bloom. 

Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 
And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 
Or  dark  despair  ; 
Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care.  [ 


Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groan, 

By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 

And  weary  hearts  ; 

Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 

But  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow 

Its  form  departs. 

And  he,  the  good  man's  shield  and  shade, 

To  whom  all  hearts  their  homage  paid, 

As  Virtue's  son, 

Roderic  Manrique,  he  whose  name 

Is  written  on  the  scroll  of  Fame, 

Spain's  champion  ; 

His  signal  deeds  and  prowess  high 

Demand  no  pompous  eulogy, 

Ye  saw  his  deeds  ! 

Why  should  their  praise  in  verse  be  sung  ? 

The  name,  that  dwells  on  every  tongue, 

No  minstrel  needs. 

To  friends  a  friend  ;  how  kind  to  all 
The  vassals  of  this  ancient  hall 
And  feudal  fief  ! 
To  foes  how  stern  a  foe  was  he  ! 
And  to  the  valiant  and  the  free 
How  brave  a  chief  ! 

What  prudence  with  the  old  and  wise  : 

What  grace  in  youthful  gayeties  ; 

In  all  how  sage  ! 

Benignant  to  the  serf  and  slave, 

He  showed  the  base  and  falsely  brave 

A  lion's  rage. 

His  was  Octavian's  prosperous  star, 

The  rush  of  Caesar's  conquering  car 

At  battle's  call ; 

His,  Scipio's  virtue  ;  his,  the  skill 

And  the  indomitable  will 

Of  Hannibal. 

His  was  a  Trajan's  goodness,  his 

A  Titus'  noble  charities 

And  righteous  laws  ; 

The  arm  of  Hector,  and  the  might 

Of  Tully,  to  maintain  the  right 

In  truth's  just  cause  ; 

The  clemency  of  Antonine, 
Aurelius'  countenance  divine, 
Firm,  gentle,  still  ; 
The  eloquence  of  Adrian, 
And  Theodosius'  love  to  man, 
And  generous  will  ; 


COPLAS   DE   MANRIQUE 


591 


In  tented  field  and  bloody  fray, 
An  Alexander's  vigorous  sway 
And  stern  command  ; 
The  faith  of  Constantino  ;  ay,  more, 
The  fervent  love  Camillus  bore 
His  native  land. 

He  left  no  well-filled  treasury, 

He  heaped  no  pile  of  riches  high, 

Nor  massive  plate  ; 

He  fought  the  Moors,  and,  in  their  fall, 

City  and  tower  and  castled  wall 

Were  his  estate. 

Upon  the  hard-fought  battle-ground, 
Brave  steeds  and  gallant  riders  found 
A  common  grave  ; 

And  there  tha  warrior's  hand  did  gain 
The  rents,  and  the  long  vassal  train, 
That  conquest  gave. 

And  if  of  old  his  halls  displayed 
The  honored  and  exalted  grade 
His  worth  had  gained, 
So,  in  the  dark,  disastrous  hour, 
Brothers  and  bondsmen  of  his  power 
His  hand  sustained. 

After  high  deeds,  not  left  untold, 

In  the  stern  warfare  which  of  old 

'T  was  his  to  share, 

Such  noble  leagues  he  made  that  more 

And  fairer  regions  than  before 

His  guerdon  were. 

These  are  the  records,  half  effaced, 

Which,  with  the  hand  of  youth,  be  traced 

On  history's  page  ; 

But  with  fresh  victories  he  drew 

Each  fading  character  anew 

In  his  old  age. 

By  his  unrivalled  skill,  by  great 
And  veteran  service  to  the  state, 
By  worth  adored, 
He  stood,  in  his  high  dignity, 
The  proudest  knight  of  chivalry, 
Knight  of  the  Sword. 

He  found  his  cities  and  domains 
Beneath  a  tyrant's  galling  chains 
And  cruel  power  ; 
But,  by  fierce  battle  and  blockade, 
Soon  his  own  banner  was  displayed 
From  every  tower. 


By  the  tried  valor  of  his  hand, 

His  monarch  and  his  native  land 

Were  nobly  served  ; 

Let  Portugal  repeat  the  story, 

And  proud  Castile,  who  shared  the  glory 

His  arms  deserved. 

And  when  so  oft,  for  weal  or  woe, 

His  life  upon  the  fatal  throw 

Had  been  cast  down  ; 

When  he  had  served,  with  patriot  zeal, 

Beneath  the  banner  of  Castile, 

His  sovereign's  crown  ; 

And  done  such  deeds  of  valor  strong, 

That  neither  history  nor  song 

Can  count  them  all  ; 

Then,  on  Ocana's  castled  rock, 

Death  at  his  portal  came  to  knock, 

With  sudden  call, 

Saying,  "Good  Cavalier,  prepare 
To  leave  this  world  of  toil  and  care 
With  joyful  mien  ; 
Let  thy  strong  heart  of  steel  this  day 
Put  on  its  armor  for  the  fray, 
The  closing  scene. 

"  Since  thou  hast  been,  in  battle-strife, 

So  prodigal  of  health  and  life, 

For  earthly  fame, 

Let  virtue  nerve  thy  heart  again  ; 

Loud  on  the  last  stem  battle-plain 

They  call  thy  name. 

<f  Think  not  the  struggle  that  draws  near 

Too  terrible  for  man,  nor  fear 

To  meet  the  foe  ; 

Nor  let  thy  noble  spirit  grieve, 

Its  life  of  glorious  fame  to  leave 

On  earth  below. 

"  A  life  of  honor  and  of  worth 

Has  no  eternity  on  earth, 

'T  is  but  a  name  ; 

And  yet  its  glory  far  exceeds 

That  base  and  sensual  life,  which  leads 

To  want  and  shaine. 

"  The  eternal  life,  beyond  the  sky, 
Wealth  cannot  purchase,  nor  the  high 
And  proud  estate  ; 
The  soul  in  dalliance  laid,  the  spirit 
Corrupt  with  sin,  shall  not  inherit 
A  joy  so  greatj 


592 


TRANSLATIONS 


"  But  the  good  monk,  in  cloistered  cell, 
Shall  gain  it  by  his  book  and  bell, 
His  prayers  and  tears  ; 
And    the    brave    knight,    whose   arm   en 
dures 

Fierce  battle,  and  against  the  Moors 
His  standard  rears. 

"  And  thou,  brave  knight,  whose  hand  has 

poured 

The  life-blood  of  the  Pagan  horde 
O'er  all  the  land, 

In  heaven  shalt  thou  receive,  at  length, 
The  guerdon  of  thine  earthly  strength 
And  dauntless  hand. 

"  Cheered  onward  by  this  promise  sure, 

Strong  in  the  faith  entire  and  pure 

Thou  dost  profess, 

Depart,  thy  hope  is  certainty, 

The  third,  the  better  life  on  high 

Shalt  thou  possess." 

"  O  Death,  no  more,  no  more  delay  ; 

My  spirit  longs  to  flee  away, 

And  be  at  rest ; 

The  will  of  Heaven  my  will  shall  be, 

I  bow  to  the  divine  decree, 

To  God's  behest. 

"  My  soul  is  ready  to  depart, 

No  thought  rebels,  the  obedient  heart 

Breathes  forth  no  sigh  ; 

The  wish  on  earth  to  linger  still 

Were    vain,   when   't  is    God's    sovereign 

will 
That  we  shall  die. 

"  O  thou,  that  for  our  sins  didst  take 
A  human  form,  and  humbly  make 
Thy  home  on  earth  ; 
Thou,  that  to  thy  divinity 
A  human  nature  didst  ally 
By  mortal  birth, 

"  And  in  that  form  didst  suffer  here 
Torment,  and  agony,  and  fear, 
So  patiently ; 

By  thy  redeeming  grace  alone, 
And  not  for  merits  of  my  own, 
Oh,  pardon  me  !  " 

As  thus  the  dying  warrior  prayed, 
Without  one  gathering  mist  or  shade 
Upon  his  mind  ; 


Encircled  by  his  family, 
Watched  by  affection's  gentle  eye 
So  soft  and  kind  ; 

His  soul  to  Him  who  gave  it  rose  ; 

God  lead  it  to  its  long  repose, 

Its  glorious  rest ! 

And,  though  the  warrior's  sun  has  set, 

Its  light  shall  linger  round  us  yet, 

Bright,  radiant,  blest. 


SONNETS 

I 
THE  GOOD   SHEPHERD 

(EL  BUEN  PASTOR) 
BY   LOPE   DE   VEGA 

Tlie  five  following  sonnets  are  from  the  Capias  de 
Manrique  volume,  where  they  were  printed  with  the 
Spanish  text  on  the  opposite  pages.  Two  other  sonnets  in 
that  volume,  not  retained  when  the  volume  was  merged 
in  Voices  of  the  Night,  will  be  found  in  the  Appendix. 
The  two  Lope  de  Vega  sonnets  are  from  his  Rimas 
Sacras. 

SHEPHERD  !  who  with  thine  amorous,  sylvan 
song 

Hast  broken   the   slumber    that   encom 
passed  me, 

Who  mad'st  thy  crook  from  the  accursed 
tree, 

On    which    thy    powerful     arms     were 

stretched  so  long  ! 

Lead   me   to  mercy's  ever -flowing   foun 
tains  ; 

For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide 
shalt  be  ; 

I  will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 

Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  moun 
tains. 

Hear,  Shepherd  !  thou  who  for  thy  flock 
art  dying, 

Oh,  wash  away  these   scarlet   sins,   for 
thou 

Rejoicest  at  the  contrite  sinner's  vow. 
Oh,  wait  !  to  thee  my  weary  soul  is  cry 
ing, 

Wait  for  me  !     Yet  why  ask  it,  when  I 
see, 

With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  thou  'rt 
waiting  still  for  me  ! 


THE   BROOK 


593 


II 
TO-MORROW 

(MANANA) 
BY   LOPE   DE   VEGA 

LORD,  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing  care, 
Thou  didst  seek  after  me,  that  thou  didst 

wait, 
Wet   with   unhealthy  dews,   before   my 

gate, 
And   pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter 

there  ? 

Oh,  strange  delusion,  that  I  did  not  greet 
Thy  blest  approach!  and  oh,  to  Heaven 

how  lost, 

If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost 
Has  chilled  the  bleeding   wounds   upon 

thy  feet ! 

How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 
"  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou 

shalt  see 
How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for 

thee  !  " 

And,  oh  !  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 
"  To-morrow  we  will  open,"  I  replied, 
And  when  the  morrow  came  I  answered 

still,  "  To-morrow." 


Ill 
THE  NATIVE  LAND 

(EL  PATRIO  CIELO) 
BY   FRANCISCO   DE   ALDANA 

CLEAR  fount  of  light !  my  native  land  on 

high, 
Bright   with   a   glory   that    shall   never 

fade  ! 
Mansion    of    truth !    without    a  veil   or 

shade, 

Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit's  eye. 
There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal   es 
sence, 
Gasping    no    longer     for     life's    feeble 

breath  ; 
But,  sentinelled  in  heaven,  its  glorious 

presence 
With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not, 

death. 


Beloved  country  !  banished  from  thy  shore, 
A  stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay, 
The  exiled   spirit   weeps  and   sighs   for 

thee! 

Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I  adore 
Direct,  and  the  sure  promise  cheers  the 

way, 

That,  whither  love  aspires,   there   shall 
my  dwelling  be. 


IV 
THE  IMAGE  OF  GOD 

(LA  IMAGEN  DE  DIGS) 
BY   FRANCISCO   DE   ALDANA 

O   LORD  !    who   seest,   from    yon    starry 

height, 

Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 
Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see  how 

fast 
The  world  obscures  in  me  what  once  was 

bright ! 
Eternal  Sun  !  the  warmth  which  thou  hast 

given, 

To   cheer   life's  flowery  April,  fast  de 
cays  ; 

Yet,  in  the  hoary  winter  of  my  days, 
Forever    green    shall    be    my   trust    in 

Heaven. 

Celestial  King  !  oh  let  thy  presence  pass 
Before  my  spirit,  and  an  image  fair 
Shall  meet  that  look  of  mercy  from  on 

high, 
As  the  reflected  image  in  a  glass 

Doth  meet  the  look  of  him  who  seeks  it 

there, 
And  owes  its  being  to  the  gazer's  eye. 


THE  BROOK 

(A  UN  ARROYUELO) 
ANONYMOUS 

LAUGH   of  the  mountain  !  —  lyre  of  bird 

and  tree  ! 

Pomp  of   the   meadow  !    mirror   of  the 
morn  ! 


594 


TRANSLATIONS 


The  soul  of  April,  unto  whom  are  born 

The  rose  and  jessamine,  leaps  wild   in 

thee! 

Although,   where'er   thy   devious    current 
strays, 

The  lap  of   earth  with  gold  and  silver 
teems, 

To   me   thy   clear   proceeding    brighter 
seems 

Than   golden   sands,    that    charm    each 

shepherd's  gaze. 

How  without   guile  thy  bosom,  all  trans 
parent 

As  the  pure  crystal,  lets  the  curious  eye 

Thy  secrets  scan,  thy  smooth,  round  peb 
bles  count ! 

How,  without  malice  murmuring,  glides  thy 
current  ! 

O  sweet  simplicity  of  days  gone  by  ! 

Thou  shun'st  the  haunts  of  man,  to  dwell 
in  limpid  fount ! 


ANCIENT  SPANISH   BALLADS 

In  the  chapter  with  this  title  in  Oufre-Mer,  besides 
illustrations  from  Byron  and  Lockhart  are  the  three 
following  examples,  contributed  by  Mr.  Longfellow. 

I 

Rio  VERDE,  Rio  Verde  ! 

Many  a  corpse  is  bathed  in  thee, 
Both  of  Moors  and  eke  of  Christians, 

Slain  with  swords  most  cruelly. 

And  thy  pure  and  crystal  waters 
Dappled  are  with  crimson  gore  ; 

For  between  the  Moors  and  Christians 
Long  has  been  the  fight  and  sore. 

Dukes  and  counts  fell  bleeding  near  thee, 
Lords  of  high  renown  were  slain, 

Perished  many  a  brave  hidalgo 
Of  the  noblemen  of  Spain. 


"King  Alfonso  the  Eighth,  having  exhausted  his 
treasury  in  war,  wishes  to  lay  a  tax  of  five  farthings 
upon  each  of  the  Castilian  hidalgos,  in  order  to  defray 
the  expenses  of  a  journey  from  Burgos  to  Cuenca.  This 
proposition  of  the  king  was  met  with  disdain  by  the 
noblemen  who  had  been  assembled  on  the  occasion." 

DON  NUNO,  Count  of  Lara, 

In  anger  and  in  pride, 
Forgot  all  reverence  for  the  king, 

And  thus  in  wrath  replied  : 


"Our  noble  ancestors,"  quoth  he, 

"  Ne'er  such  a  tribute  paid  ; 
Nor  shall  the  king  receive  of  us 

What  they  have  once  gainsaid. 

"  The  base-born  soul  who  deems  it  just 

May  here  with  thee  remain  ; 
But  follow  me,  ye  cavaliers, 

Ye  noblemen  of  Spain." 

Forth  followed  they  the  noble  Count, 
They  marched  to  Glera's  plain  ; 

Out  of  three  thousand  gallant  knights 
Did  only  three  remain. 

They  tied  the  tribute  to  their  spears, 

They  raised  it  in  the  air, 
And  they  sent  to  tell  their  lord  the  king 

That  his  tax  was  ready  there. 

"  He  may   send   and  take  by  force,"  said 
they, 

"  This  paltry  sum  of  gold  ; 
But  the  goodly  gift  of  liberty 

Cannot  be  bought  and  sold." 


Ill 


"One  of  the  finest  of  the  historic  ballads  is  that 
which  describes  Bernardo's  march  to  Roncesvalles.  He 
sallies  forth  '  witli  three  thousand  Leonese  and  more,' 
to  protect  the  glory  and  freedom  of  his  native  land. 
From  all  sides,  the  peasantry  of  the  land  flock  to  the 
hero's  standard." 

THE  peasant  leaves  his  plough  afield, 

The  reaper  leaves  his  hook, 
And  from  his  hand  the  shepherd-boy 

Lets  fall  the  pastoral  crook. 

The  young  set  up  a  shout  of  joy. 

The  old  forget  their  years, 
The  feeble  man  grows  stout  of  heart, 

No  more  the  craven  fears. 

All  rush  to  Bernard's  standard, 

And  on  liberty  they  call  ; 
They  cannot  brook  to  wear  the  yoke, 

When  threatened  by  the  Gaul. 

"  Free  were  we  born,"  't  is  thus  they  cry, 

"  And  willingly  pay  we 
The  duty  that  we  owe  our  king, 

By  the  divine  decree. 

"  But  God  forbid  that  we  obey 
The  laws  of  foreign  knaves, 


VIDA   DE    SAN    MILLAN 


595 


Tarnish  the  glory  of  our  sires, 
And  make  our  children  slaves. 

"  Our  hearts  have  not  so  craven  grown, 

So  bloodless  all  our  veins, 
So  vigorless  our  brawny  arms, 

As  to  submit  to  chains. 

"  Has  the  audacious  Frank,  forsooth, 
Subdued  these  seas  and  lands  ? 

Shall  he  a  bloodless  victory  have  ? 
No,  not  while  we  have  hands. 

"  He  shall  learn  that  the  gallant  Leonese 

Can  bravely  fight  and  fall, 
But  that  they  know  not  how  to  yield  ; 

They  are  Castilians  all. 

"  Was  it  for  this  the  Roman  power 

Of  old  was  made  to  yield 
Unto  Numantia's  valiant  hosts 

On  many  a  bloody  field  ? 

"  Shall  the  bold  lions  that  have  bathed 

Their  paws  in  Libyan  gore, 
Crouch  basely  to  a  feebler  foe, 

And  dare  the  strife  no  more  ? 

"  Let  the  false  king  sell  town  and  tower, 

But  not  his  vassals  free  ; 
For  to  subdue  the  free-born  soul 

No  royal  power  hath  he  ! " 

VIDA   DE   SAN    MILLAN 

BY   GONZALO   DE   BERCEO 

AND  when   the  kings  were  in   the  field,  — 

their  squadrons  in  array,  — 
With  lance  in  rest  they  onward  pressed  to 

mingle  in  the  fray  ; 
But  soon  upon  the  Christians  fell  a  terror 

of  their  foes,  — 
These  were   a   numerous   army,  —  a  little 

handful  those. 

And   while  the   Christian  people  stood  in 

this  uncertainty, 
Upward  to  heaven  they  turned  their  eyes, 

and  fixed  their  thoughts  on  high  ; 
And   there    two    figures    they   beheld,   all 

beautiful  and  bright, 
Even  than  the  pure  new-fallen  snow  their 

garments  were  more  white. 


They  rode    upon   two   horses   more   white 

than  crystal  sheen, 
And   arms   they  bore    such   as  before    no 

mortal  man  had  seen  ; 
The  one,  he  held   a   crosier,  —  a  pontiff's 

mitre  wore  ; 
The  other  held  a  crucifix,  —  such  man  ne'er 

saw  before. 

Their  faces  were  angelical,  celestial  forms 

had  they,  — 
And   downward  through   the   fields  of  air 

they  urged  their  rapid  way  ; 
They  looked  upon  the  Moorish  host  with 

fierce  and  angry  look, 
And  in  their  hands,  with  dire  portent,  their 

naked  sabres  shook. 

The  Christian  host,  beholding  this,  straight 
way  take  heart  again  ; 

They  fall  upon  their  bended  knees,  all  rest 
ing  on  the  plain, 

And  each  one  with  his  clenched  fist  to 
smite  his  breast  begins, 

And  promises  to  God  on  high  he  will  for 
sake  his  sins. 

And  when  the  heavenly  knights  drew  near 

unto  the  battle-ground, 
They  dashed  among  the  Moors  and  dealt 

unerring  blows  around  ; 
Such   deadly   havoc  there   they   made  the 

foremost  ranks  along, 
A  panic  terror  spread  unto  the  hindmost  of 

the  throng. 

Together  with  these  two  good  knights,  the 

champions  of  the  sky, 
The  Christians  rallied  and  began  to  smite 

full  sore  and  high  ; 
The  Moors  raised  up  their  voices  and  by 

the  Koran  swore 
That  in  their  lives  such  deadly  fray  they 

ne'er  had  seen  before. 

Down  went  the   misbelievers,  —  fast  sped 

the  bloody  fight,  — 
Some   ghastly   and  dismembered  lay,  and 

some  half  dead  with  fright  : 
Full  sorely  they  repented  that  to  the  field 

they  came, 
For  they  saw  that  from   the   battle   they 

should  retreat  with  shame. 


596 


TRANSLATIONS 


Another  thing  befell  them,  —  they  dreamed 

not  of  such  woes,  — 
The  very  arrows  that  the  Moors  shot  from 

their  twanging  bows 
Turned   back  against  them  in  their  flight 

and  wounded  them  full  sore, 
And   every  blow  they   dealt   the   foe  was 

paid  in  drops  of  gore. 

Now  he  that  bore  the  crosier,  and  the  papal 
crown  had  on, 

Was  the  glorified  Apostle,  the  brother  of 
Saint  John  ; 

And  he  that  held  the  crucifix,  and  wore  the 
monkish  hood, 

Was  the  holy  SanMillan  of  Cogolla's  neigh 
borhood. 


SAN  MIGUEL,  THE  CONVENT 
(SAN  MIGUEL  DE  LA  TUMBA) 
BY   GONZALO   DE   BERCEO 

SAN  MIGUEL  DE  LA  TUMBA  is  a  convent 
vast  and  wide  ; 

The  sea  encircles  it  around,  and  groans  on 
every  side  : 

It  is  a  wild  and  dangerous  place,  and  many 
woes  betide 

The  monks  who  in  that  burial-place  in  pen 
itence  abide. 

Within  those  dark  monastic  walls,  amid  the 

ocean  flood, 
Of  pious,  fasting  monks  there  dwelt  a  holy 

brotherhood  ; 
To  the  Madonna's  glory  there  an  altar  high 

was  placed, 
And   a  rich   and   costly  image  the  sacred 

altar  graced. 

Exalted  high   upon   a   throne,  the  Virgin 

Mother  smiled, 
And,  as  the  custom  is,  she  held  within  her 

arms  the  Child  ; 
The  kings  and  wise  men  of  the  East  were 

kneeling  by  her  side  ; 
Attended  was  she  like  a  queen  whom  God 

had  sanctified. 

Descending  low  before  her  face  a  screen  of 

feathers  hung,  — 
A  moscader,  or  fan  for  flies,  't  is  called  in 

vulgar  tongue  ; 


From  the  feathers  of  the  peacock's  wing 
't  was  fashioned  bright  and  fair, 

And  glistened  like  the  heaven  above  when 
all  its  stars  are  there. 

It  chanced  that,  for  the  people's  sins,  fell 

the  lightning's  blasting  stroke  : 
Forth   from  all  four  the  sacred  walls  the 

flames  consuming  broke  ; 
The  sacred  robes  were  all  consumed,  missal 

and  holy  book  ; 
And  hardly  with  their  lives  the  monks  their 

crumbling  walls  forsook. 


But 


raged 


though    the    desolating   flame 

fearfully  and  wild, 
It  did  not  reach  the  Virgin  Queen,  it  did  not 

reach  the  Child  ; 
It  did  not  reach  the  feathery  screen  before 

her  face  that  shone, 
Nor  injure  in  a  farthing's  worth  the  image 

or  the  throne. 

The  image  it  did  not  consume,  it  did  not 
burn  the  screen  ; 

Even  in  the  value  of  a  hair  they  were  not 
hurt,  I  ween  ; 

Not  even  the  smoke  did  reach  them,  nor  in 
jure  more  the  shrine 

Than  the  bishop  hight  Don  Tello  has  been 
hurt  by  hand  of  mine. 


SONG 

SHE  is  a  maid  of  artless  grace, 
Gentle  in  form,  and  fair  of  face. 

Tell  me,  thou  ancient  mariner, 

That  sailest  on  the  sea, 
If  ship,  or  sail,  or  evening  star 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she  ! 

Tell  me,  thou  gallant  cavalier, 

Whose  shining  arms  I  see, 
If  steel,  or  sword,  or  battle-field 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she  ! 

Tell   me,   thou  swain,    that  guard'st    thy 
flock 

Beneath  the  shadowy  tree, 
If  flock,  or  vale,  or  mountain-ridge 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she  ! 


FROM   THE   CANCIONEROS 


597 


SANTA  TERESA'S  BOOK-MARK 

(LETRILLA  QUE  LLEVABA  FOR  REGISTRO  EN  su 
BREVIARIO) 

BY   SANTA   TERESA   DE   AVILA 

LET  nothing  disturb  thee, 
Nothing  affright  thee  ; 
All  things  are  passing  ; 
God  never  changeth  ; 
Patient  endurance 
Attaineth  to  all  things  ; 
Who  God  possesseth 
In  nothing  is  wanting  ; 
Alone  God  sufficeth. 


FROM  THE  CANCIONEROS 

The  main  repository  of  these  poems  is  Ochoa'a  Tesoro 
de  los  Romanceros  y  Cancioneros  Espanoles,  Paris, 
1838.  See  also  Antologia  Espanola.  Mr.  Longfellow 
published  his  translations  in  the  volume  entitled  After 
math,  1873.  His  acquaintance  with  these  Spanish  pop 
ular  songs  was  an  early  one,  for  there  is  an  entry  in  his 
journal,  when  at  Dresden,  February  1,  1829:  "At the 
Public  Library  in  the  morning  till  one  o'clock.  Found 
a  very  curious  old  Spanish  book,  treating  of  the  trouba 
dour  poetry  of  Spain,  entitled  the  Cancionero  General." 


EYES  SO  TRISTFUL,  EYES  SO  TRISTFUL  I 
(Ojos  TRISTES,  Ojos  TRISTES) 
BY  DIEGO   DE  'SALDANA 

EYES  so  tristful,  eyes  so  tristful, 
Heart  so  full  of  care  and  cumber, 
I  was  lapped  in  rest  and  slumber, 
Ye  have  made  me  wakeful,  wistful  ! 
In  this  life  of  labor  endless 
Who  shall  comfort  my  distresses  ? 
Querulous  my  soul  and  friendless 
In  its  sorrow  shuns  caresses. 
Ye  have  made  me,  ye  have  made  me 
Querulous  of  you,  that  care  not, 
Eyes  so  tristful,  yet  I  dare  not 
Say  to  what  ye  have  betrayed  me. 

II 
SOME  DAY,  SOME  DAY 

(ALGUNA  VEZ) 
BY   CRISTdBAL   DE   GASTILLEJO 

SOME  day,  some  day, 
O  troubled  breast, 
Shalt  thou  find  rest. 
If  Love  in  thee 


To  grief  give  birth, 
Six  feet  of  earth 
Can  more  than  he  ; 
There  calm  and  free 
And  unoppressed 
Shalt  thou  find  rest. 

The  unattained 
In  life  at  last, 
When  life  is  passed, 
Shall  all  be  gained  ; 
And  no  more  pained, 
No  more  distressed, 
Shalt  thou  find  rest. 

Ill 
COME,  O  DEATH,  SO  SILENT  FLYING 

(VEN,  MUERTE  TAN  ESCONDIDA) 
BY   EL    COMMENDADOR   ESCRIVA 

COME,  O  Death,  so  silent  flying 

That  unheard  thy  coming  be, 

Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 

Bring  life  back  again  to  me. 

For  thy  sure  approach  perceiving, 

In  my  constancy  and  pain 

I  new  life  should  win  again, 

Thinking  that  I  am  not  living. 

So  to  me,  unconscious  lying, 

All  unknown  thy  coming  be, 

Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 

Bring  life  back  again  to  me. 

Unto  him  who  finds  thee  hateful, 

Death,  thou  art  inhuman  pain  ; 

But  to  me,  who  dying  gain, 

Life  is  but  a  task  ungrateful. 

Come,  then,  with  my  wish  complying-, 

All  unheard  thy  coming  be, 

Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 

Bring  life  back  again  to  me. 

IV 

GLOVE  OF  BLACK   IN   WHITE   HAND 
BARE 

GLOVE  of  black  in  white  hand  bare, 
And  about  her  forehead  pale 
Wound  a  thin,  transparent  veil, 
That  doth  not  conceal  her  hair  ; 
Sovereign  attitude  and  air, 
Cheek  and  neck  alike  displayed, 
With  coquettish  charms  arrayed, 
Laughing  eyes  and  fugitive  ;  — 
This  is  killing  men  that  live, 
'T  is  not  mourning  for  the  dead. 


598 


TRANSLATIONS 


FROM   THE    SWEDISH    AND   DANISH 


Mr.  Longfellow  spent  the  summer  of  1835  in  Sweden, 
where  he  occupied  himself  with  the  study  of  the  lan 
guage  and  literature,  and  with  travel  and  observations 
of  Swedish  character.  "  The  Swedish  language,"  he 
wrote,  "  is  soft  and  musical,  with  an  accent  like  the 
lowland  Scotch.  It  is  an  easy  language  to  read,  but 
difficult  to  speak  with  correctness,  owing  to  some  gram 
matical  peculiarities.  .  .  .  Sweden  has  one  great  poet, 
and  only  one.  That  is  Tegne~r,  Bishop  of  Wexio,  who  is 
still  living.  His  noblest  work  is  Frithtofs  Saga,  a 
heroic  poem,  founded  on  an  old  tradition."  After  his 
return  to  America,  Mr.  Longfellow  wrote  an  article  on 
the  poem  for  the  North  American  Review,  giving  in  it 
the  translations  which  are  placed  first  in  this  section. 

His  friend  Mr.  Samuel  Ward  four  years  later  urged 
him  to  translate  another  of  TegneVs  poems,  of  which 
Mr.  Longfellow  had  shown  him  a  brief  specimen  ;  and 
in  reply  Mr.  Longfellow  wrote,  under  date  of  October 
24, 1841  :  "  How  strange !  While  yon  are  urging  me  to 
translate  Nattvardsbarnen  [The  Children  of  the  Lord's 
Supper]  comes  a  letter  from  Bishop  Tegn<5r  himself, 
saying  that  of  all  the  translations  he  has  seen  of 
Frilhiof,  my  fragments  are  the  only  attempts  'that 
have  fully  satisfied  him.'  'The  only  fault,'  he  says, 
*  that  I  can  find  with  your  translation  is,  that  it  is  not 
complete.  I  take  the  liberty  of  urging  you  to  complete 
the  task,  that  I  may  be  able  to  say  that  Frithiof  has 

PASSAGES  FROM  FRITHIOF'S 
SAGA 

BY  ESAIAS   TEGNER 

I 
FRITHIOF'S    HOMESTEAD 

THREE  miles  extended  around  the  fields  of 

the  homestead,  on  three  sides 
Valleys  and  mountains  and  hills,  but  on  the 

fourth  side  was  the  ocean. 
Birch  woods  crowned  the  summits,  but  down 

the  slope  of  the  hillsides 
Flourished  the  golden  corn,  and  man-high 

was  waving  the  rye-field. 
Lakes,  full  many  in  number,  their  mirror 

held  up  for  the  mountains, 
Held  for  the  forests  up,  in  whose  depths 

the  high-horned  reindeers 
Had  their  kingly  walk,  and  drank  of  a  hun 
dred  brooklets. 
But  in  the  valleys  widely  around,  there  fed 

on  the  greensward 
Herds  with  shining  hides  and  udders  that 

longed  for  the  milk-pail. 
'Mid  these  scattered,  now  here  and  now 

there,  were  numberless  flocks  of 
Sheep  with  fleeces  white,  as  thou  seest  the 

white-looking  stray  clouds, 
Flock-wise  spread  o'er  the  heavenly  vault, 

when  it  bloweth  in  spring-time. 


been  translated  into  at  least  one  language.'  Highly 
complimentary  is  the  Bishop  to  my  humble  endeavor. 
.  .  .  After  this  kind  letter,  can  I  do  less  than  over-set 
the  Nattvardsbarnen  f  "  In  his  willingness,  he  at  once 
set  about  the  translation,  and  wrote  his  friend,  Novem 
ber  6th  :  "  It  is  Saturday  night,  and  eight  by  the  village 
clock.  I  have  just  finished  the  translation  of  The  Chil 
dren  of  the  Lord's  Supper  ;  and  with  the  very  ink  that 
wrote  the  last  words  of  it,  I  commence  this  letter  to  you. 
That  it  is  with  the  same  pen,  too,  this  chirography  suffi 
ciently  makes  manifest.  With  your  permission  I  will 
mend  that.  The  poem  is  indeed  very  beautiful ;  and  in 
parts  so  touching  that  more  than  once  in  translating  it 
I  was  blinded  with  tears.  Perhaps  my  weakness  makes 
the  poet  strong.  You  shall  soon  judge."  In  the  introduc 
tion  to  the  volume  containing  the  poem,  Mr.  Longfellow 
made  the  following  remarks  regarding  his  translation :  — 
"  The  translation  is  literal,  perhaps  to  a  fault.  In  no 
instance  have  I  done  the  author  a  wrong  by  introducing 
into  his  work  any  supposed  improvements  or  embellish 
ments  of  my  own.  I  have  preserved  even  the  measure, 
that  inexorable  hexameter,  in  which,  it  must  be  con 
fessed,  the  motions  of  the  English  muse  are  not  unlike 
those  of  a  prisoner  dancing  to  the  music  of  his  chains  ; 
and  perhaps,  as  Dr.  Johnson  said  of  the  dancing  dog, 
'  the  wonder  is  not  that  she  should  do  it  so  well,  but  that 
she  should  do  it  at  all.'" 

Coursers  two  times  twelve,  all  mettlesome, 

fast  fettered  storm-winds, 
Stamping  stood  in  the  line  of  stalls,  and 

tugged  at  their  fodder. 
Knotted  with  red  were  their   manes,  and 

their  hoofs  all  white  with  steel  shoes. 
Th'  banquet-hall,  a   house   by  itself,    was 

timbered  of  hard  fir. 
Not  five  hundred  men  (at  ten  times  twelve 

to  the  hundred) 
Filled  up  the  roomy  hall,  when  assembled 

for  drinking,  at  Yule-tide. 
Thorough  the  hall,  as  long  as  it  was,  went  a 

table  of  holm-oak, 
Polished  and  white,  as  of  steel  ;  the  columns 

twain  of  the  High-seat 
Stood  at  the  end  thereof,  two  gods  carved 

out  of  an  elm-tree  ; 
Odin  with  lordly  look,  and  Frey  with  the 

sun  on  his  frontlet. 
Lately  between  the  two,  on  a  bear-skin  (the 

skin  it  was  coal-black, 
Scarlet-red  was  the  throat,  but  the  paws 

were  shodden  with  silver), 
Thorsten  sat  with  his  friends,  Hospitality 

sitting  with  Gladness. 
Oft,  when  the  moon  through  the  cloud-rack 

flew,  related  the  old  man 
Wonders  from  distant  lands  he  had  seen, 

and  cruises  of  Vikings 
Far  away  on  the  Baltic,  and  Sea  of  the 

West,  and  the  White  Sea. 


PASSAGES    FROM   FRITHIOF'S   SAGA 


599 


Hushed  sat  the  listening  bench,  and  their 

glances  hung  on  the  graybeard's 
Lips,  as  a  bee  011  the  rose  ;  but  the  Scald 

was  thinking  of  Brage, 
Where,  with  his  silver  beard,  and  runes  ou 

his  tongue,  he  is  seated 
Under  the  leafy  beech,  and  tells  a  tradition 

by  Mimer's 
Ever-murmuring   wave,    himself   a   living 

tradition. 
Midway   the    floor    (with    thatch    was    it 

strewn)  burned  ever  the  fire-flame 
Glad  on  its  stone-built  hearth  ;  and  thor 
ough  the  wide-mouthed  smoke-flue 
Looked  the  stars,  those  heavenly  friends, 

down  into  the  great  hall. 
Round  the  walls,  upon  nails  of  steel,  were 

hanging  in  order 
Breastplate  and  helmet  together,  and  here 

and  there  among  them 
Downward  lightened  a  sword,  as  in  winter 

evening  a  star  shoots. 
More  than  helmets  and  swords  the  shields 

in  the  hall  were  resplendent, 
White  as  the  orb  of  the  sun,  or  white  as 

the  moon's  disk  of  silver. 
Ever   and   anon  went   a  maid   round   the 

board,  and  filled  up  the  drink-horns, 
Ever  she  cast  down  her  eyes  and   blushed  ; 

in  the  shield  her  reflection 
Blushed,  too,  even  as  she  ;  this  gladdened 

the  drinking  champions. 


II 


A   SLEDGE-RIDE   ON   THE  ICE 

KING  RING  with  his  queen  to  the  banquet 

did  fare, 
On  the  lake  stood  the  ice  so  mirror-clear. 

"Fare    not    o'er    the    ice,"   the    stranger 

cries  ; 
"  It  will  burst,  and  full  deep  the  cold  bath 

lies." 

"The  king  drowns  not  easily,"  Ring  out- 
spake  ; 
"  He  who  's  afraid  may  go  round  the  lake." 

Threatening  and  dark  looked  the  stranger 

round, 
His  steel  shoes  with  haste  on  his  feet  he 

bound. 


The  sledge-horse   starts  forth  strong  and 

free  ; 
He  snorteth  flames,  so  glad  is  he. 

"Strike    out,"   screamed    the   king,    "my 

trotter  good, 
Let  us  see  if  thou  art  of  Sleipner's  blood." 

They  go  as  a  storm  goes  over  the  lake, 
No  heed  to  his  queen  doth  the  old  man 
take. 

But  the  steel-shod  champion  standeth  not 

still, 
He  passeth  them  by  as  swift  as  he  will. 

He  carves  many  runes  in  the  frozen  tide, 
Fair   Ingeborg   o'er   her   own   name  doth 
glide. 

Ill 
FRITHIOF'S   TEMPTATION 

SPRING  is  coming,  birds  are  twittering, 
forests  leaf,  and  smiles  the  sun, 

And  the  loosened  torrents  downward,  sing 
ing,  to  the  ocean  run  ; 

Glowing  like  the  cheek  of  Freya,  peeping 
rosebuds  'gin  to  ope, 

And  in  human  hearts  awaken  love  of  life, 
and  joy,  and  hope. 

Now  will  hunt  the  ancient  monarch,  and 
the  queen  shall  join  the  sport  : 

Swarming  in  its  gorgeous  splendor,  is  as 
sembled  all  the  court  ; 

Bows  ring  loud,  and  quivers  rattle,  stallions 
paw  the  ground  alway, 

And,  with  hoods  upon  their  eyelids,  scream 
the  falcons  for  their  prey. 

See,  the    Queen  of   the   chase    advances  ! 

Frithiof,  gaze  not  at  the  sight  ! 
Like  a  star  upon  a  spring-cloud  sits  she  on 

her  palfrey  white. 
Half  of   Freya,  half    of   Rota,   yet    more 

beauteous  than  these  two, 
And  from  her   light   hat  of   purple   wave 

aloft  the  feathers  blue. 

Gaze  not  at  her   eyes'  blue  heaven,  gaze 

not  at  her  golden  hair  ! 
Oh  beware  !  her  waist  is  slender,  full  her 

bosom  is,  beware  ! 


6oo 


TRANSLATIONS 


Look  not  at  the  rose  and  lily  on  her  cheek 

that  shifting  play, 
List  not  to  the   voice   beloved,  whispering 

like  the  wind  of  May. 

Now  the  huntsman's  band  is  ready.  Hur 
rah  !  over  hill  and  dale  ! 

Horns  ring,  and  the  hawks  right  upward 
to  the  hall  of  Odin  sail. 

All  the  dwellers  in  the  forest  seek  in  fear 
their  cavern  homes, 

But,  with  spear  outstretched  before  her, 
after  them  the  Valkyr  comes. 


Then  threw  Frithiof  down  his  mantle,  and 

upon  the  greensward  spread, 
And  the   ancient  king  so  trustful  laid  on 

Frithiof's  knee  his  head, 
Slept  as  calmly  as  the  hero  sleepeth,  after 

war's  alarm, 
On  his  shield,  or  as  an  infant  sleeps  upon 

its  mother's  arm. 

As  he  slumbers,  hark  !  there  sings  a  coal- 
black  bird  upon  the  bough  ; 

"  Hasten,  Frithiof,  slay  the  old  man,  end 
your  quarrel  at  a  blow  : 

Take  his  queen,  for  she  is  thine,  and  once 
the  bridal  kiss  she  gave, 

Now  no  human  eye  beholds  thee,  deep  and 
silent  is  the  grave." 

Frithiof  listens  ;  hark  !  there  sings  a  snow- 
white  bird  upon  the  bough  : 

"  Though  no  human  eye  beholds  thee, 
Odin's  eye  beholds  thee  now. 

Coward  !  wilt  thou  murder  sleep,  and  a 
defenceless  old  man  slay  ! 

Whatsoe'er  thou  winn'st,  thou  canst  not 
win  a  hero's  fame  this  way." 

Thus    the    two    wood-birds    did    warble : 

Frithiof  took  his  war-sword  good, 
With  a  shudder  hurled  it  from  him,  far 

into  the  gloomy  wood. 
Coal-black  bird  flies  down  to  Nastrand,  but 

on  light,  unfolded  wings, 
Like  the  tone  of  harps,  the  other,  sounding 

towards  the  sun,  upsprings. 

Straight  the  ancient  king  awakens.  "  Sweet 
has  been  my  sleep,"  he  said  ; 

"Pleasantly  sleeps  one  in  the  shadow, 
guarded  by  a  brave  man's  blade. 


But    where    is    thy    sword,   O    stranger? 

Lightning's  brother,  where  is  he  ? 
Who   thus  parts   you,    who   should   never 

from  each  other  parted  be  !  " 

"  It  avails   not,"  Frithiof  answered  ;   "  in 

the  North  are  other  swords  : 
Sharp,  O  monarch  !  is  the  sword's  tongue, 

and  it  speaks  not  peaceful  words  ; 
Murky  spirits  dwell  in  steel  blades,  spirits 

from  the  Niffelhem  ; 
Slumber  is   not   safe   before   them,  silver 

locks  but  anger  them." 


IV 
FRITHIOF'S   FAREWELL 

No  more  shall  I  see 

In  its  upward  motion 

The  smoke  of  the  Northland.     Man  is  a 

slave  : 

The  fates  decree. 
On  the  waste  of  the  ocean 
There  is  my  fatherland,  there  is  my  grave. 

Go  not  to  the  strand, 
Ring,  with  thy  bride, 
After  the  stars  spread  their  light  through 

the  sky. 

Perhaps  in  the  sand, 
Washed  up  by  the  tide, 
The  bones  of  the  outlawed  Viking  may  lie. 

Then,  quoth  the  king, 
"  'T  is  mournful  to  hear 
A  man  like  a  whimpering  maiden  cry. 
The  death-song  they  sing 
Even  now  in  mine  ear. 
What   avails   it  ?     He  who  is   born  must 
die." 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S 
SUPPER 

BY   ESAIAS   TEGNER 

PENTECOST,  day   of  rejoicing,  had  come. 

The  church  of  the  village 
Gleaming  stood  in  the  morning's  sheen. 

On  the  spire  of  the  belfry, 
Decked  with  a  brazen  cock,  the  friendly 

flames  of  the  Spring-sun 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER 


601 


Glanced  like  the  tongues  of  fire,  beheld  by 

Apostles  aforetime. 
Clear  was  the  heaven  and  blue,  and  Ma}', 

with  her  cap  crowned  with  roses, 
Stood  in  her  holiday  dress  in  the  fields,  and 

the  wind  and  the  brooklet 
Murmured    gladness    and     peace,    God's- 

peace  !  with  lips  rosy-tinted 
Whispered   the   race   of  the   flowers,   and 

merry  on  balancing  branches 
Birds  were  singing  their  carol,  a  jubilant 

hymn  to  the  Highest. 
Swept    and    clean    was    the     churchyard. 

Adorned  like  a  leaf-woven  arbor 
Stood  its  old-fashioned  gate  ;  and  within 

upon  each  cross  of  iron 
Hung  was  a  fragrant  garland,  new  twined 

by  the  hands  of  affection. 
Even  the  dial,  that  stood  on  a  mound  among 

the  departed, 
(There  full  a  hundred  years  had  it  stood,) 

was  embellished  with  blossoms. 
Like  to  the  patriarch  hoary,  the  sage  of  his 

kith  and  the  hamlet, 
Who  on  his  birthday  is  crowned  by  children 

and  children's  children, 
So   stood  the  ancient   prophet,  and   mute 

with  his  pencil  of  iron 

Marked  on  the  tablet  of  stone,  and  mea 
sured  the  time  and  its  changes, 
While  all  around  at  his  feet,  an  eternity 

slumbered  in  quiet. 
Also  the  church  within  was  adorned,  for 

this  was  the  season 
When  the  young,  their  parents'  hope,  and 

the  loved-ones  of  heaven, 
Should  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  renew  the 

vows  of  their  baptism. 
Therefore  each  nook  and  corner  was  swept 

and  cleaned,  and  the  dust  was 
Blown    from    the    walls   and   ceiling,    and 

from  the  oil-painted  benches. 
There  stood  the  church  like  a  garden  ;  the 

Feast  of  the  Leafy  Pavilions 
Saw  we  in  living  presentment.    From  noble 

arms  on  the  church  wall 
Grew  forth  a  cluster   of   leaves,  and  the 

preacher's  pulpit  of  oak-wood 
Budded  once  more  anew,  as  aforetime  the 

rod  before  Aaron. 
Wreathed    thereon    was    the    Bible    with 

leaves,  and  the  dove,  washed  with 

silver, 
Under   its   canopy   fastened,  had   on   it  a 

necklace  of  wind-flowers. 


But  in  front  of  the  choir,  round  the  altar- 
piece  painted  by  Horberg, 

Crept  a  garland  gigantic  ;  and  bright-curl 
ing  tresses  of  angels 

Peeped,  like  the  sun  from  a  cloud,  from 
out  of  the  shadowy  leaf-work. 

Likewise  the  lustre  of  brass,  new-polished, 
blinked  from  the  ceiling, 

And  for  lights  there  were  lilies  of  Pentecost 
set  in  the  sockets. 

Loud  rang  the  bells  already  ;  the  throng 
ing  crowd  was  assembled 
Far  from  valleys  and  hills,  to  list  to  the 

holy  preaching. 
Hark  !  then  roll  forth  at  once  the  mighty 

tones  of  the  organ, 
Hover   like   voices   from   God,    aloft   like 

invisible  spirits. 
Like  as  Elias  in  heaven,  when  he  cast  from 

off  him  his  mantle, 
So  cast  off  the  soul  its  garments  of  earth  ; 

and  with  one  voice 
Chimed  in  the  congregation,  and  sang  an 

anthem  immortal 
Of  the  sublime  Wallfn,  of  David's  harp  in 

the  North-land 
Tuned  to  the  choral  of  Luther  ;  the  song 

on  its  mighty  pinions 
Took  every  living  soul,  and  lifted  it  gently 

to  heaven, 
And  each  face  did  shine  like  the  Holy  One's 

face  upon  Tabor. 
Lo  !  there  entered  then  into  the  church  the 

Reverend  Teacher. 
Father  he  hight  and  he  was  in  the  parish  ; 

a  Christianly  plainness 
Clothed  from  his  head  to  his  feet  the  old 

man  of  seventy  winters. 
Friendly  was  he  to  behold,  and  glad  as  the 

heralding  angel 
Walked  he  among  the  crowds,  but  still  a 

contemplative  grandeur 
Lay  on  his  forehead  as  clear  as  on  moss- 
covered  gravestone  a  sunbeam. 
As  in  his  inspiration  (an  evening  twilight 

that  faintly 
Gleams  in  the  human  soul,  even  now,  from 

the  day  of  creation) 
Th'  Artist,  the  friend  of  heaven,  imagines 

Saint  John  when  in  Patmos, 
Gray,  with  his  eyes  uplifted  to  heaven,  so 

seemed  then  the  old  man  ; 
Such  was  the  glance  of  his  eye,  and  such 

were  his  tresses  of  silver. 


602 


TRANSLATIONS 


All  the  congregation  arose  in  the  pews  that 

were  numbered. 
But  with  a  cordial  look,  to  the  right  and 

the  left  hand,  the  old  man 
Nodding  all  hail  and  peace,  disappeared  in 

the  innermost  chancel. 

Simply  and  solemnly  now  proceeded  the 

Christian  service, 
Singing  and  prayer,  and  at  last  an  ardent 

discourse  from  the  old  man. 
Many  a  moving  word  and  warning,  that  out 

of  the  heart  came, 
Fell   like    the   dew  of   the   morning,    like 

manna  on  those  in  the  desert. 
Then,  when  all  was  finished,  the  Teacher 

reentered  the  chancel, 
Followed  therein  by  the  young.     The  boys 

on  the  right  had  their  places, 
Delicate    figures,  with    close-curling    hair 

and  cheeks  rosy-blooming. 
But  on  the  left  of  these  there  stood  the 

tremulous  lilies, 
Tinged  with  the  blushing  light  of  the  dawn, 

the  diffident  maidens, — 
Folding  their  hands  in  prayer,  and  their 

eyes  cast  down  on  the  pavement. 
Now  came,  with  question  and  answer,  the 

catechism.     In  the  beginning 
Answered  the  children  with  troubled  and 

faltering  voice,  but  the  old  man's 
Glances  of  kindness  encouraged  them  soon, 

and  the  doctrines  eternal 
Flowed,   like  the  waters  of   fountains,  so 

clear  from  lips  unpolluted. 
Each  time  the  answer  was  closed,  and  as 

oft  as  they  named  the  Redeemer, 
Lowly  louted  the  boys,  and  lowly  the  maid 
ens  all  courtesied. 
Friendly  the  Teacher  stood,  like   an  angel 

of  light  there  among  them, 
And  to  the  children  explained  the  holy,  the 

highest,  in  few  words, 

Thorough,  yet  simple  and  clear,  for  sublim 
ity  always  is  simple, 
Both  in  sermon  and  song,  a  child  can  seize 

on  its  meaning. 
E'en   as   the   green  -  growing  bud   unfolds 

when  Springtide  approaches, 
Leaf  by  leaf  puts  forth,  and,  warmed  by 

the  radiant  sunshine, 
Blushes  with  purple  and  gold,  till  at  last  the 

perfected  blossom 
Opens  its  odorous  chalice,  and  rocks  with 

its  crown  in  the  breezes, 


So  was  unfolded  here  the  Christian  lore  of 

salvation, 
Line  by  line  from  the  soul  of  childhood.    The 

fathers  and  mothers 
Stood  behind  them  in  tears,  and  were  glad 

at  the  well-worded  answer. 

Now  went  the  old  man  up  to  the  altar  ; 
—  and  straightway  transfigured 

(So  did  it  seem  unto  me)  was  then  the  af 
fectionate  Teacher. 

Like  the  Lord's  Prophet  sublime,  and  awful 
as  Death  and  as  Judgment 

Stood  he,  the  God  -  commissioned,  the 
soul  -  searcher,  earthward  descend 
ing. 

Glances,  sharp  as  a  sword,  into  hearts  that 
to  him  were  transparent 

Shot  he  ;  his  voice  was  deep,  was  low  like 
the  thunder  afar  off. 

So  on  a  sudden  transfigured  he  stood  there, 
he  spake  and  he  questioned. 

"This  is  the  faith  of  the  Fathers,  the 
faith  the  Apostles  delivered, 

This  is  moreover  the  faith  whereunto  I 
baptized  you,  while  still  ye 

Lay  on  your  mothers'  breasts,  and  nearer 
the  portals  of  heaven. 

Slumbering  received  you  then  the  Holy 
Church  in  its  bosom  ; 

Wakened  from  sleep  are  ye  now,  and  the 
light  in  its  radiant  splendor 

Downward  rains  from  the  heaven  ;  —  to-day 
on  the  threshold  of  childhood 

Kindly  she  frees  you  again,  to  examine  and 
make  your  election, 

For  she  knows  naught  of  compulsion,  and 
only  conviction  desireth. 

This  is  the  hour  of  your  trial,  the  turning- 
point  of  existence, 

Seed  for  the  coming  days  ;  without  revo 
cation  departeth 

Now  from  your  lips  the  confession.  Bethink 
ye,  before  ye  make  answer  ! 

Think  not,  oh  think  not  with  guile  to  de 
ceive  the  questioning  Teacher. 

Sharp  is  his  eye  to-day,  and  a  curse  ever 
rests  upon  falsehood. 

Enter  not  with  a  lie  on  Life's  journey  ;  the 
multitude  hears  you, 

Brothers  and  sisters  and  parents,  what  dear 
upon  earth  is  and  holy 

Standeth  before  your  sight  as  a  witness  ; 
the  Judge  everlasting 


THE   CHILDREN   OF  THE   LORD'S   SUPPER 


603 


Looks  frum  the  sun  down  upon  you,  and 

angels  in  waiting  beside  him 
Grave   your   confession   in   letters    of   fire 

upon  tablets  eternal. 
Thus,   then,  —  believe   ye   in    God,  in  the 

Father  who  this  world  created  ? 
Him  who   redeemed  it,  the  Son,  and   the 

Spirit  where  both  are  united  ? 
Will  ye  promise  me  here,  (a  holy  promise  !) 

to  cherish 
God  more  than  all  things  earthly,  and  every 

man  as  a  brother  ? 
Will  ye  promise  me  here,  to  confirm  your 

faith  by  your  living, 
Th'  heavenly  faith  of  affection  !  to  hope,  to 

forgive,  and  to  suffer, 
Be  what  it  may  your  condition,  and  walk 

before  God  in  uprightness  ? 
Will  ye  promise  me  this  before  God  and 

man  ?  "  —  With  a  clear  voice 
Answered  the  young  men  Yes  !  and  Yes  ! 

with  lips  softly-breathing 
Answered   the    maidens   eke.      Then   dis 
solved  from  the  brow  of  the  Teacher 
Clouds  with  the  lightnings  therein,  and  he 

spake  in  accents  more  gentle, 
Soft   as  the  evening's  breath,  as  harps  by 

Babylon's  rivers. 

"  Hail,  then,  hail  to  you  all  !  To  the 
heirdom  of  heaven  be  ye  welcome  ! 

Children  no  more  from  this  day,  but  by 
covenant  brothers  and  sisters  ! 

Yet,  —  for  what  reason  not  children  ?  Of 
such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

Here  upon  earth  an  assemblage  of  children, 
in  heaven  one  Father, 

Ruling  them  all  as  his  household,  —  for 
giving  in  turn  and  chastising, 

That  is  of  human  life  a  picture,  as  Scripture 
has  taught  us. 

Blest  are  the  pure  before  God  !  Upon  pur 
ity  and  upon  virtue 

Resteth  the  Christian  Faith  ;  she  herself 
from  on  high  is  descended. 

Strong  as  a  man  and  pure  as  a  child,  is  the 
sum  of  the  doctrine, 

Which  the  Divine  One  taught,  and  suffered 
and  died  on  the  cross  for. 

Oh,  as  ye  wander  this  day  from  childhood's 
sacred  asylum 

Downward,  and  ever  downward,  and  deeper 
in  Age's  chill  valley, 

Oh,  how  soon  will  ye  come,  —  too  soon  !  — 
and  long  to  turn  backward 


Up  to  its  hill-tops  again,  to  the  sun-illu 
mined,  where  Judgment 

Stood  like  a  father  before  you,  and  Pardon, 
clad  like  a  mother, 

Gave  you  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  the  loving 
heart  was  forgiven, 

Life  was  a  play  and  your  hands  grasped 
after  the  roses  of  heaven  ! 

Seventy  years  have  I  lived  already  ;  the 
Father  eternal 

Gave  me  gladness  and  care  ;  but  the  loveli 
est  hours  of  existence, 

When  I  have  steadfastly  gazed  in  their 
eyes,  I  have  instantly  known  them, 

Known  them  all  again  ;  —  they  were  my 
childhood's  acquaintance. 

Therefore  take  from  henceforth,  as  guides 
in  the  paths  of  existence, 

Prayer,  with  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven, 
and  Innocence,  bride  of  man's  child 
hood. 

Innocence,  child  beloved,  is  a  guest  from 
the  world  of  the  blessed, 

Beautiful,  and  in  her  hand  a  lily  ;  on  life's 
roaring  billows 

Swings  she  in  safety,  she  heedeth  them  not, 
in  the  ship  she  is  sleeping. 

Calmly  she  gazes  around  in  the  turmoil  of 
men  ;  in  the  desert 

Angels  descend  and  minister  unto  her  ;  she 
herself  knoweth 

Naught  of  her  glorious  attendance  ;  but 
follows  faithful  and  humble, 

Follows  so  long  as  she  may  her  friend  ;  oh 
do  not  reject  her, 

For  she  cometh  from  God  and  she  holdeth 
the  keys  of  the  heavens. 

Prayer  is  Innocence'  friend  ;  and  willingly 
flieth  incessant 

'Twixt  the  earth  and  the  sky,  the  carrier- 
pigeon  of  heaven. 

Son  of  Eternity,  fettered  in  Time,  and  an 
exile,  the  Spirit 

Tugs  at  his  chains  evermore,  and  struggles 
like  flame  ever  upward. 

Still  he  recalls  with  emotion  his  Father's 
manifold  mansions, 

Thinks  of  the  land  of  his  fathers,  where  blos 
somed  more  freshly  the  flowerets, 

Shone  a  more  beautiful  sun,  and  he  played 
with  the  winged  angels. 

Then  grows  the  earth  too  narrow,  too  close  ; 
and  homesick  for  heaven 

Longs  the  wanderer  again  ;  and  the 
Spirit's  longings  are  worship  ; 


604 


TRANSLATIONS 


Worship  is  called  his  most  beautiful  hour, 

and  its  tongue  is  entreaty. 
Ah  !  when  the  infinite  burden  of  life    de- 

scendeth  upon  us, 
Crushes  to  earth  our  hope,  and,  under  the 

earth,  in  the  graveyard, 
Then  it  is  good  to  pray  unto  God  ;  for  his 

sorrowing  children 
Turns  He  ne'er  from  his  door,  but  He  heals 

and  helps  and  consoles  them. 
Yet  is  it  better  to  pray  when  all  things  are 

prosperous  with  us, 
Pray    in   fortunate   days,   for    life's    most 

beautiful  Fortune 
Kneels  before   the   Eternal's  throne  ;  and 

with  hands  interfolded, 
Praises  thankful  and  moved  the  only  giver 

of  blessings. 
Or  do  ye  know,  ye  children,  one  blessing 

that  comes  not  from  Heaven  ? 
What  has  mankind  forsooth,  the  poor  !  that 

it  has  not  received  ? 
Therefore,  fall  in  the  dust  and  pray  !     The 

seraphs  adoring 
Cover  with   pinions   six  their  face   in  the 

glory  of  Him  who 
Hung  his  masonry  pendent  on  naught,  when 

the  world  He  created. 

Earth  declareth  his  might,  and  the  firma 
ment  utters  his  glory. 
Races    blossom    and    die,   and    stars   fall 

downward  from  heaven, 
Downward   like  withered  leaves  ;   at   the 

last  stroke  of  midnight,  millenniums 
Lay  themselves  down  at  his  feet,  and  He 

sees  them,  but  counts   them  as  no 
thing. 
Who   shall   stand   in   his  presence  ?     The 

wrath  of  the  Judge  is  terrific, 
Casting   the   insolent    down   at   a   glance. 

When  He  speaks  in  his  anger 
Hillocks  skip  like  the  kid,  and  mountains 

leap  like  the  roebuck. 
Yet,  —  why   are   ye   afraid,  ye   children  ? 

This  awful  avenger, 
Ah  1  is  a  merciful  God  !     God's  voice  was 

not  in  the  earthquake, 
Not  in  the  fire,  nor  the  storm,  but  it  was 

in  the  whispering  breezes. 
Love  is  the  root  of  creation  ;  God's  essence  ; 

worlds  without  number 
Lie  in  his  bosom  like  children  ;    He  made 

them  for  this  purpose  only. 
Only   to  love  and   to  be  loved  again,    He 

breathed  forth  his  spirit 


Into    the    slumbering   dust,    and    upright 

standing,  it  laid  its 
Hand  on  its  heart,  and  felt  it  was  warm 

with  a  flame  out  of  heaven. 
Quench,  oh  quench  not  that  fiame  !     It  is 

the  breath  of  your  being. 
Love   is   life,    but   hatred  is  death.      Not 

father  nor  mother 
Loved  you,   as  God   has   loved   you  ;  for 

't  was  that  you  may  be  happy 
Gave  He  his  only  Son.     When  He  bowed 

down  his  head  in  the  death-hour 
Solemnized  Love  its  triumph  ;  the  sacrifice 

then  was  completed. 
Lo  !  then  was  rent  on  a  sudden  the  veil  of 

the  temple,  dividing 
Earth  and  heaven  apart,  and  the  dead  from 

their  sepulchres  rising 
Whispered  with  pallid  lips  and  low  in  the 

ears  of  each  other 

Th'  answer,  but  dreamed  of  before,  to  cre 
ation's  enigma,  —  Atonement  ! 
Depths    of  Love  are  Atonement's  depths, 

for  Love  is  Atonement. 
Therefore,  child   of   mortality,   love   thou 

the  merciful  Father; 
Wish  what  the  Holy  One  wishes,  and  not 

from  fear,  but  affection  ; 
Fear  is  the  virtue  of  slaves  ;  but  the  heart 

that  loveth  is  willing  ; 
Perfect   was   before   God,   and  perfect    is 

Love,  and  Love  only. 
Lovest   thou   God  as  thou  oughtest,   then 

lovest  thou  likewise  thy  brethren  ; 
One  is  the  sun  in  heaven,  and  one,  only  one, 

is  Love  also. 
Bears  not  each  human  figure  the  godlike 

stamp  on  his  forehead  ? 
Readest  thou  not  in  his  face  thine  origin  ? 

Is  he  not  sailing 
Lost  like  thyself  on  an  ocean  unknown,  and 

is  he  not  guided 
By  the  same  stars  that  guide  thee  ?     Why 

shouldst   thou    hate   then   thy   bro 
ther  ? 
Hateth  he   thee,  forgive  !     For  't  is  sweet 

to  stammer  one  letter 
Of  the  Eternal's  language  ;  —  on  earth  it 

is  called  Forgiveness  ! 
Knowest  thou  Him,  who  forgave,  with  the 

crown  of  thorns  on  his  temples  ? 
Earnestly  prayed  for  his  foes,  for  his  mur 
derers  ?   Say,  dost  thou  know  Him  ? 
Ah  !    thou   confessest  his  name,  so  follow 

likewise  his  example, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER 


605 


Think  of  thy  brother  no  ill,  but  throw  a 
veil  over  his  failings, 

Guide  the  erring  aright  ;  for  the  good,  the 
heavenly  shepherd 

Took  the  lost  lamb  in  his  arms,  and  bore  it 
back  to  its  mother. 

This  is  the  fruit  of  Love,  and  it  is  by  its 
fruits  that  we  know  it. 

Love  is  the  creature's  welfare,  with  God  ; 
but  Love  among  mortals 

Is  but  an  endless  sigh  !  He  longs,  and  en 
dures,  and  stands  waiting, 

Suffers  and  yet  rejoices,  and  smiles  with 
tears  on  his  eyelids. 

Hope,  —  so  is  called  upon  earth  his  re 
compense,  —  Hope,  the  befriend 
ing, 

Does  what  she  can,  for  she  points  evermore 
up  to  heaven,  and  faithful 

Plunges  her  anchor's  peak  in  the  depths  of 
the  grave,  and  beneath  it 

Paints  a  more  beautiful  world,  a  dim,  but 
a  sweet  play  of  shadows  ! 

Races,  better  than  we,  have  leaned  on  her 
wavering  promise, 

Having  naught  else  but  Hope.  Then  praise 
we  our  Father  in  heaven, 

Him,  who  has  given  us  more  ;  for  to  us 
has  Hope  been  transfigured. 

Groping  no  longer  in  night  ;  she  is  Faith, 
she  is  living  assurance. 

Faith  is  enlightened  Hope  ;  she  is  light,  is 
the  eye  of  affection, 

Dreams  of  the  longing  interprets,  and 
carves  their  visions  in  marble. 

Faith  is  the  sun  of  life  ;  and  her  counte 
nance  shines  like  the  Hebrew's, 

For  she  has  looked  upon  God  ;  the  heaven 
on  its  stable  foundation 

Draws  she  with  chains  down  to  earth,  and 
the  New  Jerusalem  sinketh 

Splendid  with  portals  twelve  in  golden  va 
pors  descending. 

There  enraptured  she  wanders,  and  looks 
at  the  figures  majestic, 

Fears  not  the  winged  crowd,  in  the  midst 
of  them  all  is  her  homestead. 

Therefore  love  and  believe  ;  for  works  will 
follow  spontaneous 

Even  as  day  does  the  sun  ;  the  Right  from 
the  Good  is  an  offspring, 

Love  in  a  bodily  shape  ;  and  Christian 
works  are  no  more  than 

Animate  Love  and  Faith,  as  flowers  are  the 
animate  Springtide. 


Works  do  follow   us  all  unto  God ;  there 

stand  and  bear  witness 
Not  what   they  seemed,  —  but  what  they 

were  only.     Blessed  is  he  who 
Hears  their   confession   secure  ;   they  are 

mute  upon  earth  until  death's  hand 
Opens  the  mouth  of  the  silent.     Ye  chil 
dren,  does  Death  e'er  alarm  you  ? 
Death  is  the  brother  of  Love,  twin-brother 

is  he,  and  is  only 
More  austere  to  behold.     With  a  kiss  upon 

lips  that  are  fading 
Takes  he  the  soul  and  departs,  and,  rocked 

in  the  arms  of  affection, 
Places  the  ransomed  child,  new  born,  'fore 

the  face  of  its  father. 
Sounds   of  his  coming  already   I  hear, — 

see  dimly  his  pinions, 
Swart  as  the  night,  but  with  stars  strewn 

upon    them  !      I    fear    not    before 

him. 
Death  is  only  release,  and  in  mercy  is  mute. 

On  his  bosom 
Freer  breathes,  in  its  coolness,  my  breast  ; 

and  face  to  face  standing 
Look  I  on  God  as  He  is,  a  sun  unpolluted 

by  vapors  ; 
Look  on  the  light  of  the  ages  I  loved,  the 

spirits  majestic, 
Nobler,  better  than  I  ;  they  stand  by  the 

throne  all  transfigured, 
Vested  in  white,  and  with  harps  of  gold, 

and  are  singing  an  anthem, 
Writ  in  the  climate  of  heaven,  in  the  lan 
guage  spoken  by  angels. 
You,  in  like  manner,  ye  children  beloved, 

He  one  day  shall  gather, 
Never  forgets  He  the  weary  ;  —  then  wel 
come,  ye  loved  ones  hereafter  ! 
Meanwhile  forget  not  the  keeping  of  vows, 

forget  not  the  promise, 
Wander  from  holiness  onward  to  holiness  ; 

earth  shall  ye  heed  not  ; 
Earth  is  but  dust   and  heaven  is  light  ;  I 

have  pledged  you  to  heaven. 
God  of  the  universe,  hear  me  !  thou  foun 
tain  of  Love  everlasting, 
Hark  to  the  voice  of  thy  servant !     I  send 

up  my  prayer  to  thy  heaven  ! 
Let  me  hereafter  not   miss  at  thy  throne 

one  spirit  of  all  these, 
Whom  thou  hast  given  me  here  !     I  have 

loved  them  all  like  a  father. 
May   they   bear   witness    for    me,   that   I 

taught  them  the  way  of  salvation, 


6o6 


TRANSLATIONS 


Faithful,  so  far  as  I  knew,  of  thy  word  ; 

again  may  they  know  me, 
Fall  on  their  Teacher's  breast,  and  before 

thy  face  may  I  place  them, 
Pure  as  they  now  are,  but  only  more  tried, 

and  exclaiming  with  gladness, 
Father,   lo  !  I  am  here,  and   the  children, 

whom  thou  hast  given  me  !  " 

Weeping  he  spake  in  these  words  ;  and 
now  at  the  beck  of  the  old  man 

Knee  against  knee  they  knitted  a  wreath 
round  the  altar's  enclosure. 

Kneeling  he  read  then  the  prayers  of  the 
consecration,  and  softly 

With  him  the  children  read  ;  at  the  close, 
with  tremulous  accents, 

Asked  he  the  peace  of  Heaven,  a  benedic 
tion  upon  them. 

Now  should  have  ended  his  task  for  the 
day  ;  the  following  Sunday 

Was  for  the  young  appointed  to  eat  of  the 
Lord's  holy  Supper. 

Sudden,  as  struck  from  the  clouds,  stood 
the  Teacher  silent  and  laid  his 

Hand  on  his  forehead,  and  cast  his  looks 
upward  ;  while  thoughts  high  and 
holy 

Flew  through  the  midst  of  his  soul,  and  his 
eyes  glanced  with  wonderful  bright 
ness. 

"  On  the  next  Sunday,  who  knows  !  perhaps 
I  shall  rest  in  the  graveyard  ! 

Some  one  perhaps  of  yourselves,  a  lily 
broken  untimely, 

Bow  down  his  head  to  the  earth  ;  why  de 
lay  I  ?  the  hour  is  accomplished. 

Warm  is  the  heart  ;  —  I  will  !  for  to-day 

?rows  the  harvest  of  heaven, 
began   accomplish  I  now  ;    what 
failing  therein  is 

I,  the  old  man,  will  answer  to  God  and  the 
reverend  father. 

Say  to  me  only,  ye  children,  ye  denizens 
new-come  in  heaven, 

Are  ye  ready  this  day  to  eat  of  the  bread 
of  Atonement  ? 

What  it  denoteth,  that  know  ye  full  well, 
I  have  told  it  you  often. 

Of  the  new  covenant  symbol  it  is,  of  Atone 
ment  a  token, 

Stablished  between  earth  and  heaven. 
Man  by  his  sins  and  transgressions 

Far  has  wandered  from  God,  from  his  es 
sence.  'T  was  in  the  beginning 


Fast  by  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  he  fell,  and 

it  hangs  its  crown  o'er  the 
Fall  to  this  day  ;  in  the  Thought  is  the  Fall  ; 

in  the  Heart  the  Atonement. 
Infinite  is  the  fall,  —  the  Atonement  infinite 

likewise. 

See  !  behind  me,  as  far  as  the  old  man  re 
members,  and  forward, 
Far  as  Hope  in  her  flight  can  reach  with 

her  wearied  pinions, 
Sin  and  Atonement  incessant  go  through  the 

lifetime  of  mortals, 

Sin  is  brought  forth  full-grown  ;  but  Atone 
ment  sleeps  in  our  bosoms 
Still  as  the  cradled  babe  ;  and  dreams  of 

heaven  and  of  angels, 
Cannot   awake    to   sensation  ;  is  like   the 

tones  in  the  harp's  strings, 
Spirits  imprisoned,  that  wait  evermore  the 

deliverer's  finger. 
Therefore,  ye  children  beloved,  descended 

the  Prince  of  Atonement, 
Woke  the  slumberer  from  sleep,  and  she 

stands   now  with   eyes   all  resplen 
dent, 
Bright  as  the  vault  of  the  sky,  and  battles 

with  Sin  and  o'ercomes  her. 
Downward   to  earth  He  came  and,  trans 
figured,  thence  reascended, 
Not  from  the  heart  in  like  wise,  for  there 

He  still  lives  in  the  Spirit, 
Loves  and  atones    evermore.     So   long  as 

Time  is,  is  Atonement. 
Therefore  with  reverence  take  this  day  her 

visible  token. 
Tokens   are   dead   if  the  things   live  not. 

The  light  everlasting 
Unto  the  blind  is  not,  but  is  born  of  the 

eye  that  has  vision. 
Neither  in  bread  nor  in  wine,  but  in  the 

heart  that  is  hallowed 
Lieth  forgiveness  enshrined  ;  the  intention 

alone  of  amendment 
Fruits  of  the  earth  ennobles  to  heavenly 

things,  and  removes  all 
Sin  and  the  guerdon  of  sin.      Only  Love 

with  his  arms  wide  extended, 
Penitence  weeping  and  praying  ;  the  Will 

that  is  tried,  and  whose  gold  flows 
Purified  forth  from  the  flames  ;  in  a  word, 

mankind  by  Atonement 
Breaketh  Atonement's  bread,  and  drinketh 

Atonement's  wine-cup. 
But  he  who  cometh   up  hither,  unworthy, 

with  hate  in  his  bosom, 


KING   CHRISTIAN 


607 


Scoffing  at  men  and  at  God,  is  guilty  of 

Christ's  blessed  body, 
And  the  Redeemer's  blood  !      To  himself 

he  eateth  and  drinketh 
Death  and  doom  !    And  from  this,  preserve 

us,  thou  heavenly  Father  ! 
Are  ye  ready,  ye  children,  to  eat  of  the 

bread  of  Atonement  ?  " 
Thus  with  emotion  he  asked,  and  together 

answered  the  children, 
"  Yes  !  "  with  deep  sobs  interrupted.    Then 

read  he  the  due  supplications, 
Read   the    Form   of   Communion,   and   in 

chimed  the  organ  and  anthem  : 
"  O  Holy  Lamb  of  God,  who  takest  away 

our  transgressions, 
Hear  us  !  give  us  thy  peace  !   have  mercy, 

have  mercy  upon  us  !  " 
Th'  old    man,  with    trembling   hand,   and 

heavenly  pearls  on  his  eyelids, 
Filled  now  the  chalice  and  paten,  and  dealt 

round  the  mystical  symbols. 
Oh,  then  seemed  it  to  me  as  if  God,  with 

the  broad  eye  of  midday, 
Clearer  looked  in  at  the  windows,  and  all 

the  trees  in  the  churchyard 
Bowed  down  their  summits  of  green,  and 

the    grass   on   the    graves    'gan  .to 

shiver. 
But   in   the   children   (I   noted  it  well  ;  I 

knew  it)  there  ran  a 
Tremor   of    holy    rapture    along    through 

their  ice-cold  members. 
Decked  like   an   altar   before  them,  there 

stood  the  green  earth,  and  above  it 
Heaven   opened    itself,   as   of  old   before 

Stephen  ;  they  saw  there 
Radiant  in  glory  the  Father,  and   on  his 

right  hand  the  Redeemer. 
Under  them  hear  they  the  clang  of  harp- 
strings,  and  angels  from  gold  clouds 
Beckon  to  them  like  brothers,  and  fan  with 

their  pinions  of  purple. 

Closed  was  the  Teacher's  task,  and  with 

heaven   in   their   hearts    and    their 

faceSj 
Up  rose  the  children  all,  and  each  bowed 

him,  weeping  full  sorely, 
Downward  to  kiss  that  reverend  hand,  but 

all  of  them  pressed  he 
Moved    to    his    bosom,  and    laid,   with   a 

prayer,  his  hands  full  of  blessings, 
Now  on  the  holy  breast,  and  now  on  the 

innocent  tresses. 


KING    CHRISTIAN 

(KONG  CHRISTIAN  STOD  VED  H^IEN  MAST) 

A   NATIONAL   SONG   OF   DENMARK 

Written  during  a  visit  to  Copenhagen  in  September, 
1835.  The  poet  first  heard  the  air  from  some  strolling 
musician  in  a  coffee-house,  and  looking  up  the  words 
by  Johannes  Evald  in  his  lyrical  drama  Fiskerne  ( The 
Fishermen),  Act  ii.  Sc.  v.,  translated  them. 

KING  CHRISTIAN  stood  by  the  lofty  mast 

In  mist  and  smoke  ; 
His  sword  was  hammering  so  fast, 
Through  Gothic  helm  and  brain  it  passed  ; 
Then  sank  each  hostile  hulk  and  mast, 

In  mist  and  smoke. 

"  Fly  !  "  shouted  they,  "  fly,  he  who  can  ! 
Who  braves  of  Denmark's  Christian 

The  stroke  ?  " 

Nils    Juel   gave    heed    to    the    tempest's 
roar, 

Now  is  the  hour  ! 

He  hoisted  his  blood-red  flag  once  more, 
And  smote  upon  the  foe  full  sore, 
And  shouted  loud,  through  the  tempest's 
roar, 

«  Now  is  the  hour  ! " 
"  Fly  ! "  shouted  they,  "  for  shelter  fly  ! 
Of  Denmark's  Juel  who  can  defy 

The  power  ?  " 

North  Sea  !  a  glimpse  of  Wessel  rent 

Thy  murky  sky  ! 
Then     champions     to     thine     arms    were 

sent  ; 

Terror  and  Death  glared  where  he  went  ; 
From   the  waves   was  heard  a  wail,  that 
rent 

Thy  murky  sky  ! 

From  Denmark  thunders  Tordenskiol', 
Let  each  to  Heaven  commend  his  soul, 

And  fly  ! 

Path  of  the  Dane  to  fame  and  might  ! 

Dark-rolling  wave  ! 

Receive  thy  friend,  who,  scorning  flight, 
Goes  to  meet  danger  with  despite, 
Proudly  as  thou  the  tempest's  might, 

Dark-rolling  wave  ! 
And  amid  pleasures  and  alarms, 
And  war  and  victory,  be  thine  arms 

My  grave  ! 


6o8 


TRANSLATIONS 


THE    ELECTED    KNIGHT 
(DEN  UDKAARNE  RIDDER) 

This  strange  and  somewhat  mystical  ballad  is  from 
Nyerup  and  Rahbek's  Dunske  Viserfra  Middelalderen. 
It  seems  to  refer  to  the  first  preaching  of  Christianity 
in  the  North,  and  to  the  institution  of  Knight-Errantry. 
The  three  maidens  I  suppose  to  be  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity.  The  irregularities  of  the  original  have  been 
carefully  preserved  in  the  translation.  H.  W.  L. 

SIR  OLUF  he  rideth  over  the  plain, 

Full  seven  miles  broad  and  seven  miles 

wide, 
But   never,  ah   never  can  meet  with  the 

man 
A  tilt  with  him  dare  ride. 

He  saw  under  the  hillside 

A  Knight  full  well  equipped  ; 
His  steed  was  black,  his  helm  was  barred  ; 

He  was  riding  at  full  speed. 

He  wore  upon  his  spurs 

Twelve  little  golden  birds  ; 
Anon  he  spurred  his  steed  with  a  clang, 

And  there  sat  all  the  birds  and  sang. 

He  wore  upon  his  mail 

Twelve  little  golden  wheels  ; 
Anon  in  eddies  the  wild  wind  blew, 

And  round  and   round  the  wheels   they 
flew. 

He  wore  before  his  breast 

A  lance  that  was  poised  in  rest  ; 

And  it  was  sharper  than  diamond-stone, 
It  made  Sir  Oluf's  heart  to  groan. 

He  wore  upon  his  helm 

A  wreath  of  ruddy  gold  ; 
And  that  gave  him  the  Maidens  Three, 

The  youngest  was  fair  to  behold. 

Sir  Oluf  questioned  the  Knight  eftsoon 
If  he  were  come  from  heaven  down  ; 

"Art    thou    Christ    of     Heaven,"    quoth 

he, 
"  So  will  I  yield  me  unto  thee." 

"  I  am  npt  Christ  the  Great, 
Thou  shalt  not  yield  thee  yet  ; 

I  am  an  Unknown  Knight, 

Three    modest    Maidens  have   me    be- 
dight." 


"  Art  thou  a  Knight  elected, 

And  have  three  maidens  thee  bedight 
So  shalt  thou  ride  a  tilt  this  day, 

For  all  the  Maidens'  honor  !  " 

The  first  tilt  they  together  rode 
They  put  their  steeds  to  the  test ; 

The  second  tilt  they  together  rode 
They  proved  their  manhood  best. 

The  third  tilt  they  together  rode 
Neither  of  them  would  yield  ; 

The  fourth  tilt  they  together  rode 
They  both  fell  on  the  field. 

Now  lie  the  lords  upon  the  plain, 
And  their  blood  runs  unto  death  ; 

Now  sit  the  Maidens  in  the  high  tower, 
The  youngest  sorrows  till  death. 


CHILDHOOD 

(DA  JEG  VAR  LILLE) 

BY    JENS    IMMANUEL    BAGGESEN 

THERE  was  a  time  when  I  was  very  small, 
When  my  whole  frame  was  but  an  ell  in 
height  ; 

Sweetly,  as  I  recall  it,  tears  do  fall, 
And  therefore  I  recall  it  with  delight. 

I  sported  in  my  tender  mother's  arms, 
And   rode  a-horseback   on  best  father's 

knee  ; 

Alike  were  sorrows,  passions  and  alarms, 
And  gold,  and  Greek,  and  love,  unknown 
to  me. 

Then  seemed  to  me  this  world  far  less  in 

size, 
Likewise   it  seemed  to  me  less  wicked 

far  ; 
Like   points   in   heaven,   I   saw   the   stars 

arise, 

And  longed  for  wings  that  I  might  catch 
a  star. 

I  saw  the  moon  behind  the  island  fade, 
And  thought,  "  Oh,  were  1  on  that  island 

there, 

I  could  find  out  of  what  the  moon  is  made, 
Find  out  how  large  it  is,  how  round,  how 
fair  !  " 


THE   WAVE 


609 


Wondering,    I    saw    God's   sun,     through 

western  skies, 

Sink  in  the  ocean's  golden  lap  at  night, 
And  yet  upon  the  morrow  early  rise, 

And  paint  the  eastern  heaven  with  crim 
son  light ; 

And  thought  of  God,  the  gracious  Heavenly 

Father, 
Who  made  me,  and  that  lovely  sun  on 

high, 
And  all  those  pearls  of  heaven  thick-strung 

together, 

Dropped,  clustering,  from  his  hand  o'er 
all  the  sky. 

With  childish  reverence,  my  young  lips  did 

say 
The  prayer  my  pious  mother  taught  to 

me  : 

"  O  gentle  God  !  oh,  let  me  strive  alway 
Still   to  be  wise,  and  good,  and  follow 
thee  !  " 

So  prayed  I  for  my  father  and  my  mother, 
And    for    my   sister,    and    for    all    the 

town  ; 

The  king  I  knew  not,  and  the  beggar-bro 
ther, 

Who,    bent  with  age,  went,  sighing,  up 
and  down. 

|  They    perished,   the    blithe    days  of   boy 
hood  perished, 
And  all   the  gladness,  all   the   peace   I 

knew  ! 

Now  have  I  but  their  memory,  fondly  cher 
ished  ;  — 
God  !  may  I  never  lose  that  too  It 


FROM   THE  GERMAN 


The  first  ten  of  the  following  poems  are  all  from  the 
volume  Voices  of  the  Night,  inbo  which  they  were  brought 
for  the  most  part  from  Hyperion.  The  winter  of  1836, 
spent  by  Mr.  Longfellow  in  Germany,  appears  to  have 
been  the  time  when  most  of  hia  translations  from  Ger 
man  poetry  were  made. 


THE   HAPPIEST   LAND 

THERE  sat  one  day  in  quiet, 
By  an  alehouse  on  the  Rhine, 

Four  hale  and  hearty  fellows, 
And  drank  the  precious  wine. 


The  landlord's  daughter  filled  their  cups, 

Around  the  rustic  board  ; 
Then  sat  they  all  so  calm  and  still, 

And  spake  not  one  rude  word. 

But  when  the  maid  departed, 

A  Swabiau  raised  his  hand, 
And  cried,  all  hot  and  Hushed  with  wine, 

"  Long  live  the  Swabian  laud  ! 

"  The  greatest  kingdom  upon  earth 

Cannot  with  that  compare  ; 
With  all  the  stout  and  hardy  men 
And  the  nut-brown  maidens  there." 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  a  Saxon,  laughing, 

And  dashed  his  beard  with  wine  ; 

"  I  had  rather  live  in  Lapland, 

Than  that  Swabian  land  of  thine  ! 

"  The  goodliest  land  on  all  this  earth, 

It  is  the  Saxon  land  ! 
There  have  I  as  many  maidens 
As  fingers  on  this  hand  1 " 

"  Hold  your  tongues  !  both    Swabian   and 
Saxon  ! " 

A  bold  Bohemian  cries  ; 
"  If  there  's  a  heaven  upon  this  earth, 

In  Bohemia  it  lies. 

"  There  the  tailor  blows  the  flute, 

And  the  cobbler  blows  the  horn, 
And  the  miner  blows  the  bugle, 
Over  mountain  gorge  and  bourn." 

And  then  the  landlord's  daughter 
Up  to  heaven  raised  her  hand, 

And  said,  "  Ye  may  no  more  contend,  — 
There  lies  the  happiest  land  !  " 


THE    WAVE 

(DIE  WELLE) 
BY   CHRISTOPH   AUGUST   TIEDGE 

"  WHITHER,  thou  turbid  wave  ? 
Whither,  with  so  much  haste, 
As  if  a  thief  wert  thou  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  Wave  of  Life, 
Stained  with  my  margin's  dust ; 
From  the  struggle  and  the  strife 
Of  the  narrow  stream  I  fly 


6ro 


TRANSLATIONS 


To  the  Sea's  immensity, 
To  wash  from  me  the  slime 
Of  the  muddy  banks  of  Time." 


THE    DEAD 

BY   ERNST   STOCKMANN 

How  they  so  softly  rest, 
All  they  the  holy  ones, 
Unto  whose  dwelling-place 
Now  doth  my  soul  draw  near ! 
How  they  so  softly  rest, 
All  in  their  silent  graves, 
Deep  to  corruption 
Slowly  down-sinking  ! 

And  they  no  longer  weep, 
Here,  where  complaint  is  still ! 
And  they  no  longer  feel, 
Here,  where  all  gladness  flies  ! 
And  by  the  cypresses 
Softly  o'ershadowecl, 
Until  the  Angel 
Calls  them,  they  slumber  I 


THE   BIRD   AND   THE   SHIP 

(SCHIFF  UND  VOGEL) 
BY   WILHELM   MULLER 

"  THE  rivers  rush  into  the  sea, 

By  castle  and  town  they  go  ; 
The  winds  behind  them  merrily 

Their  noisy  trumpets  blow. 

"The  clonds  are  passing  far  and  high, 

We  little  birds  in  them  play  ; 
And  everything,  that  can  sing  and  fly, 

Goes  with  us,  and  far  away. 

"  I  greet  thee,  bonny  boat !     Whither,  or 

whence, 

With  thy  fluttering  golden  band  ?  "  — 
"I  greet  thee,  little  bird!      To  the  wide 

sea 
I  haste  from  the  narrow  land. 

"  Full  and  swollen  is  every  sail  ; 

I  see  no  longer  a  hill, 
I  have  trusted  all  to  the  sounding  gale, 

And  it  will  not  let  me  stand  still. 


"  And  wilt  them,  little  bird,  go  with  us  ? 

Thou  mayest  stand  on  the  mainmast  tall, 
For  full  to  sinking  is  my  house 

With  merry  companions  all."  — 

"  I  need  not  and  seek  not  company, 
Bonny  boat,  I  can  sing  all  alone  ; 

For  the  mainmast  tall  too  heavy  am  I, 
Bonny  boat,  I  have  wings  of  my  own. 

"  High  over  the  sails,  high  over  the  mast, 
Who  shall  gainsay  these  joys  ? 

When  thy  merry  companions  are  still,  at 

last, 
Thou  shalt  hear  the  sound  of  my  voice. 

"  Who  neither  may  rest,  nor  listen  may, 

God  bless  them  every  one  ! 
I  dart  away,  in  the  bright  blue  day, 

And  the  golden  fields  of  the  sun. 

"  Thus  do  I  sing  my  weary  song, 
Wherever  the  four  winds  blow  ; 

And  this  same  song,  my  whole  life  long, 
Neither  Poet  nor  Printer  may  know." 


WHITHER? 

(WOHIN  ?) 
BY   WILHELM   MULLER 

I  HEARD  a  brooklet  gushing 
From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 

Down  into  the  valley  rushing, 
So  fresh  and  wondrous  clear. 

I  know  not  what  came  o'er  me, 
Nor  who  the  counsel  gave  ; 

But  I  must  hasten  downward, 
All  with  my  pilgrim-stave  ; 

Downward,  and  ever  farther, 
And  ever  the  brook  beside  ; 

And  ever  fresher  murmured, 
And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 

Is  this  the  way  I  was  going  ? 

Whither,  O  brooklet,  say  I 
Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  murmur, 

Murmured  my  senses  away. 

What  do  I  say  of  a  murmur  ? 
That  can  no  murmur  be  : 


THE   CASTLE   BY   THE   SEA 


611 


T  is  the  water-nymphs,  that  are  singing 
Their  roundelays  under  me. 

Let  them  sing,  my  friend,  let  them  murmur, 

And  wander  merrily  near  ; 
The  wheels  of  a  mill  are  going 

In  every  brooklet  clear. 


BEWARE  ! 

(HUT  DU  DICH!) 

I  KNOW  a  maiden  fair  to  see, 

Take  care  ! 
She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown, 

Take  care  ! 
She  gives  a  side-glance  and  looks  down, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

And  she  has  hair  of  a  golden  hue, 

Take  care  ! 
And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  true, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  a  bosom  as  white  as  snow, 

Take  care  ! 
She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  gives  thee  a  garland  woven  fair, 

Take  care  ! 
It  is  a  fool's-cap  for  thee  to  wear, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 


SONG  OF  THE  BELL 

First  published  in  Hyperion,  Book  III.  chapter  iii. 
Tho  scene  of  the  chapter  is  laid  at  Interlachen.  "  The 
evening  sun  was  setting,"  writes  the  author,  "  when  I 


first  beheld  thee. 

thee  !     Surely  it  was  a  scene  like  this  that  inspired  t 

soul  of  the  Swiss  poet,  in  his  Song  of  the  Sell." 


The  sun  of  life  will  set  ere  I  forget 
dthe 


I  BELL  !  thou  soundest  merrily, 
When  the  bridal  party 

To  the  church  doth  hie  ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  solemnly, 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning, 

Fields  deserted  lie  ! 

Bell  !  thou  soundest  merrily  ; 
Tellest  thou  at  evening, 

Bed-time  draweth  nigh  ! 
Bell  !  thou  soundest  mournfully, 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 

Parting  hath  gone  by  ! 

Say  !  how  canst  thou  mourn  ? 
How  canst  thou  rejoice  ? 

Thou  art  but  metal  dull  ! 
And  yet  all  our  sorrowings, 
And  all  our  rejoicings, 

Thou  dost  feel  them  all  ! 

God  hath  wonders  many, 
Which  we  cannot  fathom, 

Placed  within  thy  form  ! 
When  the  heart  is  sinking, 
Thou  alone  canst  raise  it, 

Trembling  in  the  storm  I« 


THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA 

(DAS  SCHLOSS  AM  MEERE) 
BY   JOHANN   LUDWIG   UHLAND 

"  HAST  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea  ? 
Golden  and  red  above  it 

The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

"  And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 
To  the  mirrored  wave  below  ;    . 

And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening's  crimson  glow." 

"  Well  have  I  seen  that  castle, 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea, 
And  the  moon  above  it  standing, 

And  the  mist  rise  solemnly." 

"  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean. 
Had  they  a  merry  chime  ? 


612 


TRANSLATIONS 


Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers 
The  harp  and  the  minstrel's  rhyme  ?  " 

"  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

They  rested  quietly, 
But  I  heard  on  the  gale  a  sound  of  wail, 

And  tears  came  to  mine  eye." 

"  And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  King  and  his  royal  bride  ? 

And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles  ? 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride  ? 

"  Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 

A  beauteous  maiden  there  ? 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 

Beaming  with  golden  hair  ?  " 

"  Well  saw  I  the  ancient  parents, 

Without  the  crown  of  pride  ; 
They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe, 

No  maiden  was  by  their  side  ! " 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT 

(DER  SCHWARZE  RITTER) 
BY   JOHANN   LUDWIG   UHLAND 

'T  WAS  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 
When  woods  and  fields  put  off  all  sadness, 

Thus  began  the  King  and  spake  : 
"  So  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  Hofburg's  walls, 

A  luxuriant  Spring  shall  break." 

Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly, 
Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly, 

From  balcony  the  King  looked  on  ; 
In  the  play  of  spears, 
Fell  all  the  cavaliers, 

Before  the  monarch's  stalwart  son. 

To  the  barrier  of  the  fight 
Rode  at  last  a  sable  Knight. 

"  Sir  Knight !  your  name  and  scutcheon, 

say  ! " 

"  Should  I  speak  it  here, 
Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear  ; 

I  am  a  Prince  of  mighty  sway  ! " 

When  he  rode  into  the  lists, 
The  arch  of  heaven  grew  black  with  mists, 
And  the  castle  'gan  to  rock  ; 


At  the  first  blow, 
Fell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow, 
Hardly  rises  from  the  shock. 

Pipe  and  viol  call  the  dances, 
Torch-light  through  the  high  halls  glaiices 

Waves  a  mighty  shadow  in ; 
With  manner  bland 
Doth  ask  the  maiden's  hand, 

Doth  with  her  the  dance  begin. 

Danced  in  sable  iron  sark, 
Danced  a  measure  weird  and  dark, 

Coldly  clasped  her  limbs  around  ; 
From  breast  and  hair 
Down  fall  from  her  the  fair 

Flowerets,  faded,  to  the  ground. 

To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  Knight  and  every  Dame  ; 

'Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  distraught, 
With  mournful  mind 
The  ancient  King  reclined, 

Gazed  at  them  in  silent  thought. 

Pale  the  children  both  did  look, 
But  the  guest  a  beaker  took  : 

"  Golden  wine  will  make  you  whole  !  " 
The  children  drank, 
Gave  many  a  courteous  thank  : 

"  Oh,  that  draught  was  very  cool !  " 

Each  the  father's  breast  embraces, 
Son  and  daughter  ;  and  their  faces 

Colorless  grow  utterly  ; 
Whichever  way 
Looks  the  fear-struck  father  gray, 

He  beholds  his  children  die. 

"  Woe  !  the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth  ; 

Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  father  !  " 
Spake  the  grim  Guest, 
From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast  : 

"  Roses  in  the  spring  I  gather !  " 


SONG  OF  THE  SILENT  LAND 

(LIED  :  INS  STILLE  LAND) 
BY   JOHANN   GAUDENZ  VON   SALIS-SEEWIS 

INTO  the  Silent  Land  ! 

Ah  !  who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 


THE   TWO   LOCKS    OF   HAIR 


613 


Clouds  in   the   evening   sky  more   darkly 

gather, 
And  shattered   wrecks  lie   thicker  on  the 

strand. 

Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Thither,  oh,  thither, 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 

Of  all  perfection  !    Tender  morning- visions 

Of  beauteous  souls  !     The  Future's  pledge 

and  band  ! 

Who  in  Life's  battle  firm  doth  stand, 
Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

O  Land  !     O  Land  ! 

For  all  the  broken-hearted 

The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted, 

Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 

To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

To  the  land  of  the  great  Departed, 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 


THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL 

(DAS  GLUCK  VON  EDENHALL) 
BY   JOHANN   LUDWIG   UHLAND 

Or  Edenhall,  the  youthful  Lord 

Bids  sound  the  festal  trumpet's  call  ; 

He  rises  at  the  banquet  board, 

And  cries,  'mid  the  drunken  revellers  all, 

"  Now  bring  me  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  !  " 

The  butler  hears  the  words  with  pain, 
The  house's  oldest  seneschal, 
Takes  slow  from  its  silken  cloth  again 
The  driuking-glass  of  crystal  tall  ; 
They  call  it^the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  said  the  Lord  :  "  This  glass  to  praise, 

Fill  with  red  wine  from  Portugal  !  " 

The  graybeard  with  trembling  hand  obeys  ; 

A  purple  light  shines  over  all, 

It  beams  from  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  speaks  the  Lord,  and  waves  it  light  : 
"  This  glass  of  flashing  crystal  tall 
Gave  to  my  sires  the  Fountain-Sprite  ; 
She  wrote  in  it,  If  this  glass  doth  fall, 
Farewell  then,  0  Luck  of  Edenhall  I 


"  'T  was  right  a  goblet  the  Fate  should  be 
Of  the  joyous  race  of  Edenhall  ! 
Deep  draughts  drink  we  ri^ht  willingly  ; 
And  willingly  ring,  with  merry  call, 
Kling  !  klang  !  to  the  Luck  of  Edenhall !  " 

First  rings  it  deep,  and  full,  and  mild, 
Like  to  the  song  of  a  nightingale  ; 
Then  like  the  roar  of  a  torrent  wild  ; 
Then  mutters  at  last  like  the  thunder's  fall, 
The  glorious  Luck  of  Edeuhall. 

"  For  its  keeper  takes  a  race  of  might, 
The  fragile  goblet  of  crystal  tall  ; 
It  has  lasted  longer  than  is  right  ; 
Kling  !  klang  !  —  with  a  harder  blow  than 

all 
Will  I  try  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  ! " 

As  the  goblet  ringing  flies  apart, 
Suddenly  cracks  the  vaulted  hall  ; 
And  through  the  rift,  the  wild  flames  start ; 
The  guests  in  dust  are  scattered  all, 
With  the  breaking  Luck  of  Edenhall  ! 

In  storms  the  foe,  with  fire  and  sword  ; 
He  in  the  night  had  scaled  the  wall, 
Slain  by  the  sword  lies  the  youthful  Lord, 
But  holds  in  his  hand  the  crystal  tall, 
The  shattered  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

On  the  morrow  the  butler  gropes  alone, 
The  graybeard  in  the  desert  hall, 
He  seeks  his  Lord's  burnt  skeleton, 
He  seeks  in  the  dismal  ruin's  fall 
The  shards  of  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

"The   stone   wall,"   saith   he,   "doth   fall 

aside, 

Down  must  the  stately  columns  fall  ; 
Glass  is  this  earth's  Luck  and  Pride  ; 
In  atoms  shall  fall  this  earthly  ball 
One  day  like  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  ! '' 


THE   TWO   LOCKS   OF   HAIR 

(DER   JUNGGESELL) 
BY   GUSTAV   PFIZER 

A  YOUTH,  light-hearted  and  content, 
I  wander  through  the  world  ; 

Here,  Arab-like,  is  pitched  my  tent 
And  straight  again  is  furled. 


614 


TRANSLATIONS 


Yet  oft  I  dream,  that  once  a  wife 
Close  in  my  heart  was  locked, 

And  in  the  sweet  repose  of  life 
A  blessed  child  I  rocked. 

I  wake  !     Away  that  dream,  —  away  ! 

Too  long  did  it  remain  ! 
So  long,  that  both  by  night  and  day 

It  ever  comes  again. 

The  end  lies  ever  in  my  thought  ; 

To  a  grave  so  cold  and  deep 
The  mother  beautiful  was  brought ; 

Then  dropt  the  child  asleep. 

But  now  the  dream  is  wholly  o'er, 

I  bathe  mine  eyes  and  see  ; 
And    wander    through     the    world    once 
more, 

A  youth  so  light  and  free. 

Two  locks  —  and  they  are  wondrous  fair  — 

Left  me  that  vision  mild  ; 
The  brown  is  from  the  mother's  hair, 

The  blond  is  from  the  child. 

And  when  I  see  that  lock  of  gold, 

Pale  grows  the  evening-red  ; 
And  when  the  dark  lock  I  behold, 

I  wish  that  I  were  dead. 


THE   HEMLOCK  TREE 

O  HEMLOCK  tree  !    O  hemlock  tree  !   how 

faithful  are  thy  branches  ! 
Green  not  alone  in  summer  time, 
But  in  the  winter's  frost  and  rime  ! 
0  hemlock  tree  !    O  hemlock   tree  !    how 
faithful  are  thy  branches  ! 

0  maiden  fair  !  O  maiden  fair  !  how  faith 
less  is  thy  bosom  ! 
To  love  me  in  prosperity, 
And  leave  me  in  adversity  ! 
O  maiden  fair  !  O  maiden  fair  !  how  faith 
less  is  thy  bosom  ! 

The  nightingale  the  nightingale,  thou  tak'st 

for  thine  example  ! 
So  long  as  summer  laughs  she  sings, 
But  in  the  autumn  spreads  her  wings. 
The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak'st 
for  thine  example  1 


The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is 

mirror  of  thy  falsehood  ! 
It  flows  so  long  as  falls  the  rain, 
In  drought  its  springs  soon  dry  again. 
The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is 
mirror  of  thy  falsehood  ! 


ANNIE   OF   THARAW 

(ANKE  VON  THARAU) 

BY   SIMON   DACH 

ANNIE  of  Tharaw,  my  true  love  of  old, 
She  is  my  life,  and  my  goods,  and  my  gold. 

Annie  of  Tharaw  her  heart  once  again 
To  me  has  surrendered  in  joy  and  in  pain. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  riches,  my  good, 
Thou,  O  my  soul,  my  flesh,  and  my  blood ! 

Then  come  the  wild  weather,  come  sleet  or 

come  snow, 
We  will   stand   by  each  other,  however  it 

blow. 

Oppression,  and  sickness,  and  sorrow,  and 

pain 
Shall  be  to  our  true  love  as  links  to  the  chain. 

As  the  palm-tree  standeth  so  straight  and 

so  tall, 
The  more  the  hail  beats,  and  the  more  the 

rains  fall,  — 

So  love  in  our  hearts  shall   grow  mighty 

and  strong, 
Through  crosses,  through  sorrows,  through 

manifold  wrong. 

Shouldst  thou  be  torn  from  me  to  wander 

alone 
In  a  desolate  land  where  the  sun  is  scarce 

known,  — 

Through  forests  I  '11  follow,  and  where  the 

sea  flows, 
Through   ice,   and   through   iron,   through 

armies  of  foes. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  light  and  my  sun, 
The  threads  of  our  two  lives  are  woven  in 
one. 


THE    SEA   HATH    ITS    PEARLS 


615 


Whate'er  I   have   bidden   thee   thou   hast 

obeyed, 
Whatever  forbidden  thou  hast  not  gainsaid. 

How  in  the  turmoil  of  life  can  love  stand, 
Where   there   is  not   one   heart,   and  one 
mouth,  and  one  hand  ? 

Some  seek  for  dissension,  and  trouble,  and 

strife  ; 
Like  a  dog  and  a  cat  live  such  man  and 

wife. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  such  is  not  our  love  ; 
Thou  art  my  lambkin,  my  chick,  and  my 
dove. 

Whate'er  my  desire   is,  in  thine   may  be 

seen  ; 
I  am  king  of  the  household,  and  thou  art 

its  queen. 

It  is  this,  O  my  Annie,  my  heart's  sweetest 

rest, 
That  makes  of  us   twain  but  one  soul  in 

one  breast. 

This  turns  to  a  heaven  the  hut  where  we 

dwell  ; 
While  wrangling  soon  changes  a  home  to  a 

hell. 


THE    STATUE    OVER    THE     CA 
THEDRAL   DOOR 

(DAS  STEINBILD  AM  DOME) 
BY   JULIUS   MOSEN 

FORMS  of  saints  and  kings  are  standing 

The  cathedral  door  above  ; 
Yet  I  saw  but  one  among  them 

Who  hath  soothed  my  soul  with  love. 

In  his  mantle,  —  wound  about  him, 
As  their  robes  the  sowers  wind,  — 

Bore  he  swallows  and  their  fledglings, 
Flowers  and  weeds  of  every  kind. 

And  so  stands  he  calm  and  childlike, 
High  in  wind  and  tempest  wild  ; 

Oh,  were  I  like  him  exalted, 
I  would  be  like  him  a  child  ! 


And  my  songs,  —  green  leaves   and   blos 
soms,  — 

To  the  doors  of  heaven  would  bear, 
Calling  even  in  storm  and  tempest, 

Round  me  still  these  birds  of  air. 


THE    LEGEND   OF   THE 
BILL 


CROSS- 


(DER  KREUZSCHNABEL,  No.  3) 
BY   JULIUS    MOSEN 

ON  the  cross  the  dying  Saviour 
Heavenward  lifts  his  eyelids  calm, 

Feels,  but  scarcely  feels,  a  trembling 
In  his  pierced  and  bleeding  palm. 

And  by  all  the  world  forsaken, 
Sees  He  how  with  zealous  care 

At  the  ruthless  nail  of  iron 
A  little  bird  is  striving  there. 

Stained  with  blood  and  never  tiring, 
With  its  beak  it  doth  not  cease, 

From  the  cross  't  would  free  the  Saviour, 
Its  Creator's  Son  release. 

And  the  Saviour  speaks  in  mildness  : 
"  Blest  be  thou  of  all  the  good  ! 

Bear,  as  token  of  this  moment, 
Marks  of  blood  and  holy  rood  ! " 

And  that  bird  is  called  the  crossbill  ; 

Covered  all  with  blood  so  clear, 
In  the  groves  of  pine  it  singeth 

Songs,  like  legends,  strange  to  hear. 


THE   SEA   HATH    ITS    PEARLS 

BY   HEINRICH   HEINE 

THE  sea  hath  its  pearls, 
The  heaven  hath  its  stars  ; 

But  my  heart,  my  heart, 
My  heart  hath  its  love. 

Great  are  the  sea  and  the  heaven, 
Yet  greater  is  my  heart  ; 

And  fairer  than  pearls  and  stars 
Flashes  and  beams  my  love. 


6i6 


TRANSLATIONS 


Thou  little,  youthful  maiden, 
Come  unto  my  great  heart  ; 

My  heart,  and  the  sea,  and  the  heaven 
Are  melting  away  with  love  ! 


POETIC   APHORISMS 

FROM      THE      SINNGEDICHTE     OF      FRIE- 
DRICH    VON    LOGAU 

MONEY 

WHEREUNTO  is  money  good  ? 
Who  has  it  not  wants  hardihood, 
Who  has  it  has  much  trouble  and  care, 
Who  once  has  had  it  has  despair. 

THE   BEST   MEDICINES 

Joy  and  Temperance  and  Repose 
Slain  the  door  on  the  doctor's  nose. 

SIN 

Man-like  is  it  to  fall  into  sin, 
Fiend-like  is  it  to  dwell  therein, 
Christ-like  is  it  for  sin  to  grieve, 
God-like  is  it  all  sin  to  leave. 

POVERTY   AND   BLINDNESS 

A  blind  man  is  a  poor  man,  and  blind  a 

poor  man  is  ; 
For  the  former  seeth  no  man,  and  the  latter 

no  man  sees. 

LAW   OF   LIFE 

Live  I,  so  live  I, 
To  my  Lord  heartily, 
To  my  Prince  faithfully, 
To  my  Neighbor  honestly, 
Die  I,  so  die  I. 

CREEDS 
Lutheran,    Popish,    Calvinistic,    all    these 

creeds  and  doctrines  three 
Extant  are  ;  but  still  the  doubt  is,  where 

Christianity  may  be. 

THE   RESTLESS   HEART 

A   mill-stone   and   the   human    heart    are 

driven  ever  round  ; 
If  they   have    nothing  else  to  grind,  they 

must  themselves  be  ground. 


CHRISTIAN    LOVE 


Whilom  Love  was  like  a  fire,  and  warmth 

and  comfort  it  bespoke  ; 
But,   alas  !  it   now  is  quenched,  and  only 

bites  us,  like  the  smoke. 

ART   AND   TACT 

Intelligence  and  courtesy   not  always  are 

combined  ; 
Often  in  a  wooden  house  a  golden  room  we 

find. 

RETRIBUTION 
Though  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly,  yet 

they  grind  exceeding  small  ; 
Though  with   patience  he   stands  waiting, 

with  exactness  grinds  he  all. 

TRUTH 

When  by   night  the   frogs   are    croaking, 

kindle  but  a  torch's  fire, 
Ha  !  how  soon  they  all  are  silent !     Thus 

Truth  silences  the  liar. 

RHYMES 

If   perhaps  these  rhymes  of    mine  should 

sound  not  well  in  strangers'  ears, 
They   have    only  to   bethink  them  that  it 

happens  so  with  theirs  ; 
For  so  long  as  words,  like  mortals,  call  a 

fatherland  their  own, 
They  will  be  most  highly  valued  where  they 

are  best  and  longest  known. 


SILENT  LOVE 

WHO  love  would  seek, 
Let  him  love  evermore 

And  seldom  speak  ; 
For  in  love's  domain 
Silence  must  reign  ; 

Or  it  brings  the  heart 
Smart 
And  pain. 


BLESSED  ARE  THE  DEAD 

(SELIG  SIND,  DIE  IN  DEM  HERRN  STERBEN) 
BY   SIMON   DACH 

OH,  how  blest  are  ye  whose  toils  are 
ended  ! 

Who,  through  death,  have  unto  God  as 
cended  ! 


REMORSE 


617 


Ye  have  arisen 

From  the  cares  which  keep  us  still  in 
prison. 

We  are  still  as  in  a  dungeon  living, 

Still  oppressed  with  sorrow  and  misgiv 
ing ; 

Our  undertakings 

Are  but  toils,  and  troubles,  and  heart- 
breakings. 

Ye,  meanwhile,  are  in  your  chambers  sleep 
ing. 

Quiet,  and  set  free  from  all  our  weeping  ; 
No  cross  nor  trial 
Hinders  your  enjoyments  with  denial. 

Christ    has    wiped    away   your   tears   for 

ever  ; 

Ye  have  that  for  which  we  still  endeavor. 
To  you  are  chanted 
Songs  which  yet  no  mortal  ear  have  haunted. 

Ah  !  who  would  not,  then,  depart  with  glad 
ness, 

To  inherit  heaven  for  earthly  sadness  ? 
Who  here  would  languish 
Longer  in  bewailing  and  in  anguish  ? 

Come,  O  Christ,  and  loose  the  chains  that 

bind  us  ! 
Lead  us  forth,  and  cast  this  world  behind 

us! 

With  thee,  the  Anointed, 
Finds  the  soul  its  joy  and  rest  appointed. 


WANDERER'S  NIGHT-SONGS 

(WANDRERS  NACHTLIED  AND  EIN  GLEICHES) 

BY  JOHANN   WOLFGANG   VON    GOETHE 

I 

THOU  that  from  the  heavens  art, 
Every  pain  and  sorrow  stillest, 
And  the  doubly  wretched  heart 
Doubly  with  refreshment  fillest, 
I  am  weary  with  contending  ! 
Why  this  rapture  and  unrest  ? 
Peace  descending 
Come,  ah,  come  into  my  breast ! 


O'er  all  the  hill-tops 

Is  quiet  now, 

In  all  the  tree-tops 

Hearest  thou 

Hardly  a  breath  ; 

The  birds  r  re  asleep  in  the  trees  .' 

Wait ;  soon  like  these 

Thou  too  shalt  rest. 


REMORSE 

(Mux  AND  UNMUT) 
BY   AUGUST  VON   PLATEN 

How  I  started  up  in  the  night,  in  the  night, 
Drawn  on  without  rest  or  reprieval  ! 

The  streets,  with  their  watchmen,  were  lost 

to  my  sight, 
As  I  wandered  so  light 
In  the  night,  in  the  night, 

Through  the  gate  with  the  arch  mediaeval. 

The    mill-brook    rushed    from   the   rocky 

height, 

I  leaned  o'er  the  bridge  in  my  yearn 
ing  ; 
Deep  under  me  watched  I  the  waves  in 

their  flight, 

As  they  glided  so  light 
In  the  night,  in  the  night, 
Yet  backward  not  one  was  returning. 

O'erhead  were  revolving,  so  countless  and 

bright, 

The  stars  in  melodious  existence  ; 
And  with  them  the  moon,  more  serenely 

bedight  ; 

They  sparkled  so  light 
In  the  night,  in  the  night, 
Through  the  magical,  measureless  distance. 

And  upward  I  gazed  in  the  night,  in  the 

night, 

And  again  on  the  waves  in  their  fleeting  ; 
Ah  woe  !   thou   hast  wasted   thy   days  in 

delight, 

Now  silence  thou  light, 
In  the  night,  in  the  night, 
The  remorse  in  thy  heart  that  is  beating. 


6i8 


TRANSLATIONS 


FORSAKEN 

/SOMETHING  the  heart  must  have  to  cherish, 
I       Must  love  and  joy  and  sorrow  learn, 
Something  with  passion  clasp,  or  perish, 
And  in  itself  to  ashes  burn. 

So  to  this  child  my  heart  is  clinging, 
And  its  frank  eyes,  with  look  intense, 

Me  from  a  world  of  sin  are  bringing 
Back  to  a  world  of  innocence. 

Disdain  must  thou  endure  forever  ; 

Strong  may  thy  heart  in  danger  be  ! 
Thou  shalt  not  fail  !  but  ah,  be  never 

False  as  thy  father  was  to  me. 

Never  will  I  forsake  thee,  faithless, 
And  thou  thy  mother  ne'er  forsake, 

Until  her  lips  are  white  and  breathless, 
Until  in  death  her  eyes  shall  break.  ^ 


ALLAH 

BY  SIEGFRIED  AUGUST   MAHLMANN 

ALLAH  gives  light  in  darkness, 

Allah  gives  rest  in  pain, 
Cheeks  that  are  white  with  weeping 

Allah  paints  red  again. 

The  flowers  and  the  blossoms  wither, 
Years  vanish  with  flying  feet  ; 

But  my  heart  will  live  on  forever, 
That  here  in  sadness  beat. 

Gladly  to  Allah's  dwelling 
Yonder  would  I  take  flight ; 

There  will  the  darkness  vanish, 
There  will  my  eyes  have  sight. 


FROM   THE   ANGLO-SAXON 
THE   GRAVE 

FOR  thee  was  a  house  built 
Ere  thou  wast  born, 
For  thee  was  a  mould  meant 
Ere  thou  of  mother  earnest. 
But  it  is  not  made  ready, 
Nor  its  depth  measured, 


Nor  is  it  seen 
How  long  it  shall  be. 
Now  I  bring  thee 
Where  thou  shalt  be  ; 
Now  I  shall  measure  thee, 
And  the  mould  afterwards. 

Thy  house  is  not 
Highly  timbered, 
It  is  unhigh  and  low  ; 
When  thou  art  therein, 
The  heel-ways  are  low, 
The  side-ways  unhigh. 
The  roof  is  built 
Thy  breast  full  nigh, 
So  thou  shalt  in  mould 
Dwell  full  cold, 
Dimly  and  dark. 

Doorless  is  that  house, 
And  dark  it  is  within  ; 
There  thou  art  fast  detained 
And  Death  hath  the  key. 
Loathsome  is  that  earth-house, 
And  grim  within  to  dwell. 
There  thou  shalt  dwell, 
And  worms  shall  divide  thee. 

Thus  thou  art  laid, 
And  leavest  thy  friends  ; 
Thou  hast  no  friend, 
Who  will  come  to  thee, 
Who  will  ever  see 
How  that  house  pleaseth  thee  ; 
Who  will  ever  open 
The  door  for  thee, 
And  descend  after  thee  ; 
For  soon  thou  art  loathsome 
And  hateful  to  see. 


BEOWULF'S    EXPEDITION    TO 
HEORT 

THUS  then,  much  care-worn, 

The  son  of  Healfden 

Sorrowed  evermore, 

Nor  might  the  prudent  hero 

His  woes  avert. 

The  war  was  too  hard, 

Too  loath  and  longsome, 

That  on  the  people  came, 

Dire  wrath  and  grim, 

Of  night-woes  the  worst. 


BEOWULF'S   EXPEDITION   TO   HEORT 


619 


This  from  home  heard 

Higelac's  Thane, 

Good  among  the  Goths, 

Grendel's  deeds. 

He  was  of  mankind 

In  might  the  strongest, 

At  that  day 

Of  this  life, 

Noble  and  stalwart. 

He  bade  him  a  sea-ship, 

A  goodly  one,  prepare. 

Quoth  he,  the  war-king, 

Over  the  swan's  road, 

Seek  he  would 

The  mighty  monarch, 

Since  he  wanted  men. 

For  him  that  journey 

His  prudent  fellows 

Straight  made  ready, 

Those  that  loved  him. 

They  excited  their  souls, 

The  omen  they  beheld. 

Had  the  good-man 

Of  the  Gothic  people 

Champions  chosen, 

Of  those  that  keenest 

He  might  find, 

Some  fifteen  men. 

The  sea-wood  sought  he. 

The  warrior  showed, 

Sea-crafty  man  ! 

The  land-marks, 

And  first  went  forth. 

The  ship  was  on  the  waves, 

Boat  under  the  cliffs. 

The  barons  ready 

To  the  prow  mounted. 

The  streams  they  whirled 

The  sea  against  the  sands. 

The  chieftains  bore 

On  the  naked  breast 

Bright  ornaments, 

War-gear,  Goth-like. 

The  men  shoved  off, 

Men  on  their  willing  way, 

The  bounden  wood. 

Then  went  over  the  sea-waves, 
Hurried  by  the  wind, 
The  ship  with  foamy  neck, 
Most  like  a  sea-fowl, 
Till  about  one  hour 
Of  the  second  day 
The  curved  prow 
Had  passed  onward 


So  that  the  sailors 
The  land  saw, 
The  shore-cliffs  shining, 
Mountains  steep, 
And  broad  sea-noses. 
Then  was  the  sea-sailing 
Of  the  Earl  at  an  end. 

Then  up  speedily 
The  Weather  people 
On  the  land  went, 
The  sea-bark  moored, 
Their  mail-Barks  shook, 
Their  war-weeds. 
God  thanked  they, 
That  to  them  the  sea-journey 
Easy  had  been. 

Then  from  the  wall  beheld 
The  warden  of  the  Scyldings, 
He  who  the  sea-cliffs 
Had  in  his  keeping, 
Bear  o'er  the  balks 
The  bright  shields, 
The  war-weapons  speedily. 
Him  the  doubt  disturbed 
In  his  mind's  thought, 
What  these  men  might  be. 

Went  then  to  the  shore, 
On  his  steed  riding, 
The  Thane  of  Hrothgar. 
Before  the  host  he  shook 
His  warden's-staff  in  hand, 
In  measured  words  demanded  : 

"  What  men  are  ye 
War-gear  wearing, 
Host  in  harness, 
Who  thus  the  brown  keel 
Over  the  water-street 
Leading  come 
Hither  over  the  sea  ? 
I  these  boundaries 
As  shore-warden  hold, 
That  in  the  Land  of  the  Danes 
Nothing  loathsome 
With  a  ship-crew 
Scathe  us  might.  .  .  . 
Ne'er  saw  I  mightier 
Earl  upon  earth 
Than  is  your  own, 
Hero  in  harness. 
Not  seldom  this  warrior 
Is  in  weapons  distinguished  ; 
Never  his  beauty  belies  him, 
His  peerless  countenance  ! 
Now  would  I  fain 


620 


TRANSLATIONS 


Your  origin  know, 

Ere  ye  forth 

As  false  spies 

Into  the  Land  of  the  Danes 

Farther  fare. 

Now,  ye  dwellers  afar-off  ! 

Ye  sailors  of  the  sea  .1 

Listen  to  my 

One-fold  thought. 

Quickest  is  best 

To  make  known 

Whence  your  coming  may  be." 


THE     SOUL'S      COMPLAINT 
AGAINST   THE    BODY 

FROM   THE   ANGLO-SAXON 

MUCH  it  behove th 
Each  one  of  mortals, 
That  he  his  soul's  journey 
In  himself  ponder, 
How  deep  it  may  be. 
When  Death  cometh, 
The  bonds  he  breaketh 
By  which  were  united 
The  soul  and  the  body. 

Long  it  is  thenceforth 
Ere  the  soul  taketh 


From  God  himself 
Its  woe  or  its  weal  ; 
As  in  the  world  erst, 
Even  in  its  earth-vessel, 
It  wrought  before. 

The  soul  shall  come 
Wailing  with  loud  voice, 
After  a  sennight, 
The  soul,  to  find 
The  body 

That  it  erst  dwelt  in  ;  — 
Three  hundred  winters, 
Unless  ere  that  worketh 
The  Eternal  Lord, 
The  Almighty  God, 
The  end  of  the  world. 

Crieth  then,  so  care-worn, 

With  cold  utterance, 

And  speaketh  grimly, 

The  ghost  to  the  dust : 

"  Dry  dust  !  thou  dreary  one  ! 

How  little  didst  thou  labor  for  me  ! 

In  the  foulness  of  earth 

Thou  all  wearest  away 

Like  to  the  loam  ! 

Little  didst  thou  think 

How  thy  soul's  journey 

Would  be  thereafter, 

When  from  the  body 

It  should  be  led  forth." 


FROM   THE   FRENCH 


SONG 


FROM    THE    PARADISE    OF    LOVE 


The  first  work  which  Mr.  Longfellow  printed  in  the 
w^y  of  translation  of  French  poetry  was  in  connection 
with  his  article  on  Origin  and  Progress  of  the  French 
Language,  which  he  contributed  to  the  North  American 
Review  for  April  1831.  He  used  a  portion  of  this 
paper  in  the  chapter,  The  Trouveres,  in  Onter-Mer,  in 
troducing  his  translation  of  some  early  lyrics  by  these 
wor  Is :  "  The  favorite  theme  of  the  ancient  lyric  poets 
of  the  North  of  France  is  the  wayward  passion  of  love. 
They  all  delight  to  sing  les  douces  dolors  et  li  mat 
plaisantde  fine  amor.'1  With  such  feelings  the  beauties 
of  the  opening  spring  are  naturally  associated.  Almost 
every  love-ditty  of  the  old  poets  commences  with 
some  such  exordium  as  this :  '  When  the  snows  of 


winter  have  passed  away,  when  the  soft  and  gentle 
spring  returns,  and  the  Hower  and  leaf  shoot  in  the 
groves,  and  the  little  birds  warble  to  their  mates  in 
their  own  sweet  language,  —  then  will  I  sing  my  lady 
love  ! '  Another  favorite  introduction  to  these  little 
rhapsodies  of  romantic  passion  is  the  approach  of  morn 
ing  and  its  sweet-voiced  herald,  the  lark.  The  min 
strel's  song  to  his  lady-love  frequently  commences  with 
an  allusion  to  the  hour 

When  the  rosebud  opes  its  een,  . 

And  the  bluebells  droop  and  die. 
And  upon  the  leaves  so  green 

Sparkling  dew-drops  lie. 


SPRING 


621 


"  The  following  is  at  once  the  simplest  and  prettiest 
piece  of  this  kiud  which  I  have  mec  with  among  the 
early  lyric  poets  of  the  North  of  France.  It  is  taken 
from  an  anonymous  poem,  entitled  The  Paradise  of 
Love.  A  lover,  having  passed  the  '  live-long  night  in 
tears  as  he  was  wont,'  goes  forth  to  beguile  his  sor 
rows  with  the  fragrance  and  beauty  of  morning.  The 
carol  of  the  vaulting  skylark  salutes  his  ear,  and  to 
this  merry  musician  he  makes  his  complaint." 

HARK  !  hark  ! 

Pretty  lark  ! 

Little  heedest  thou  my  pain  ! 
But  it'  to  these  longing  arms 
Pitying  Love  would  yield  the  charms 

Of  the  fair 

With  smiling  air, 
Blithe  would  beat  my  heart  again. 

Hark  !  hark  ! 

Pretty  lark  ! 

Little  heedest  thou  my  pain  ! 
Love  may  force  me  still  to  bear, 
While  he  lists,  consuming  care  ; 

But  in  anguish 

Though  I  languish, 
Faithful  shall  my  heart  remain. 

Hark  !  hark  1 

Pretty  lark  ! 

Little  heedest  thou  my  pain  ! 
Then  cease,  Love,  to  torment  me  so  ; 
But  rather  than  all  thoughts  forego 

Of  the  fair 

With  flaxen  hair, 
Give  me  back  her  frowns  again. 

Hark  !  hark  ! 
Pretty  lark  ! 
Little  heedest  thou  my  pain  1 


SONG 

Given  in  The  Trouvercs,  a  chapter  of  Outre-Mer,  as 
another  example  of  the  lyrics  of  the  early  poets  of  the 
North  of  France. 

AND  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 

Breathed  so  softly  in  my  ear  ? 

Say,  dost  thou  bear  his  fate  severe 
To  Love's  poor  martyr  doomed  to  die  ? 
Come,  tell  me  quickly,  —  do  not  lie  ; 

What  secret  message  bring'st  thou  here  ? 
And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 

Breathed  so  softly  in  m}'  ear  ? 
May  Heaven  conduct  thee  to  thy  will, 

And  safely  speed  thee  on  thy  way  ; 

This  only  I  would  humbly  pray,  — 


Pierce  deep,  —  but  oh  J  forbear  to  kill. 
And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 
Breathed  so  softly  in  my  ear  ? 


THE   RETURN    OF   SPRING 
(RENOUVEAU) 

BY   CHARLES  D'ORLEANS 

( '  ' 

\  Now  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 

Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
And  clothes  him  in  the  embroidery 
Of  glittering  sun  and  clear  blue  sky. 
With  beast  and  bird  the  forest  rings, 
Each  in  his  jargon  cries  or  sings  ; 
And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again. 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain. 

River,  and  fount,  and  tinkling  brook 

Wear  in  their  dainty  livery 

Drops  of  silver  jewelry  ; 

In  new-made  suit  they  merry  look  ; 

And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 

Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rainj 


SPRING 

^  BY  CHARLES   D'ORLEANS 

[GENTLE  Spring  !  in  sunshine  clad, 

Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display  ! 
For  Winter  maketh  the  light  heart  sad, 

And  thou,  thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 
He   sees   thee,    and   calls   to    his   gloomy 

train, 
The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind,  and 

the  rain  ; 
And  they   shrink  away,   and  they  flee  in 

fear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  giveth  the  fields  and  the  trees,  so 

old, 

Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow  ; 
And  the  rain,  it  raineth  so  fast  and  cold, 
We  must  cower  over  the  embers  low  ; 
And,   snugly  housed   from   the  wind  and 

weather, 

Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 
But  the  storm  retires,  and  the  sky  grows 

clear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near.\ 


622 


TRANSLATIONS 


Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 
Wrap  him  round  with  a  mantle  of  cloud  ; 

But,  Heaven  be  praised,  thy  step  is  nigh  ; 
Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 

And  the  earth  looks   bright,   and  Winter 
surly, 

Who  has  toiled  for  naught  both  late  and 
early, 

Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near.) 


THE  CHILD  ASLEEP 
(VERSLETS  A  MON  PREMIER  NE) 
BY   CLOTILDE   DE   SURVILLE 

f  SWEET  babe  !  true  portrait  of  thy  father's 

face, 
Sleep  on  the   bosom  that  thy  lips  have 

pressed  ! 

Sleep,  little  one  ;  and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy    drowsy    eyelid   on    thy    mother's 
breast. 

Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 
Soft  sleep  shall  come,  that  coineth  not  to 

me  ! 

I  watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend  ; 
'T  is  sweet  to  watch  for  thee,  alone  for 
thee! 

His  arms  fall  down  ;    sleep  sits  upon  his 

brow  ; 
His  eye  is  closed  ;  he  sleeps,  nor  dreams 

of  harm. 

Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple's  ruddy  glow, 
Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  Death's 
cold  arm  ? 

Awake,  my  boy  !  I  tremble  with  affright  ! 
Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought  !  Un 
close 
Thine  eye   but    for  one  moment   on   the 

light  ! 

Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  re 
pose  ! 

Sweet  error  !  he  but  slept,  I  breathe  again  ; 

Come,  gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of  sleep 

beguile  ! 
Oh,  when  shall  he,  for  whom  I  sigh  in  vain, 

Beside   me   watch    to  see   thy    waking 


DEATH   OF   ARCHBISHOP 
TURPIN 

FROM   THE   CHANSON   DE   ROLAND 

THE  Archbishop,  whom  God  loved  in  high 
degree, 

Beheld  his  wounds  all  bleeding  fresh  and 
free  ; 

And  then  his  cheek  more  ghastly  grew  and 
wan, 

And  a  faint  shudder  through  his  members 
ran. 

Upon  the  battle-field  his  knee  was  bent ; 

Brave  Roland  saw,  and  to  his  succor  went, 

Straightway  his  helmet  from  his  brow  un 
laced, 

And  tore  the  shining  hauberk  from  his 
breast. 

Then  raising  in  his  arms  the  man  of  God, 

Gently  he  laid  him  on  the  verdant  sod. 

"  Rest,  Sire,"  he  cried,—  "  for  rest  thy  suf 
fering  needs." 

The  priest  replied,  "  Think  but  of  warlike 
deeds  ! 

The  field  is  ours  ;  well  may  we  boast  this 
strife  ! 

But  death  steals  on,  —  there  is  no  hope  of 
life; 

In  paradise,  where  Almoners  live  again, 

There  are  our  couches  spread,  there  shall 
we  rest  from  pain." 

Sore  Roland  grieved  ;  nor  marvel  I,  alas  ! 
That  thrice  he  swooned  upon  the  thick  green 

grass. 

When  he  revived,  with  a  loud  voice  cried  he, 
"  O  Heavenly  Father  !  Holy  Saint  Marie  ! 
Why  lingers  death  to  lay  me  in  my  grave  ! 
Beloved  France  !  how  have  the  good  and 

brave 
Been  torn  from  thee,  and  left  thee  weak 

and  poor  !  " 
Then  thoughts  of  Aude,  his  lady-love,  came 

o'er 

His  spirit,  and  he  whispered  soft  and  slow, 
"  My  gentle  friend  !  —  what  parting  full  of 

woe  ! 

Never  so  true  a  liegeman  shalt  thou  see  ;  — 
Whate'er  my  fate,  Christ's  benison  on  thee  ! 
Christ,  who  did  save  from  realms  of  woe 

beneath, 
The    Hebrew   Prophets   from  the   second 

death." 


THE   BLIND   GIRL   OF   CASTfiL   CUILLE 


623 


Then  to  the  Paladins,  whom  well  he  knew, 
He  went,  and  one  by  one  unaided  drew 
To  Turpin's  side,  well   skilled  in  ghostly 

lore  ; — 
No  heart  had  he  to  smile,   but,   weeping 

sore, 
He  blessed  them  in  God's  name,  with  faith 

that  he 
Would    soon   vouchsafe    to  them    a  glad 

eternity. 

The   Archbishop,    then,    on    whom    God's 

benison  rest, 
Exhausted,     bowed     his     head    upon    his 

breast ;  — 
His  mouth  was  full  of  dust  and    clotted 

gore, 

And  many  a  wound  his  swollen  visage  bore. 
Slow  beats    his  heart,  his  panting  bosom 

heaves, 

Death  comes  apace,  —  no  hope  of  cure  re 
lieves. 
Towards  heaven  he  raised  his  dying  hands 

and  prayed 
That   God,    who   for  our  sins  was   mortal 

made, 

Born  of  the  Virgin,  scorned  and  crucified, 
In  paradise  would  place  him  by  his  side. 

Then  Turpin  died  in  service  of  Charlon, 
In  battle  great  and  eke  great  orison  ;  — 
'Gainst  Pagan  host  alway  strong  champion  ; 
God  grant  to  him  his  holy  benison. 


THE    BLIND    GIRL    OF    CASTEL 
CUILLE 

BY  JACQUES  JASMIN 
Only  the  Lowland  tongue  of  Scotland  might 


Rehearse  this  little  tragedy  aright  ; 

nglish  qu 
And  take,  0  Reader,  for  the  deed  the  will. 


Let  me  attempt  it  with  an  En 


uill  ; 


On  the  30th  of  September,  1849,  Mr.  Longfellow 
wrote  in  his  diary  :  "  I  think  I  shall  translate  Jasmin's 
Blind  Girl  of  Castel  Cuilfe,—  a  beautiful  poem,  unknown 
to  English  ears  and  hearts,  bat  well  deserving  to  be 
made  known." 


AT  the  foot  of  the  mountain  height 
Where  is  perched  Castel  Cuille, 
When  the  apple,  the  plum,  and  the  almond 

tree 
In  the  plain  below  were  growing  white, 


This  is  the  song  one  might  perceive 
On    a    Wednesday   morn    of  St.  Joseph's 
Eve: 

The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 
Should  blossom  and  lloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  ! 

This  old  Te  Deum,  rustic  rites  attending, 
Seemed  from  the  clouds  descending  ; 
When  lo  !  a  merry  company 
Of  rosy  village  girls,  clean  as  the  eye, 

Each  one  with  her  attendant  swain, 
Came  to   the   cliff,  all   singing  the   same 

strain  ; 

Resembling  there,  so  near  unto  the  sky, 
Rejoicing   angels,   that   kind   heaven   had 

sent 

For  their  delight  and  our  encouragement. 
Together  blending, 
And  soon  descending 
The  narrow  sweep 
Of  the  hillside  steep, 
They  wind  aslant 
Towards  Saint  Amant, 
Through  leafy  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys 
With  merry  sallies, 
Singing  their  chant : 

The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 
Shou/d  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  ! 

It  is  Baptiste,  and  his  affianced  maiden, 
With  garlands  for  the  bridal  laden  ! 

The   sky  was  blue  ;   without  one  cloud  of 

gloom, 

The  sun  of  March  was  shining  brightly, 
And  to  the  air  the  freshening  wind  gave 

lightly 
Its  breathings  of  perfume. 

When  one  beholds  the  dusky  hedges  blos 
som, 

A  rustic  bridal,  ah  !  how  sweet  it  is  ! 
To  sounds  of  joyous  melodies, 
That  touch  with  tenderness  the  trembling 

bosom, 

A  band  of  maidens 
Gayly  frolicking, 
A  band  of  youngsters 


624 


TRANSLATIONS 


Wildly  rollicking  ! 
Kissing, 
Caressing, 
With  fingers  pressing, 

Till  in  the  veriest 
Madness  of  mirth,  as  they  dance, 
They  retreat  and  advance, 

Trying  whose  laugh  shall  be  loud 
est  and  merriest  ; 

While  the  bride,  with  roguish  eyes, 
Sporting  with  them,  now   escapes    and 

cries  : 

"  Those  who  catch  me 
Married  verily 
This  year  shall  be!" 

And  all  pursue  with  eager  haste, 
And  all  attain  what  they  pursue, 
And  touch  her  pretty  apron  fresh  and 

new, 
And  the  linen  kirtle  round  her  waist. 

Meanwhile,    whence     comes     it    that 

among 

These  youthful  maidens  fresh  and  fair, 
So  joyous,  with  such  laughing  air, 
Baptiste   stands   sighing,  with    silent 

tongue  ? 

And  yet  the  bride  is  fair  and  young  ! 
Is  it  Saint  Joseph  would  say  to  us  all, 
That  love,  o'er-hasty,  precedeth  a  fall  ? 
Oh  no  !  for  a  maiden  frail,  I  trow, 
Never  bore  so  lofty  a  brow  ! 
What  lovers  !  they  give  not  a  single  caress  ! 
To  see  them  so  careless  and  cold  to-day, 
These   are  grand   people,  one    would 

say. 

What  ails  Baptiste  ?  what  grief  doth  him 
oppress  ? 

It  is,  that,  half-way  up  the  hill, 
In  you  cottage,  by  whose  walls 
Stand  the  cart-house  and  the  stalls, 
Dwelleth  the  blind  orphan  still, 
Daughter  of  a  veteran  old  ; 
And  you  must  know,  one  year  ago, 
That  Margaret,  the  young  and  tender, 
Was  the  village  pride  and  splendor, 
And  Baptiste  her  lover  bold. 
Love,  the  deceiver,  them  ensnared  ; 
For  them  the  altar  was  prepared  ; 
But  alas  !  the  summer's  blight, 
The  dread  disease  that  none  can  stay, 
The  pestilence  that  walks  by  night, 
Took  the  young  bride's  sight  away. 


All   at   the   father's    stern   command  was 

changed  ; 
Their  peace  was  gone,  but  not  their  love 

estranged. 

Wearied  at  home,  erelong  the  lover  fled  ; 
Returned  but  three  short  days  ago, 
The   golden    chain    they   round    him 

throw, 

He  is  enticed,  and  onward  led 
To  marry  Angela,  and  yet 
Is  thinking  ever  of  Margaret. 

Then  suddenly  a  maiden  cried, 
"  Anna,  Theresa,  Mary,  Kate  ! 
Here  comes  the  cripple  Jane  !  "     And  by  a 

fountain's  side 

A  woman,  bent  and  gray  with  years, 
Under  the  mulberry  trees  appears, 
And  all  towards  her  run,  as  fleet 
As  had  they  wings  upon  their  feet. 

It  is  that  Jane,  the  cripple  Jane, 
Is  a  soothsayer,  wary  and  kind. 
She  telleth  fortunes,  and  none  complain. 
She  promises  one  a  village  swain, 
Another  a  happy  wedding-day, 
And  the  bride  a  lovely  boy  straight 
way. 

All  comes  to  pass  as  she  avers  ; 
She  never  deceives,  she  never  errs. 

But  for  this  once  the  village  seer 
Wears  a  countenance  severe, 

And  from  beneath  her  eyebrows  thin  and 

white 

Her  two  eyes  flash  like  cannons  bright 
Aimed  at  the  bridegroom  in  waistcoat 

blue, 

Who,  like  a  statue,  stands  in  view  ; 
Changing  color,  as  well  he  might, 
When  the  beldame  wrinkled  and  gray 
Takes  the  young  bride  by  the  hand, 
And,  with  the  tip  of  her  reedy  wand 
Making   the   sign   of   the   cross,  doth 

say  :  — 

"  Thoughtless  Angela,  beware  ! 
Lest,    when    thou   weddest  this   false 

bridegroom, 
Thou  diggest  for  thyself  a  tomb  !  " 

And  she  was  silent  ;  and  the  maidens  fair 

Saw  from  each  eye  escape  a  swollen  tear  ; 

But  on  a  little  streamlet  silver-clear, 

What  are  two  drops  of  turbid  rain  ? 
Saddened  a  moment,  the  bridal  train 
Resumed  the  dance  and  song  again  ; 


THE   BLIND   GIRL   OF   CASTfiL   CUILLfe 


625 


The  bridegroom  only  was  pale  with  fear  ;  — 
And  down  green  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys, 
With  merry  sallies, 
They  sang  the  refrain  :  — 

The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom. 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  I 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  ! 


And  by  suffering  worn  and  weary, 
But  beautiful  as  some  fair  angel  yet, 
Thus  lamented  Margaret, 
In  her  cottage  lone  and  dreary  :  — 

"  He  has  arrived  !  arrived  at  last ! 

Yet  Jane  has  named  him  not  these  three 

days  past  ; 
Arrived  !  yet  keeps  aloof  so  far  ! 

And  knows  that  of  my  night  he  is  the  star  ! 

Knows  that  long  months  I  wait  alone,  be 
nighted, 

And    count  the   moments   since   he   went 
away  ! 

Come  !  keep  the  promise  of  that  happier 
day, 

That   I   may    keep   the   faith   to    thee    I 
plighted ! 

What  joy  have  I  without  thee  ?  what  de 
light? 

Grief  wastes  my  life,  and  makes  it  misery  ; 

Day  for  the  others  ever,  but  for  me 
Forever  night  !  forever  night  ! 

When   he   is  gone  't  is  dark !  my  soul  is 
sad! 

I  suffer  !  O  my  God  !  come,  make  me  glad. 

When  he  is  near,  no  thoughts  of  day  in 
trude  ; 

Day  has  blue   heavens,   but   Baptiste   has 
blue  eyes  ! 

Within  them  shines  for  me  a  heaven  of 
love, 

A  heaven  all  happiness,  like  that  above, 
No  more  of  grief  !  no  more  of  lassi 
tude  ! 

Earth  I  forget,  —  and  heaven,  and  all  dis 
tresses, 

When   seated   by    my   side    my   hand    he 

presses  ; 
But  when  alone,  remember  all  ! 

Where  is  Baptiste  ?  he  hears  not  when  I 
call  ! 


A  branch  of  ivy,  dying  on  the  ground, 
I  need  some  bougli  to  twine  around  ! 

In  pity  come  !  be  to  my  suffering  kind  ! 

True  love,   they   say,  in  grief   doth   more 

abound  ! 
What  then  —  when  one  is  blind  ? 

"  Who  knows  ?  perhaps  I  am  forsaken  ! 
Ah !    woe   is   me  !    then   bear  me   to   my 
grave  ! 

0  God  !    what    thoughts   within   me 
waken ! 

Away  !  he  will  return  !  I  do  but  rave  ! 
He  will  return  !  I  need  not  fear  ! 
He  swore  it  by  our  Saviour  dear  ; 
He  could  not  come  at  his  own  will ; 
Is  weary,  or  perhaps  is  ill  ! 
Perhaps  his  heart,  in  this  disguise, 
Prepares    for    me    some    sweet    sur 
prise  ! 
But  some  one  comes  !     Though  blind,  my 

heart  can  see  ! 
And   that  deceives   me  not!  'tis  he!  'tis 

he!" 

And  the  door  ajar  is  set, 
And  poor,  confiding  Margaret 
Rises,  with  outstretched  arms,  but  sightless 

eyes; 
'T  is   only   Paul,    her    brother,   who    thus 

cries  :  — 
"  Angela  the  bride  has  passed  ! 

1  saw  the  wedding  guests  go  by  ; 
Tell  me,  my  sister,  why  were  we  not 

asked  ? 
For  all  are  there  but  you  and  I !  " 

"  Angela  married  !  and  not  sent 

To  tell  her  secret  unto  me  ! 

Oh,  speak  !  who  may  the  bridegroom 

be?" 
"  My     sister,    't  is      Baptiste,      thy 

friend  ! " 

A   cry  the   blind  girl   gave,   but   nothing 

said  ; 
A    milky    whiteness    spreads     upon     her 

cheeks  ; 

An  icy  hand,  as  heavy  as  lead, 
Descending,  as  her  brother  speaks, 
Upon   her   heart,  that   has   ceased  to 

beat, 

Suspends  awhile  its  life  and  heat. 
She   stands  beside  the  boy,  now  sore  dis 
tressed, 
A  wax  Madonna-  as  a  peasant  dressed. 


626 


TRANSLATIONS 


At  length,  the  bridal  song  again 
Brings   her   back   to   her  sorrow  and 
pain. 

"  Hark  !  the  joyous  airs  are  ringing  ! 
Sister,  dost  thou  hear  them  singing  ? 
How  merrily  they  laugh  and  jest ! 
Would  we  were  bidden  with  the  rest ! 
I  would   don   my  hose   of   homespun 

gray, 
And  my  doublet  of  linen  striped  and 

gay  ; 

Perhaps   they  will  come ;  for  they  do 

not  wed 
Till  to-morrow  at  seven  o'clock,  it  is 

said  !  " 

"  I  know  it  !  "   answered  Margaret  ; 
Whom  the  vision,  with  aspect  black  as  jet, 

Mastered  again  ;  and  its  hand  of  ice 
Held  her  heart  crushed,  as  in  a  vice  ! 

"  Paul,  be  not  sad  !     'T  is  a  holiday  ; 
To-morrow  put  on  thy  doublet  gay  ! 
But  leave  me  now  for  awhile  alone." 
Away,  with  a  hop  and  a  jump,  went 

Paul, 

And,  as  he  whistled  along  the  hall, 
Entered  Jane,  the  crippled  crone. 

"  Holy  Virgin  !  what  dreadful  heat ! 
I   am   faint,  and   weary,   and   out   of 

breath  ! 
But     thou     art    cold, — art    chill    as 

death  ; 
My     little   friend !    what     ails    thee, 

sweet  ?  " 
"  Nothing  !  I  heard  them  singing  home  the 

bride  ; 

And,  as  I  listened  to  the  song, 
I  thought  my  turn  would  come  erelong, 
Thou  knowest  it  is  at  Whitsuntide. 
Thy  cards  forsooth  can  never  lie, 
To  me  such  joy  they  prophesy, 
Thy   skill   shall   be   vaunted   far  and 

wide 

When  they  behold  him  at  my  side. 
And  poor  Baptiste,  what  sayest  thou  ? 
It  must  seem  long  to  him  ;  —  methinks  I  see 

him  now  ! " 

Jane,  shuddering,  her  hand  doth  press  : 
"  Thy  love  I  cannot  all  approve  ; 
We   must   not   trust  too  much   to   happi 
ness  ;  — 
Go,  pray  to  God,  that  thou  mayest  love  him 

less  !  " 
"  The  more  I  pray,  the  more  I  love  ! 


It  is  no  sin,  for  God  is  on  my  side  1  " 

It  was  enough  ;  and  Jane  no  more  replied. 

Now  to  all  hope  her  heart  is  barred  and 

cold  ; 

But  to  deceive  the  beldame  old 
She  takes  a  sweet,  contented  air  ; 
Speak  of  foul  weather  or  of  fair, 
At  every  word  the  maiden  smiles  ! 
Thus  the  beguiler  she  beguiles  ; 
So  that,  departing  at  the  evening's  close, 
She   says,    "  She   may  be  saved  !  she 

nothing  knows  !  " 

Poor  Jane,  the  cunning  sorceress  ! 
Now  that   thou  wouldst,  thou  art  no  pro 
phetess  ! 
This  morning,  in  the  fulness  of  thy  heart, 

Thou  wast  so,  far  beyond  thine  art  ! 

Ill 

Now  rings  the  bell,  nine  times  reverber 
ating, 

And  the  white  daybreak,  stealing  up  the 
sky, 

Sees  in  two  cottages  two  maidens  waiting. 
How  differently  1 

Queen  of  a  day,  by  flatterers  caressed, 

The  one  puts  on  her  cross  and  crown, 
Decks  with  a  huge  bouquet  her  breast, 
And  flaunting,  fluttering  up  and  down, 
Looks  at  herself,  and  cannot  rest. 
The    other,    blind,   within    her    little 

room. 

Has  neither  crown   nor   flower's  per 
fume  ; 
But   in   their   stead  for  something  gropes 

apart, 

That  in  a  drawer's  recess  doth  lie, 
And,    'neath   her   bodice  of  bright  scarlet 

dye, 
Convulsive  clasps  it  to  her  heart. 

The  one,  fantastic,  light  as  air, 

'Mid  kisses  ringing, 

And  joyous  singing, 
Forgets  to  say  her  morning  prayer  ! 

The  other,  with  cold  drops  upon  her  brow, 
Joins  her  two  hands,  and  kneels  upon  the 

floor, 

And  whispers,  as  her  brother  opes  the  door, 
"  O  God  !  forgive  me  now  !  " 


THE   BLIND   GIRL   OF   CAST&L   CUILLfe 


627 


And  then  the  orphan,  young  and  blind, 
Conducted  by  her  brother's  hand, 
Towards  the  church,  through  paths  un- 

scanned, 
With  tranquil  air,  her  way  doth  wind. 

Odors  of  laurel,  making  her  faint  and  pale, 
Round  her  at  times  exhale, 

And  in  the  sky  as  yet  no  sunny  ray, 
But  brumal  vapors  gray. 

Near  that  castle,  fair  to  see, 
Crowded   with    sculptures   old,     in   every 

part, 

Marvels  of  nature  and  of  art, 
And  proud  of  its  name  of  high  degree, 
A  little  chapel,  almost  bare 
At   the   base   of  the  rock,  is  builded 

there  ; 

All  glorious  that  it  lifts  aloof, 
Above  each  jealous  cottage  roof, 
Its  sacred  summit,  swept  by  autumn  gales, 
And  its  blackened  steeple  high  in  air, 
Round  which  the  osprey  screams  and 

sails. 

"  Paul,  lay  thy  noisy  rattle  by  !  " 

Thus  Margaret  said.     "  Where  are  we  ?  we 
ascend  !  " 

"  Yes  ;  seest  thou  not  our  journey's  end  ? 

Hearest   not  the   osprey   from  the  belfry 
cry? 

The  hideous  bird,  that  brings  ill  luck,  we 
know  ! 

Dost  thou  remember  when  our  father  said, 

The  night  we  watched  beside  his  bed, 

4  O  daughter,  I  am  weak  and  low  ; 

Take  care  of  Paul  ;  I  feel  that  I  am  dy 
ing  ! ' 

And  thou,  and  he,  and  I,  all  fell  to  crying  ? 

Then   on   the   roof    the   osprey  screamed 
aloud  ; 

And   here  they  brought  our  father  in  his 
shroud. 

There  is  his  grave  ;  there  stands  the  cross 
we  set  ; 

Why   dost   thou   clasp  me   so,  dear  Mar 
garet  ? 
Come  in  !  the  bride  will  be  here  soon  : 

Thou  tremblest !  O  my  God  !  thou  art  go 
ing  to  swoon  !  " 

She  could  no  more,  —  the  blind  girl,  weak 

and  weary  ! 
A  voice  seemed  crying  from  that  grave  so 

dreary, 


"  What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  daughter  ?  "  — 

and  she  started, 

And    quick    recoiled,    aghast,    faint 
hearted  ; 
But  Paul,  impatient,  urges  evermore 

Her  steps  towards  the  open  door  ; 
And  when,  beneath  her  feet,  the  unhappy 

maid 

Crushes  the  laurel  near  the  house  immor 
tal, 

And  with  her  head,  as  Paul  talks  on  again, 
Touches  the  crown  of  filigrane 
Suspended  from  the  low-arched  portal, 
No  more  restrained,  no  more  afraid, 
She  walks,  as  for  a  feast  arrayed, 
And  in  the  ancient  chapel's  sombre  night 
They  both  are  lost  to  sight. 

At  length  the  bell, 
With  booming  sound, 
Sends  forth,  resounding  round, 
Its  hymeneal  peal  o'er  rock  and  down  the 

dell. 
It  is  broad  day,  with  sunshine  and  with 

rain  ; 

And  yet  the  guests  delay  not  long, 
For  soon  arrives  the  bridal  train, 
And  with  it  brings  the  village  throng. 

In  sooth,  deceit  maketh  no  mortal  gay, 
For  lo  !  Baptiste  on  this  triumphant  day, 
Mute  as  an  idiot,  sad  as  yester-morning, 
Thinks   only   of   the   beldame's   words   of 
warning. 

And  Angela  thinks  of  her  cross,  I  wis  ; 
To  be  a  bride  is  all  !  the  pretty  lisper 
Feels  her  heart  swell  to  hear  all  round  her 

whisper, 
"  How  beautiful !  how  beautiful  she  is  !  " 

But  she  must  calm  that  giddy  head, 
For  already  the  Mass  is  said  ; 
At  the  holy  table  stands  the  priest  ; 
The  wedding  ring  is  blessed  ;  Baptiste  re 
ceives  it ; 
Ere  on  the  finger  of  the  bride  he  leaves 

it, 
He     must    pronounce    one     word    at 

least ! 

'T  is  spoken  ;  and  sudden  at  the  grooms 
man's  side 

"  'T  is  he  !  "  a  well-known  voice  has  cried. 
And  while  the  wedding  guests  all  hold  their 
breath, 


628 


TRANSLATIONS 


Opes  the  confessional,  and  the  blind  girl, 

see  ! 
"Baptiste,"   she   said,     "since   thou    hast 

wished  my  death, 

As  holy  water  be  my  blood  for  thee  !  " 
And  calmly  in  the  air  a  knife  suspended  ! 
Doubtless  her  guardian  angel  near  attended, 
For  anguish  did  its  work  so  well, 
That,  ere  the  fatal  stroke  descended, 
Lifeless  she  fell  ! 

At  eve,  instead  of  bridal  verse, 
The  De  Profundis  filled  the  air  ; 
Decked  with  flowers  a  simple  hearse 
To  the  churchyard  forth  they  bear  ; 
Village  girls  in  robes  of  snow 
Follow,  weeping  as  they  go  ; 
Nowhere  was  a  smile  that  day, 
No,  ah  no  !  for  each  one  seemed  to  say  :  — 

The  road  should  mourn  and  be  veiled  in  gloom, 
So  fair  a  corpse  shall  leave  its  home  ! 
Should  mourn  and  should  weep,  ah,  well-away  ! 
So  fair  a  corpse  shall  pass  to  day  ! 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

FROM  THE  NOEI  BOURGUIGNON  DE  GUI 
BAROZAI 

I  HEAR  along  our  street 
Pass  the  minstrel  throngs  ; 
Hark  !  they  play  so  sweet, 
On  their  hautboys,  Christmas  songs  ! 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

In  December  ring 
Every  day  the  chimes  ; 
Loud  the  gleemen  sing 
In  the  streets  their  merry  rhymes. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Shepherds  at  the  grange, 
Where  the  Babe  was  born, 
Sang,  with  many  a  change, 
Christmas  carols  until  morn. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 


These  good  people  sang 
Songs  devout  and  sweet ; 
While  the  rafters  rang, 
There  they  stood  with  freezing  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Nuns  in  frigid  cells 
At  this  holy  tide, 
For  want  of  something  else, 
Christmas  songs  at  times  have  tried. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  I 

Washerwomen  old, 
To  the  sound  they  beat, 
Sing  by  rivers  cold, 
With  uncovered  heads  and  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Who  by  the  fireside  stands 
Stamps  Ins  feet  and  sings  ; 
But  he  who  blows  his  hands 
Not  so  gay  a  carol  brings. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 


CONSOLATION 

TO  M.  DUPERRIER,  GENTLEMAN  OF  AIX 
IN  PROVENCE,  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS 
DAUGHTER 

BY   FRANCOIS   DE   MALHERBE 

WILL  then,  Duperrier,  thy  sorrow  be  eter 
nal  ? 

And  shall  the  sad  discourse 
Whispered  within  thy  heart,  by  tenderness 

paternal, 
Only  augment  its  force  ? 

Thy  daughter's  mournful  fate,  into  the  tomb 

descending 

By  death's  frequented  ways, 
Has  it  become  to  thee   a  labyrinth  never 

ending, 
Where  thy  lost  reason  strays  ? 


THE   ANGEL   AND   THE   CHILD 


629 


I  know  the  charms  that  made  her  youth  a 

benediction  : 
Nor  should  I  be  content, 
As  a  censorious  friend,  to  solace  thine  afflic 
tion 
By  her  disparagement. 

But  she   was  of  the   world,   which  fairest 

things  exposes 
To  fates  the  most  forlorn  ; 
A  rose,  she  too  hath  lived  as  long  as  live 

the  roses, 
The  space  of  one  brief  morn. 

Death  has  his  rigorous  laws,  unparalleled, 

unfeeling  ; 

All  prayers  to  him  are  vain  ; 
Cruel,  he  stops  his  ears,  and,  deaf  to  our 

appealing, 
He  leaves  us  to  complain. 

The  poor  man  in  his  hut,  with  only  thatch 

for  cover, 

Unto  these  laws  must  bend  ; 
The  sentinel  that  guards  the  barriers  of  the 

Louvre 
Cannot  our  kings  defend. 

To  murmur  against  death,  in  petulant  defi 
ance, 

Is  never  for  the  best  ; 
To  will  what  God  cloth  will,  that  is  the  only 

science 
That  gives  us  any  rest. 


TO   CARDINAL   RICHELIEU 

BY  FRANCOIS   DE   MALHERBE 

THOU  mighty  Prince  of  Church  and  State, 
Richelieu  !  until  the  hour  of  death, 
Whatever  road  man  chooses,  Fate 
Still  holds  him  subject  to  her  breath. 
Spun  of  all  silks,  our  days  and  nights 
Have  sorrows  woven  with  delights  ; 
And  of  this  intermingled  shade 
Our  various  destiny  appears, 
Even  as  one  sees  the  course  of  years 
Of  summers  and  of  winters  made. 

Sometimes  the  soft,  deceitful  hours 
Let  us  enjoy  the  halcyon  wave  ; 
Sometimes  impending  peril  lowers 
Beyond  the  seaman's  skill  to  save. 


The  Wisdom,  infinitely  wise, 
That  gives  to  human  destinies 
Their  foreordained  necessity, 
Has  made  no  law  more  fixed  below, 
Than  the  alternate  ebb  and  flow 
Of  Fortune  and  Adversity. 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  CHILD 

(L'ANGE   ET    L'ENFANT  ;    ELEGIE   A    UNE 

MERE) 

BY  JEAN   REBOUL,  THE   BAKER  OF  NISMES 

AN  angel  with  a  radiant  face, 

Above  a  cradle  bent  to  look, 
Seemed  his  own  image  there  to  trace, 

As  in  the  waters  of  a  brook. 

"  Dear  child  !  who  me  resemblest  so," 
It  whispered,  "  come,  oh  come  with  me  ! 

Happy  together  let  us  go, 

The  earth  unworthy  is  of  thee  ! 

"  Here  none  to  perfect  bliss  attain ; 

The  soul  in  pleasure  suffering  lies  ; 
Joy  hath  an  undertone  of  pain, 

And  even  the  happiest  hours  their  sighs. 

"  Fear  doth  at  every  portal  knock  ; 

Never  a  day  serene  and  pure 
From  the  overshadowing  tempest's  shock 

Hath  made  the  morrow's  dawn  secure. 

"  What,  then,  shall  sorrows  and  shall  fears 
Come  to  disturb  so  pure  a  brow  ? 

And  with  the  bitterness  of  tears 

These  eyes  of  azure  troubled  grow? 

"  Ah  no  !  into  the  fields  of  space, 
Away  shalt  thou  escape  with  me  ; 

And  Providence  will  grant  thee  grace 
Of  all  the  days  that  were  to  be. 

"  Let  no  one  in  thy  dwelling  cower, 

In  sombre  vestments  draped  and  veiled  ; 

But  let  them  welcome  thy  last  hour, 
As  thy  first  moments  once  they  hailed. 

"  Without  a  cloud  be  there  each  brow  ; 

There  let  the  grave  no  shadow  cast ; 
When  one  is  pure  as  thou  art  now, 

The  fairest  day  is  still  the  last." 


630 


TRANSLATIONS 


And  waving  wide  his  wings  of  white, 
The  angel,  at  these  words,  had  sped 

Towards  the  eternal  realms  of  light  !  — 
Poor  mother  !  see,  thy  son  is  dead  ! 


ON    THE    TERRACE    OF    THE 
AIGALADES 

BY  JOSEPH  ME"RY 

FROM  this  high  portal,  where  upsprings 
The  rose  to  touch  our  hands  in  play, 
We  at  a  glance  behold  three  things,  — 
The  Sea,  the  Town,  and  the  Highway. 

And  the  Sea  says  :  My  shipwrecks  fear  ; 
I  drown  my  best  friends  in  the  deep  ; 
And  those  who  braved  my  tempests,  here 
Among  my  sea-weeds  lie  asleep  ! 

The  Town  says  :  I  am  filled  and  fraught 
With  tumult  and  with  smoke  and  care  ; 
My  days  with  toil  are  overwrought, 
And  in  my  nights  I  gasp  for  air. 

The  Highway  says  :  My  wheel-tracks  guide 
To  the  pale  climates  of  the  North  ; 
Where  my  last  milestone  stands  abide 
The  people  to  their  death  gone  forth. 

Here  in  the  shade  this  life  of  ours, 
Full  of  delicious  air,  glides  by 
Amid  a  multitude  of  flowers 
As  countless  as  the  stars  on  high  ; 

These  red-tiled  roofs,  this  fruitful  soil, 
Bathed  with  an  azure  all  divine, 
Where  springs  the  tree  that  gives  us  oil, 
The  grape  that  giveth  us  the  wine  ; 

Beneath  these  mountains  stripped  of  trees, 
Whose  tops  with  flowers  are  covered  o'er, 
Where  springtime  of  the  Hesperides 
Begins,  but  endeth  nevermore  ; 

Under  these  leafy  vaults  and  walls, 
That  unto  gentle  sleep  persuade  ; 
This  rainbow  of  the  waterfalls, 
Of  mingled  mist  and  sunshine  made  ; 

Upon  these  shores,  where  all  invites, 
We  live  our  languid  life  apart  ; 
This  air  is  that  of  life's  delights, 
The  festival  of  sense  and  heart ; 


This  limpid  space  of  time  prolong, 
Forget  to-morrow  in  to-day, 
And  leave  unto  the  passing  throng 
The  Sea,  the  Town,  and  the  Highway. 


TO  MY  BROOKLET 

(A   MON    RUISSEAU) 
BY   JEAN   FRANCOIS   DUCIS 

'HOU  brooklet,  all  unknown  to  song, 
Hid  in  the  covert  of  the  wood  ! 
i,  yes,  like  thee  I  fear  the  throng, 
Like  thee  I  love  the  solitude. 

0  brooklet,  let  my  sorrows  past 
Lie  all  forgotten  in  their  graves, 

Till  in  my  thoughts  remain  at  last 

Only  thy  peace,  thy  flowers,  thy  waves. 

The  lily  by  thy  margin  waits  ;  — 
The  nightingale,  the  marguerite  ; 

In  shadow  here  he  meditates 

His  nest,  his  love,  his  music  sweet. 

Near  thee  the  self-collected  soul 

Knows  naught  of  error  or  of  crime  ; 

Thy  waters,  murmuring  as  they  roll, 
Transform  his  musings  into  rhyme. 

Ah,  when,  on  bright  autumnal  eves, 
Pursuing  still  thy  course,  shall  I 

List  the  soft  shudder  of  the  leaves, 

And  hear  the  lapwing's  plaintive  cry?] 

BARREGES 

BY   LEFRANC   DE   POMPIGNAN 

1  LEAVE  you,  ye  cold  mountain  chains, 
Dwelling  of  warriors  stark  and  frore  ! 
You,  may  these  eyes  behold  no  more, 

Save  on  the  horizon  of  our  plains. 

\ 

Vanish,  ye  frightful,  gloomy  views  ! 

Ye  rocks  that  mount  up  to  the  clouds  ! 

Of  skies,  enwrapped  in  misty  shrouds, 
Impracticable  avenues  ! 

Ye  torrents,  that  with  might  and  main 
Break  pathways  through  the  rocky  walls, 
With  your  terrific  waterfalls 

Fatigue  no  more  my  weary  brain  ! 


A  QUIET   LIFE 


631 


Arise,  ye  landscapes  full  of  charms, 

Arise,  ye  pictures  of  delight ! 

Ye  brooks,  that  water  in  your  flight 
The  flowers  and  harvests  of  our  farms  ! 

You  I  perceive,  ye  meadows  green, 
Where  the  Garonne  the  lowland  fills, 
Not  far  from  that  long  chain  of  hills, 

With  intermingled  vales  between. 

Yon  wreath  of  smoke,  that  mounts  so  high, 
Methinks  from  my  own  hearth  must  come ; 
With  speed,  to  that  beloved  home, 

Fly,  ye  too  lazy  coursers,  fly  ! 

And  bear  me  thither,  where  the  soul 

In  quiet  may  itself  possess, 

Where  all  things  soothe  the  mind's  dis 
tress, 
Where  all  things  teach  me  and  console. 


WILL    EVER    THE     DEAR     DAYS 
COME  BACK  AGAIN  ? 

I  WILL  ever  the  dear  days  come  back  again, 
Those  days  of  June,  when  lilacs  were  in 

bloom, 
And  bluebirds  sang  their  sonnets  in  the 

gloom 
Of  leaves  that  roofed  them  in  from  sun 

or  rain  ? 

I  know  not  ;  but  a  presence  will  remain 
Forever  and  forever  in  this  room, 
Formless,   diffused   in   air  ;  like  a   per 
fume,  — 

A  phantom  of  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain. 
Delicious  days  !  when  every  spoken  word 
Was  like  a  footfall  nearer  and  more  near, 
And  a  mysterious  knocking  at  the  gate 
Of  the  heart's  secret  places,  and  we  heard 
In  the  sweet  tumult  of  delight  and  fear 
A  voice  that  whispered,  "  Open,  I  cannot 
wait !  " ' 


AT  LA  CHAUDEAU 

BY   XAVIER   MARMIER 

|  AT  La  Chaudeau,  —  't  is  long  since  then  : 
I  was  young,  —  my  years  twice  ten  ; 
All  things  smiled  on  the  happy  boy, 
Dreams  of  love  and  songs  of  joy, 
Azure  of  heaven  and  wave  below, 
At  La  Chaudeau. 


To  La  Chaudeau  I  come  back  old  : 
My  head  is  gray,  my  blood  is  cold  ; 
Seeking  along  the  meadow  ooze, 
Seeking  beside  the  river  Seymouse, 
The  days  of  my  spring-time  of  long  ago 
At  La  Chaudeau. 

At  La  Chaudeau  nor  heart  nor  brain 
Ever  grows  old  with  grief  and  pain  ; 
A  sweet  remembrance  keeps  off  age  ; 
A  tender  friendship  doth  still  assuage 
The  burden  of  sorrow  that  one  may  know 
At  La  Chaudeau. 

At  La  Chaudeau,  had  fate  decreed 

To  limit  the  wandering  life  I  lead, 

Peradventure  I  still,  forsooth, 

Should    have    preserved   my   fresh   green 

youth 

Under  the  shadows  the  hill-tops  throw 
At  La  Chaudeau. 

At  La  Chaudeau,  live  on,  my  friends, 
Happy  to  be  where  God  intends  ; 
And  sometimes,  by  the  evening  fire, 
Think  of  him  w.hose  sole  desire 
Is  again  to  sit  in  the  old  chateau 
At  La  Chaudeau.1 


A  QUIET   LIFE 

^*— 

LET  him   who   will,  by  force  or  fraud  in 
nate, 

Of  courtly  grandeurs  gain  the  slippery 
height  ; 

I,  leaving  not  the  home  of  my  delight, 

Far  from  the  world  and  noise  will  medi 
tate. 
Then,  without  pomps  or  perils  of  the  great, 

I  shall  behold  the  day  succeed  the  night ; 

Behold  the  alternate  seasons  take  their 
flight, 

And  in  serene  repose  old  age  await. 
And   so,  whenever    Death   shall   come   to 
close 

The  happy  moments  that  my  days  com 
pose, 

I,  full  of  years,  shall  die,  obscure,  alone  ! 
How   wretched    is   the   man,    with  honors 
crowned, 

Who,  having  not  the  one  thing  needful 
found, 

Dies,  known  to  all,  but  to  himself  un 
known. 


632 


TRANSLATIONS 


THE   WINE   OF   JURAN£ON 

BY   CHARLES   GORAN 

LITTLE  sweet  wine  of  Juranc.on, 
You  are  dear  to  my  memory  still  ! 

With  mine  host  and  his  merry  song, 
Under  the  rose-tree  I  drank  my  fill. 

Twenty  years  after,  passing  that  way, 
Under  the  trellis  I  found  again 

Mine  host,  still  sitting  there  aufrais, 
And  singing  still  the  same  refrain. 

The  JuranQon,  so  fresh  and  bold, 
Treats  me  as  one  it  used  to  know  ; 

Souvenirs  of  the  days  of  old 
Already  from  the  bottle  flow. 

With  glass  in  hand  our  glances  met ; 

We  pledge,  we  drink.     How  sour  it  is  ! 
Never  Argenteuil  piquette 

Was  to  my  palate  sour  as  this  ! 

And  yet  the  vintage  was  good,  in  sooth  ; 

The  self-same  juice,  the  self-same  cask  ! 
It  was  you,  O  gayety  of  my  youth, 

That  failed  in  the  autumnal  flask  ! 


FRIAR  LUBIN 

(LE  FRERE  LUBIN) 
BY    CLEMENT    MAROT 

Mr.  Longfellow  save  this  lyric  in  his  paper  on  Origin 
and  Progress  of  the  French  Language,  and  afterward 
printed  it  in  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe,  In  one 
of  the  scenes  of  Michael  A  ngelo,  which  he  appears  to 
have  set  aside  when  revising  that  dramatic  poem,  he 
makes  Rabelais  sing  it.  The  envoy  which  closes  the 
poem  here  is  omitted  in  the  scene. 

To  gallop  off  to  town  post-haste, 

So  oft,  the  times  I  cannot  tell  ; 
To  do  vile  deed,  nor  feel  disgraced,  — 

Friar  Lubin  will  do  it  well. 
But  a  sober  life  to  lead, 

To  honor  virtue,  and  pursue  it. 
That  's  a  pious,  Christian  deed, — 

Friar  Lubin  cannot  do  it. 

To  mingle,  with  a  knowing  smile, 
The  goods  of  others  with  his  own, 

And  leave  you  without  cross  or  pile, 
Friar  Lubin  stands  alone. 


To  say  't  is  yours  is  all  in  vain, 
If  once  he  lays  his  finger  to  it  ; 

For  as  to  giving  back  again, 
Friar  Lubin  cannot  do  it. 

With  flattering  words  and  gentle  tone, 

To  woo  and  win  some  guileless  maid, 
Cunning  pander  need  you  none, — 

Friar  Lubin  knows  the  trade. 
Loud  preacheth  he  sobriety, 

But  as  for  water,  doth  eschew  it ; 
Your  dog  may  drink  it,  —  but  not  he  ; 

Friar  Lubin  cannot  do  it. 


ENVOY 

When  an  evil  deed  's  to  do 
Friar  Lubin  is  stout  and  true  ; 
Glimmers  a  ray  of  goodness  through  it, 
Friar  Lubiii  cannot  do  it. 


RONDEL 

BY   JEAN   FROISSART 

LOVE,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart 

of  mine  ? 

Naught  see  I  fixed  or  sure  in  thee  ! 
I  do  not  know  thee,  —  nor  what  deeds  are 

thine  : 
Love,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart 

of  mine  ? 
Naught  see  I  fixed  or  sure  in  thee  ! 

Shall   I   be   mute,  or  vows   with  prayers 

combine  ? 

Ye  who  are  blessed  in  loving,  tell  it  me : 
Love,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart 

of  mine  ? 
Naught  see  I  permanent  or  sure  in  thee ! 


MY   SECRET 
BY  FE"LIX  ARVERS 

MY  soul  its  secret  has,  my  life  too  has  its 
mystery, 

A  love  eternal  in  a  moment's  space  con 
ceived  ; 

Hopeless  the  evil  is,  I  have  not  told  its 
history, 

And  she  who  was  the  cause  nor  knew  it  nor 
believed. 


THE  TERRESTRIAL   PARADISE 


633 


Alas  !  I  shall  have  passed  close  by  her  un- 

perceived, 

Forever  at  her  side,  and  yet  forever  lonely, 
I  shall  unto  the  end  have  made  life's  jour 
ney,  only 
Daring    to   ask    for   naught,   and   having 

naught  received. 
For  her,  though  God  has  made  her  gentle 

and  endearing, 
She   will   go   on   her  way   distraught  and 

without  hearing 
These  murmurings  of  love  that  round  her 

steps  ascend, 

Piously  faithful  still  unto  her  austere  duty, 
Will  say,  when  she  shall  read  these  lines 

full  of  her  beauty, 
"  Who  can  this  woman  be  ?  "  and  will  not 

comprehend. 


FROM   THE   ITALIAN 
THE   CELESTIAL   PILOT 

PURGATORIO   II.    13-51. 

Mr.  Longfellow's  biographer,  in  speaking  of  the  poet's 
methods  with  his  college  class  when  engaged  upon  the 
study  of  Dante,  says:  "The  Professor  read  the  book 
into  English  to  his  class,  with  a  running  commentary 
and  illustration.  For  his  purpose  he  had  bound  an  in 
terleaved  copy  of  the  author  ;  the  blank  pages  of  which 
he  gradually  filled  with  notes  and  with  translations  of 
noteworthy  passages.  In  this  way  were  written  those 
passages  from  the  Divina  Commedia  which  were  first 
printed  in  the  Voices  of  the  Night." 

AND  now,  behold  !  as  at  the  approach  of 

morning, 
Through  the  gross  vapors,  Mars  grows 

fiery  red 

Down  in  the  west  upon  the  ocean  floor, 
Appeared   to   me,  —  may   I   again  behold 

it! 

A  light  along  the  sea,  so  swiftly  com 
ing? 

Its  motion  by  no  flight  of  wing  is  equalled. 
And  when  therefrom   I  had  withdrawn   a 

little 

Mine  eyes,  that  I  might  question  my  con 
ductor, 

Again  I  saw  it  brighter  grown  and  larger. 
Thereafter,  on  all  sides  of  it,  appeared 
I  knew  not  what  of  white,   and  under 
neath, 

Little  by  little,  there  came  forth  another. 
My  master  yet  had  uttered  not  a  word, 


While  the  first  whiteness  into  wings  un 
folded  , 

But,   when    he    clearly  recognized    the 

pilot, 

He  cried  aloud  :  "  Quick,  quick,  and  bow 
the  knee  ! 

Behold  the  Angel  of  God  !  fold  up  thy 
hands ! 

Henceforward  shalt   thou  see  such  offi 
cers  ! 
See,  how  he  scorns  all  human  arguments, 

So  that  no  oar  he  wants,  nor  other  sail 

Than  his  own  wings,  between  so  distant 

shores  ! 

See,  how  he  holds  them,  pointed  straight  to 
heaven, 

Fanning  the  air  with  the  eternal  pinions, 

That  do  not  moult  themselves  like  mortal 

hair  !  " 

And   then,   as   nearer  and   more   near  us 
came 

The  Bird  of  Heaven,  more  glorious  he 
appeared, 

So  that  the   eye   could   not   sustain   his 

presence, 
But  down  I  cast  it ;  and  he  came  to  shore 

With  a  small  vessel,  gliding  swift  and 
light, 

So  that   the    water    swallowed    naught 

thereof. 
Upon  the  stern  stood  the  Celestial  Pilot ! 

Beatitude  seemed  written  in  his  face  ! 

And   more   than   a   hundred  spirits   sat 

within. 
"  In  exitu  Israel  de  JEgypto  !  " 

Thus  sang  they  all  together  in  one  voice, 

With  whatso  in  that  Psalm  is  after  writ 
ten. 
Then  made  he  sign  of  holy  rood  upon  them, 

Whereat   all   cast  themselves    upon  the 
shore, 

And  he  departed  swiftly  as  he  came. 


THE    TERRESTRIAL    PARADISE 

PURGATORIO  XXVIII.    1-33- 

LONGING  already  to  search  in  and  round 
The  heavenly   forest,  dense   and  living- 
green, 

Which  tempered   to  the  eyes  the  new 
born  day. 
Withouten  more  delay  I  left  the  bank, 


634 


TRANSLATIONS 


Crossing  the  level  country  slowly,  slowly, 

Over  the  soil,  that  everywhere  breathed 

fragrance. 
A  gently-breathing  air,  that  no  mutation 

Had  in  itself,  smote  me  upon  the  fore 
head 

No  heavier  blow  than  of  a  pleasant  breeze, 
Whereat  the  tremulous  branches  readily 

Did  all  of  them  bow  downward  towards 
that  side 

Where   its  first  shadow  casts  the  Holy 

Mountain  ; 
Yet  not  from  their  upright  direction  bent 

So  that  the  little  birds  upon  their  tops 

Should  cease  the  practice  of  their  tune 
ful  art  ; 

But,  with   full-throated  joy,  the   hours  of 
prime 

Singing  received  they  in   the   midst   of 
foliage 

That  made  monotonous  burden  to  their 

rhymes, 

Even  as  from  branch  to  branch  it  gather 
ing  swells, 

Through  the  pine  forests  on  the  shore  of 
Chiassi, 

When  ^Eolus  unlooses  the  Sirocco. 
Already  my  slow  steps  had  led  me  on 

Into  the  ancient  wood  so  far,  that  I 

Could   see   no  more   the  place  where  I 

had  entered. 
And  lo  !  my  further  course  cut  off  a  river, 

Which,  tow'rds  the  left  hand,  with   its 
little  waves, 

Bent  down  the  grass,  that  on  its  margin 

sprang. 
All  waters  that  on  earth  most  limpid  are, 

Would  seem  to  have  within  themselves 
some  mixture, 

Compared  with  that,  which  nothing  doth 

conceal, 

Although  it  moves  on  with  a  brown,  brown 
current, 

Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 

Ray  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the  moon. 


BEATRICE 

PURGATORIO     XXX.     I3~33,     85-99,    XXXI. 
13-21. 

EVEN  as  the  Blessed,  at  the  final  summons, 
Shall  rise  up  quickened,  each  one  from 
his  grave, 


Wearing  again  the  garments  of  the  flesh, 
So,  upon  that  celestial  chariot, 

A  hundred  rose  ad  vocem  ianti  senis, 

Ministers  and  messengers  of    life  eter 
nal. 

They    all    were   saying,    "  Benedictus    qui 
venis," 

And  scattering  flowers  above  and  round 
about, 

"  Manibus  o  date  lilia  plenis" 
Oft  have  I  seen,  at  the  approach  of  day, 

The  orient  sky  all  stained  with  roseate 
hues, 

And  the  other  heaven  with  light  serene 

adorned, 

And   the   sun's    face    uprising,    overshad 
owed, 

So   that,  by  temperate  influence  of   va 
pors, 

The   eye   sustained  his  aspect  for  long 

while  ; 
Thus  in  the  bosom  of  a  cloud  of  flowers, 

Which    from    those  hands  angelic   were 
thrown  up, 

And    down  descended  inside  and  with 
out, 

With   crown   of  olive   o'er   a  snow-white 
veil, 

Appeared  a  lady,  under  a  green  mantle, 

Vested  in  colors  of  the  living  flame. 

Even   as  the  snow,  among  the  living  raf 
ters 

Upon  the  back  of  Italy,  congeals, 
Blown    on   and    beaten    by    Sclavonian 

winds, 

And   then,    dissolving,    filters   through   it 
self, 
Whene'er  the   land,  that  loses   shadow, 

breathes, 

Like  as  a  taper  melts  before  a  fire, 
Even  such  I  was,  without  a  sigh  or  tear, 
Before  the  song  of  those  who  chime  for 
ever 
After     the     chiming     of     the     eternal 

spheres  ; 

But,  when  I  heard  in  those   sweet   melo 
dies 
Compassion  for  me,  more  than  had  they 

said, 

"  Oh  wherefore,  lady,  dost  thou  thus  con 
sume  him  ?  " 

The  ice,  that  was  about  my  heart  congealed, 
To  air  and   water  changed,  and,  in  my 
anguish, 


SEVEN   SONNETS   AND   A   CANZONE 


Through   lips   and    eyes   came   gushing 
from  my  breast. 


Confusion     and     dismay,     together    min 
gled, 

Forced  such  a  feeble  "  Yes  !  "  out  of  my 
mouth, 

To    understand    it    one     had    need    of 

sight. 

Even  as  a  cross-bow  breaks,  when  't  is  dis 
charged, 

Too  tensely  drawn   the  bow-string  and 
the  bow, 

And  with  less  force  the  arrow  hits  the 

mark  ; 
So  I  gave  way  beneath  this  heavy  burden, 

Gushing    forth    into    bitter     tears    and 
sighs, 

And  the  voice,  fainting,  flagged  upon  its 
passage. 


TO    ITALY 

BY  VINCENZO   DA  FILICAJA 

ITALY  !    Italy  !  thou  who  'rt  doomed    to 
wear 

The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  and  possess 

The  dower  funest  of  infinite   wretched 
ness 

Written     upon    thy    forehead     by    de 
spair  ; 

Ah  !  would  that  thou  wert  stronger,  or  less 
fair, 

That  they  might  fear  thee  more,  or  love 
thee  less, 

Who  in  the  splendor  of  thy  loveliness 

Seem   wasting,   yet    to    mortal    combat 

dare  ! 

Then  from  the  Alps  I  should  not  see  de 
scending 

Such  torrents  of  armed  men,  nor  Gallic 
horde 

Drinking  the  wave  of  Po,  distained  with 

gore, 

Nor    should    I    see    thee    girded   with   a 
sword 

Not  thine,  and   with  the  stranger's  arm 
contending, 

Victor    or    vanquished,    slave    forever- 
more. 


635 


SEVEN    SONNETS    AND   A   CAN 
ZONE 

The  following  translations  are  from  the  poems  of 
Michael  Angelo  as  revised  by  his  nephew,  Michael 
Angelo  the  Younger,  and  were  made  before  the  publica 
tion  of  the  original  text  by  Gaasti.  H.  W.  L. 


THE    ARTIST 

NOTHING  the  greatest  artist  can  conceive 
That  every  marble  block  doth  not  confine 
Within  itself  ;  and  only  its  design 
The    hand    that    follows    intellect    can 

achieve. 

The  ill  I  flee,  the  good  that  I  believe, 
In  thee,  fair  lady,  lofty  and  divine, 
Thus  hidden  lie  ;  and  so  that  death  be 

mine, 

Art,  of  desired  success,  doth  me  bereave. 
Love  is  not  guilty,  then,  nor  thy  fair  face, 
Nor  fortune,  cruelty,  nor  great  disdain, 
Of  my  disgrace,  nor  chance  nor  destiny, 
If  in  thy  heart  both  death  and  love  find 

place 
At   the   same   time,  and  if  my  humble 

brain, 

Burning,  can   nothing  draw  but  death 
from  thee. 


II 


FIRE 

NOT  without  fire  can  any  workman  mould 
The  iron  to  his  preconceived  design, 
Nor  can  the  artist  without  fire  refine 
And  purify  from  all  its  dross  the  gold  ; 
Nor  can  revive  the  phcenix,  we  are  told, 
Except  by  fire.     Hence,  if  such  death  be 

mine, 

I  hope  to  rise  again  with  the  divine, 
Whom  death  augments,  and  time  cannot 

make  old. 
O  sweet,  sweet  death  !      O  fortunate  fire 

that  burns 

Within  me  still  to  renovate  my  days, 
Though  I  am  almost  numbered  with  the 

dead  ! 

If  by  its  nature  unto  heaven  returns 
This  element,  me,  kindled  in  its  blaze, 
Will  it  bear  upward  when  my  life  is  fled. 


636 


TRANSLATIONS 


in 

YOUTH  AND   AGE 

OH  give  me  back  the  days  when  loose  and 

free 
To  my  blind  passion  were  the  curb  and 

rein, 

Oh  give  me  back  the  angelic  face  again, 
With  which  all  virtue  buried  seems  to 

be! 

Oh  give  my  panting  footsteps  back  to  me, 
That  are  in  age  so  slow  and  fraught  with 

pain, 
And  fire  and  moisture  in  the  heart  and 

brain, 
If  thou  wouldst  have  me  burn  and  weep 

for  thee  ! 

If  it  be  true  thou  livest  alone,  Amor, 
On   the    sweet  -  bitter   tears   of    human 

hearts, 

In  an  old  man  thou  canst  not  wake  de 
sire  ; 
Souls  that  have  almost  reached  the  other 

shore 

Of  a  diviner  love  should  feel  the  darts, 
And  be  as  tinder  to  a  holier  fire. 


IV 
OLD  AGE 

THE  course  of  my  long  life  hath  reached  at 
last, 

In  fragile  bark  o'er  a  tempestuous  sea, 

The  common   harbor,  where   must   ren 
dered  be 

Account  of  all  the  actions  of  the  past. 
The  impassioned  phantasy,  that,  vague  and 
vast, 

Made  art  an  idol  and  a  king  to  me, 

Was  an  illusion,  and  but  vanity 

Were   the   desires   that    lured   me   and 

harassed. 

The  dreams  of  love,  that  were  so  sweet  of 
yore, 

What  are  they  now,  when   two  deaths 
may  be  mine,  — 

One  sure,  and  one  forecasting  its  alarms  ? 
Painting  and  sculpture  satisfy  no  more 

The  soul  now  turning  to  the  Love  Di 
vine, 

That  oped,  to  embrace  us,  on  the  cross  its 
arms. 


TO  VITTORIA  COLONNA 

LADY,  how  can   it   chance  —  yet  this  we 

see 
In   long   experience  —  that   will    longer 

last 
A  living   image    carved    from   quarries 

vast 

Than    its    own   maker,  who   dies  pres 
ently  ? 

Cause  yieldeth  to  effect  if  this  so  be, 
And  even  Nature  is  by  Art  surpassed  ; 
This  know  I,  who  to  Art  have  given  the 

past, 
But  see  that  Time  is  breaking  faith  with 

me. 

Perhaps  on  both  of  us  long  life  can  I 
Either  in  color  or  in  stone  bestow, 
By  now  portraying  each  in  look  and 

mien  ; 

So  that  a  thousand  years  after  we  die, 
How  fair  thou  wast,  and  I  how  full  of 

woe, 
And  wherefore  I  so  loved  thee,  may  be 

seen. 


VI 

TO  VITTORIA  COLONNA 

WHEN  the  prime  mover  of  my  many  sighs 
Heaven  took  through  death  from  out  her 

earthly  place, 

Nature,  that  never  made  so  fair  a  face, 
Remained  ashamed,  and  tears  were  in  all 

eyes. 

O  fate,  unheeding  my  impassioned  cries  ! 
O    hopes   fallacious  !     O  thou   spirit  of 

grace, 
Where  art  thou  now  ?     Earth  holds  in 

its  embrace 
Thy  lovely  limbs,  thy  holy  thoughts  the 

skies. 

Vainly  did  cruel  death  attempt  to  stay 
The  rumor  of  thy  virtuous  renown, 
That  Lethe's  waters  could  not  wash  away  ! 
A  thousand  leaves,  since  he  hath  stricken 

thee  down, 
Speak  of  thee,  nor  to  thee  could  Heaven 

convey, 
Except   through  death,  a  refuge   and  a 

crown. 


SONG 


637 


VII 


DANTE 

WHAT   should  be  said   of  him  cannot  be 

said  ; 
By  too  great  splendor  is    his   name  at 

tended  ; 
To  blame   is   easier  those    who  him  of 

fended, 
Than  reach  the  faintest  glory  round  him 

shed. 
This  man  descended   to   the   doomed  and 

dead 
For  our  instruction  ;  then   to   God   as 

cended  ; 
Heaven  opened  wide  to  him  its  portals 

splendid, 
Who  from  his  country's,  closed  against 

him,  fled. 

Ungrateful  land  !     To  its  own  prejudice 
Nurse  of  his  fortunes  ;  and  this  showeth 

well 
That  the  most  perfect  most  of  grief  shall 

see. 

Among  a  thousand  proofs  let  one  suffice, 
That  as  his  exile  hath  no  parallel, 
Ne'er   walked  the  earth  a  greater  man 

than  he. 


VIII 
CANZONE 

AH   me  !    ah   me  !  when  thinking  of   the 

years, 

The  vanished  years,  alas,  I  do  not  find 
Among  them  all  one   day  that  was  my 

own  ! 

Fallacious  hopes,  desires  of  the  unknown, 
Lamenting,    loving,     burning,     and     in 

tears, 
(For  human  passions  all  have  stirred  my 

mind,) 

Have  held  me,  now  I  feel  and  know,  con 
fined 
Both    from   the   true   and    good   still   far 

away. 

I  perish  day  by  day  ; 
The  sunshine  fails,  the  shadows  grow  more 

dreary, 
And  I  am  near  to  fall,  infirm  and  weary. 


THE  NATURE  OF  LOVE 

BY   GUIDO  GUINIZELLI 
To    noble    heart   Love    doth    for    shelter 

fly, 

As  seeks  the  bird  the  forest's  leafy  shade  ; 
Love   was   not   felt   till   noble  heart   beat 

high, 
Nor  before  love  the  noble  heart  was  made. 

Soon  as  the  sun's  broad  flame 
Was  formed,  so  soon  the  clear  light  filled  the 

air  ; 

Yet  was  not  till  he  came  : 
So  love   springs  up   in   noble  breasts,  and 

there 

Has  its  appointed  space, 
As  heat  in  the  bright  flames  finds  its  allotted 

place. 

Kindles  in  noble  heart  the  fire  of  love, 
As  hidden  virtue  in  the  precious  stone  : 
This    virtue    comes    not    from    the   stars 

above, 
Till  round  it  the  ennobling  sun  has  shone  ; 

But  when  his  powerful  blaze 
Has  drawn  forth  what  was  vile,  the  stars 

impart 

Strange  virtue  in  their  rays  ; 
And   thus   when  Nature   doth   create   the 

heart 

Noble  and  pure  and  high, 
Like  virtue  from  the  star,  love  comes  from 
woman's  eye. 


FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 


SONG 

BY   GIL   VICENTE 

IF  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden, 

Awake,  and  open  thy  door. 
'T  is  the  break  of  day,  and  we  must  away, 

O'er  meadow,  and  mount,  and  moor. 

Wait  not  to  find  thy  slippers, 
But  come  with  thy  naked  feet  : 

We  shall  have  to  pass  through  the  dewy 

grass, 
And  waters  wide  and  fleet. 


638 


TRANSLATIONS 


FROM   EASTERN   SOURCES 


THE  FUGITIVE 


A  TARTAR    SONG 


"  HE  is  gone  to  the  desert  land  ! 
I  can  see  the  shining  mane 
Of  his  horse  on  the  distant  plain, 
As  he  rides  with  his  Kossak  baud  ! 

"  Come  back,  rebellious  one  ! 
Let  thy  proud  heart  relent  ; 
Come  back  to  my  tall,  white  tent, 
Come  back,  my  only  son  ! 

"  Thy  hand  in  freedom  shall 
Cast  thy  hawks,  when  morning  breaks, 
On  the  swans  of  the  Seven  Lakes, 
On  the  lakes  of  Karajal. 

"  I  will  give  thee  leave  to  stray 
And  pasture  thy  hunting  steeds 
In  the  long  grass  and  the  reeds 
Of  the  meadows  of  Karaday. 

"  I  will  give  thee  my  coat  of  mail, 
Of  softest  leather  made, 
With  choicest  steel  inlaid  ; 
Will  not  all  this  prevail?" 


II 

"  This  hand  no  longer  shall 
Cast  my  hawks,  when  morning  breaks, 
On  the  swans  of  the  Seven  Lakes, 
On  the  lakes  of  Karajal. 

"  I  will  no  longer  stray 
And  pasture  my  hunting  steeds 
In  the  long  grass  and  the  reeds 
Of  the  meadows  of  Karaday. 

"  Though  thou  give  me  thy  coat  of  mail, 
Of  softest  leather  made, 
With  choicest  steel  inlaid, 
All  this  cannot  prevail. 

"What  right  hast  thou,  O  Khan, 
To  me,  who  am  mine  own, 
Who  am  slave  to  God  alone, 
And  not  to  any  man  ? 


"  God  will  appoint  the  day 
When  I  again  shall  be 
By  the  blue,  shallow  sea, 
Where  the  steel-bright  sturgeons  play. 

"  God,  who  doth  care  for  me, 
In  the  barren  wilderness, 
On  unknown  hills,  no  less 
Will  my  companion  be. 

"  When  I  wander  lonely  and  lost 
In  the  wind  ;  when  I  watch  at  night 
Like  a  hungry  wolf,  and  am  white 
And  covered  with  hoar-frost  ; 

"  Yea,  wheresoever  I  be, 
In  the  yellow  desert  sands, 
In  mountains  or  unknown  lands, 
Allah  will  care  for  me  !  " 


III 

Then  Sobra,  the  old,  old  man,  — 
Three  hundred  and  sixty  years 
Had  he  lived  in  this  land  of  tears, 
Bowed  down  and  said,  "  O  Khan  ! 

"  If  you  bid  me,  I  will  speak. 
There  's  no  sap  in  dry  grass, 
No  marrow  in  dry  bones  !     Alas, 
The  mind  of  old  men  is  weak  ! 

"  I  am  old,  I  am  very  old  : 
I  have  seen  the  primeval  man, 
I  have  seen  the  great  Genghis  Khan, 
Arrayed  in  his  robes  of  gold. 

"  What  I  say  to  you  is  the  truth  ; 
And  I  say  to  you,  O  Khan, 
Pursue  not  the  star-white  man, 
Pursue  not  the  beautiful  youth. 

"  Him  the  Almighty  made, 
And  brought  him  forth  of  the  light 
At  the  verge  and  end  of  the  night, 
When  men  on  the  mountain  prayed. 

"  He  was  born  at  the  break  of  day, 
When  abroad  the  angels  walk  ; 
He  hath  listened  to  their  talk, 
And  he  knoweth  what  they  say. 

"  Gifted  with  Allah's  grace, 
Like  the  moon  of  Ramazan 


TO   THE   STORK 


639 


When  it  shines  in  the  skies,  O  Khan, 
Is  the  light  of  his  beautiful  face. 

"  When  first  on  earth  he  trod, 
The  first  words  that  he  said 
Were  these,  as  he  stood  and  prayed, 
«  There  is  no  God  but  God  ! ' 

"  And  he  shall  be  king  of  men, 
For  Allah  hath  heard  his  prayer, 
And  the  Archangel  in  the  air, 
Gabriel,  hath  said,  Amen  !  " 


THE   SIEGE   OF   KAZAN 

BLACK  are  the  moors  before  Kazan, 

And    their    stagnant    waters    smell    of 
blood  : 

I  said  in  my  heart,  with  horse  and  man, 
I  will  swim  across  this  shallow  flood. 

Under  the  feet  of  Argamack, 

Like  new  moons  were  the  shoes  he  bare, 
Silken  trappings  hung  on  his  back, 

In  a  talisman  on  his  neck,  a  prayer. 

My  warriors,  thought  I,  are  following  me  ; 

But  when  I  looked  behind,  alas  ! 
Not  one  of  all  the  band  could  I  see, 

All  had  sunk  in  the  black  morass  ! 

Where  are  our  shallow  fords  ?  and  where 
The  power  of   Kazan  with   its  fourfold 
gates  ? 

From  the  prison  windows  our  maidens  fair 
Talk  of  us  still  through  the  iron  grates. 

We  cannot  hear  them  ;  for  horse  and  man 
Lie  buried  deep  in  the  dark  abyss  ! 

Ah  !    the  black  day  hath  come    down  on 

Kazan  ! 
Ah  !  was  ever  a  grief  like  this  ? 


THE   BOY   AND   THE   BROOK 

DOWN  from  yon  distant  mountain  height 
The  brooklet  flows  through  the   village 

street ; 

A  boy  comes  forth  to  wash  his  hands, 
Washing,  yes,  washing,  there  he  stands, 
In  the  water  cool  and  sweet. 


Brook,    from    what    mountain    dost    thou 
come  ? 

O  my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet  ! 
I  come  from  yon  mountain  high  and  cold 
Where  lieth  the  new  snow  on  the  old, 

And  melts  in  the  summer  heat. 

Brook,  to  what  river  dost  thou  go  ? 

O  my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet  ! 
I  go  to  the  river  there  below 
Where  in  bunches  the  violets  grow, 

And  sun  and  shadow  meet. 

Brook,  to  what  garden  dost  thou  go  ? 

O  my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet ! 
I  go  to  the  garden  in  the  vale 
Where  all  night  long  the  nightingale 

Her  love-song  doth  repeat. 

Brook,  to  what  fountain  dost  thou  go  ? 

O  my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet ! 
I  go  to  the  fountain  at  whose  brink 
The  maid  that  loves  thee  comes  to  drink, 
And  whenever  she  looks  therein, 
I  rise  to  meet  her,  and  kiss  her  chin, 

And  my  joy  is  then  complete. 


TO   THE   STORK 

WELCOME,  O  Stork  !  that  dost  wing 
Thy  flight  from  the  far-away  ! 

Thou  hast  brought  us  the  signs  of  Spring, 
Thou  hast  made  our  sad  hearts  gay. 

Descend,  O  Stork  !  descend 

Upon  our  roof  to  rest  ; 
In  our  ash-tree,  O  my  friend, 

My  darling,  make  thy  nest. 

To  thee,  O  Stork,  I  complain, 

O  Stork,  to  thee  I  impart 
The  thousand  sorrows,  the  pain 

And  aching  of  my  heart. 

When  thou  away  didst  go, 

Away  from  this  tree  of  ours, 
The  withering  winds  did  blow, 

And  dried  up  all  the  flowers. 

Dark  grew  the  brilliant  sky, 

Cloudy  and  dark  and  drear  ; 
They  were  breaking  the  snow  on  high, 

Aiid  winter  was  drawing  near. 


640 


TRANSLATIONS 


From  Varaca's  rocky  wall, 

From  the  rock  of  Varaca  unrolled, 
The  snow  came  and  covered  all, 

And  the  green  meadow  was  cold. 

O  Stork,  our  garden  with  snow 
Was  hidden  away  and  lost, 

And  the  rose-trees  that  in  it  grow 
Were  withered  by  snow  and  frost. 


FROM   THE   LATIN 
VIRGIL'S    FIRST   ECLOGUE 

MELIBCEUS. 

TITYRTJS,  thou  in  the  shade  of  a  spreading 
beech  tree  reclining 

Meditatest,  with  slender  pipe,  the  Muse  of 
the  woodlands. 

We  our  country's  bounds  and  pleasant  pas 
tures  relinquish, 

We  our  country  fly  ;  thou,  Tityrus,  stretched 
in  the  shadow, 

Teachest  the  woods  to  resound  with  the 
name  of  the  fair  Amaryllis. 

TITYRUS. 
O   Melibceus,   a   god   for   us   this    leisure 

created, 
For  he  will  be  unto  me  a  god  forever  ;  his 

altar 
Oftentimes  shall  imbue  a  tender  lamb  from 

our  sheepfolds. 
He,  my  heifers   to  wander   at   large,  and 

myself,  as  thou  seest, 
On  my  rustic  reed  to  play  what  I  will,  hath 

permitted. 

MELIBCEUS. 
Truly  I  envy  not,  I  marvel  rather  ;  on  all 

sides 
In  all  the  fields  is  such  trouble.     Behold, 

my  goats  I  am  driving, 
Heartsick,  further  away  ;  this  one  scarce, 

Tityrus,  lead  I  ; 
For   having   here   yeaned   twins  just  now 

among  the  dense  hazels, 
Hope  of  the  flock,  ah  me  !    on  the   naked 

flint  she  hath  left  them. 
Often  this  evil  to  me,  if  my  mind  had  not 

been  insensate, 
Oak  trees  stricken  by  heaven  predicted,  as 

now  I  remember  ; 


Often  the   sinister  crow  from  the  hollow 

ilex  predicted. 
Nevertheless,   who   this   god    may  be,   O 

Tityrus,  tell  me. 

TITYRUS. 
O  Melibceus,  the  city  that  they  call  Rome, 

I  imagined, 
Foolish  I !   to  be  like  this  of  ours,  where 

often  we  shepherds 
Wonted  are  to  drive  down  of  our  ewes  the 

delicate  offspring. 
Thus  whelps  like  unto  dogs  had  I  known, 

and  kids  to  their  mothers, 
Thus  to  compart  great  things  with  small 

had  I  been  accustomed. 
But  this  among  other  cities  its  head  as  far 

hath  exalted 
As   the   cypresses  do   among  the  lissome 

viburnums. 


MELIBCEUS. 

And  what  so  great  occasion  of  seeing  Rome 
hath  possessed  thee  ? 

TITYRUS. 

Liberty,  which,  though  late,  looked  upon 

me  in  my  inertness, 
After  the  time  when  my  beard  fell  whiter 

from  me  in  shaving, 
Yet  she  looked  upon  me,  and  came  to  me 

after  a  long  while, 
Since  Amaryllis  possesses  and  Galatea  hath 

left  me. 
For  I  will  even  confess  that  while  Galatea 

possessed  me 
Neither   care    of    my   flock    nor   hope   of 

liberty  was  there. 
Though  from  my  wattled  folds  there  went 

forth  many  a  victim, 
And  the  unctuous    cheese  was  pressed  for 

the  city  ungrateful, 
Never    did   my   right   hand   return   home 

heavy  with  money. 

MELIBCEUS. 

I  have  wondered  why  sad  thou  invokedst 

the  gods,  Amaryllis, 
And  for  whom  thou  didst  suffer  the  apples 

to  hang  on  the  branches  ! 
Tityrus  hence  was  absent !     Thee,  Tityrus, 

even  the  pine  trees, 
Thee   the  very  fountains,  the  very  copses 

were  calling. 


OVID    IN   EXILE 


641 


TITYKUS. 

What  could  I  do  ?     No  power  had  I  to 

escape  from  my  bondage, 
Nor  had  I  power  elsewhere   to  recognize 

gods  so  propitious. 
Here  I  beheld  that  youth,  to  whom  each 

year,  Melibceus, 
During  twice  six  days  ascends  the  smoke 

of  our  altars. 
Here  first  gave  he  response  to  me  soliciting 

favor  : 
"  Feed  as  before  your  heifers,  ye  boys,  and 

yoke  up  your  bullocks." 

MELIBCEUS. 

Fortunate  old  man  !      So   then  thy  fields 

will  be  left  thee, 
And  large  enough  for  thee,  though  naked 

stone  and  the  marish 
All  thy  pasture-lands  with  the  dreggy  rush 

may  encompass. 
No   unaccustomed   food   thy   gravid  ewes 

shall  endanger, 

Nor  of  the  neighboring  flock  the  dire  con 
tagion  infect  them. 
Fortunate  old  man  1     Here  among  familiar 

rivers, 
And  these  sacred  founts,    shalt  thou  take 

the  shadowy  coolness. 
On  this  side,  a  hedge  along  the  neighboring 

cross-road, 
Where   Hyblsean   bees   ever  feed    on  the 

flower  of  the  willow, 
Often   with  gentle  susurrus  to  fall  asleep 

shall  persuade  thee. 
Yonder,  beneath  the  high  rock,  the  pruner 

shall  sing  to  the  breezes, 
Nor  meanwhile    shall    thy  heart's  delight, 

the  hoarse  wood-pigeons, 
Nor  the  turtle-dove  cease  to  mourn  from 

aerial  elm  trees. 

TITYRUS. 

Therefore  the  agile  stags  shall  sooner  feed 

in  the  ether, 
And  the  billows  leave  the  fishes  bare  on  the 

sea-shore, 
Sooner,  the  border-lands  of  both  overpassed, 

shall  the  exiled 
Parthian  drink  of  the  Soane,  or  the  German 

drink  of  the  Tigris, 
Than  the  face  of  him  shall  glide  away  from 

my  bosom  ! 


MELIBCEUS. 


But  we  hence  shall  go,  a  part  to  the  thirsty 

Africs, 
Part  to  Scythia  come,  and  the  rapid  Cretan 

Oaxes, 
And  to  the  Britons  from  all  the  universe 

utterly  sundered. 
Ah,   shall  I  ever,  a  long  time  hence,  the 

bounds  of  my  country 
And  the  roof  of  my  lowly  cottage  covered 

with  greensward 

Seeing,    with   wonder   behold,  —  my  king 
doms,  a  handful  of  wheat-ears  ! 
Shall  an  impious  soldier  possess  these  lands 

newly  cultured, 
And  these  fields  of  corn  a  barbarian  ?    Lo, 

whither  discord 
Us   wretched  people    hath     brought !    for 

whom  our  fields  we  have  planted  ! 
Graft,  Melibceus,  thy  pear  trees  now,  put  in 

order  thy  vineyards. 
Go,  my  goats,  go  hence,  my  flocks  so  happy 

aforetime. 
Never  again  henceforth  outstretched  in  my 

verdurous  cavern 
Shall  I   behold .  you  afar  from  the   bushy 

precipice  hanging. 
Songs  no  more  shall  I  sing  ;  not  with  me, 

ye  goats,  as  your  shepherd, 
Shall   ye  browse   on   the    bitter   willow  or 

blooming  laburnum. 


Nevertheless,  this  night  together  with  me 

canst  thou  rest  thee 
Here  on  the  verdant  leaves  ;  for  us  there 

are  mellowing  apples, 
Chestnuts    soft   to  the  touch,  and  clouted 

cream  in  abundance  ; 
And  the    high    roofs   now  of  the   villages 

smoke  in  the  distance, 
And  from  the  lofty  mountains  are  falling 

larger  the  shadows. 


OVID  IN  EXILE 

AT    TOMIS,    IN     BESSARABIA,    NEAR    THE 
MOUTHS   OF    THE   DANUBE 

TRISTIA,  BOOK  III.,  ELEGY  x. 

SHOULD  any  one  there  in  Rome  remember 

Ovid  the  exile, 

And,  without  me,  my  name  still  in  the 
city  survive  ; 


642 


TRANSLATIONS 


Tell  him  that  under  stars  which  never  set 

iu  the  ocean 

I  am  existing  still,  here  in  a  barbarous 
laud. 

Fierce   Sarmatians   encompass   me  round, 

and  the  Bessi  and  Getse  ; 
Names  how   unworthy  to  be  sung  by  a 
genius  like  mine  ! 

Yet  when  the  air  is  warm,  intervening  Ister 

defends  us  : 

He,   as  he  flows,  repels   inroads  of  war 
with  his  waves. 

But  when  the  dismal  winter  reveals  its  hid 
eous  aspect, 

When  all  the  earth  becomes  white  with  a 
marble-like  frost ; 

And  when  Boreas  is  loosed,  and  the  snow 

hurled  under  Arcturus, 
Then   these   nations,    in    sooth,    shudder 
and  shiver  with  cold. 

Deep  lies  the  snow,  and  neither  the  sun  nor 

the  rain  can  dissolve  it  ; 
Boreas  hardens  it  still,  makes  it  forever 
remain. 

Hence,  ere  the  first  has  melted  away,  an 
other  succeeds  it. 

And  two  years  it  is  wont,  in  many  places, 
to  lie. 

And  so  great  is  the  power  of  the  North- 
wind  awakened,  it  levels 
Lofty  towers  with  the  ground,  roofs  up 
lifted  bears  off. 

Wrapped  in  skins,  and  with  trousers  sewed, 

they  contend  with  the  weather, 
And  their  faces  alone  of  the  whole  body 
are  seen. 

Often  their  tresses,  when  shaken,  with  pen 
dent  icicles  tinkle, 

And  their   whitened   beards  shine   with 
the  gathering  frost. 

Wines    consolidate    stand,    preserving    the 

form  of  the  vessels  ; 

No  more  draughts  of  wine,  —  pieces  pre 
sented  they  drink. 


Why  should  I  tell  you  how  all  the  rivers 

are  frozen  and  solid, 

And  from  out  of  the  lake  frangible  water 
is  dug  ? 

Ister,  —  no  narrower  stream  than  the  river 

that  bears  the  papyrus,  — 
Which  through  its  many  mouths  mingles 
its  waves  with  the  deep  ; 

Ister,  with  hardening  winds,   congeals   its 

cerulean  waters, 

Under  a  roof  of  ice  winding  its  way  to 
the  sea. 

There  where  ships  have  sailed,  men  go  on 

foot  ;  and  the  billows, 
Solid  made   by  the  frost,  hoof -beats   of 
horses  indent. 

Over  unwonted  bridges,  with  water  gliding 

beneath  them, 

The  Sarmatian  steers  drag  their  barba 
rian  carts. 

Scarcely  shall  I    be    believed  ;    yet  when 

naught  is  gained  by  a  falsehood, 
Absolute  credence  then  should  to  a  wit 
ness  be  given. 

I  have  beheld  the  vast  Black  Sea  of  ice  all 

compacted, 

And  a  slippery  crust  pressing  its  motion 
less  tides. 

'T  is  not  enough  to  have  seen,  I  have  trod 
den  this  indurate  ocean  ; 
Dry  shod  passed  my  foot  over  its  upper 
most  wave. 

If  thou  hadst  had  of  old  such  a  sea  as  this 

is,  Leander  ! 

Then  thy  death  had  not  been  charged  as 
a  crime  to  the  Strait. 

Nor  can  the  curved  dolphins  uplift  them 
selves  from  the  water  ; 
All  their  struggles  to  rise  merciless  win 
ter  prevents  ; 

And  though   Boreas   sound    with   roar  of 

wings  in  commotion, 

In  the  blockaded  gulf  never  a  wave  will 
there  be  ; 


OVID   IN   EXILE 


643 


And  the  ships  will  stand  hemmed  in  by  the 

frost,  as  in  marble, 

Nor  will  the  oar  have  power  through  the 
stiff  waters  to  cleave. 

Fast-bound  in  the  ice  have  I  seen  the  fishes 

adhering, 

Yet  notwithstanding  this   some  of  them 
still  were  alive. 

Hence,  if  the  savage  strength  of  omnipo 
tent  Boreas  freezes 

Whether  the  salt-sea  wave,  whether  the 
refluent  stream,  — 

Straightway,  —  the  Ister  made  level  by  arid 

blasts  of  the  North-wind,  — 
Conies  the   barbaric    foe   borne   on  his 
swift-footed  steed  ; 

Foe,  that  powerful  made  by  his  steed  and 

his  far-flying  arrows, 
All  the  neighboring  land  void  of  inhabit 
ants  makes. 

Some  take  flight,  and  none  being  left  to  de 
fend  their  possessions, 
Unprotected,   their    goods   pillage    and 
plunder  become  ; 

Cattle  and  creaking  carts,  the  little  wealth 

of  the  country, 
And  what  riches  beside  indigent  peasants 


Some  as   captives  are   driven  along,  their 

hands  bound  behind  them, 
Looking  backward  in  vain  toward  their 
Lares  and  lands. 

Others,  transfixed  with   barbed  arrows,  in 

agony  perish. 

For   the    swift  arrow-heads   all  have  in 
poison  been  dipped. 

What  they  cannot  carry  or  lead  away  they 

demolish, 

And  the  hostile  flames  burn  up  the  inno 
cent  cots. 

Even  when  there  is  peace,  the  fear  of  war 

is  impending  ; 

None,  with  the  ploughshare  pressed,  fur 
rows  the  soil  any  more. 


Either  this  region  sees,  or  fears  a  foe  that 

it  sees  not, 

And  the  sluggish  land  slumbers  in  utter 
neglect. 

No   sweet   grape   lies  hidden   here  in   the 

shade  of  its  vine-leaves, 
No   fermenting  must  fills  and  o'erflows 
the  deep  vats. 

Apples    the    region    denies  ;    nor    would 

Acontius  have  found  here 
Aught  upon  which  to  write  words  for  his 
mistress  to  read. 

Naked  and  barren  plains  without  leaves  or 

trees  we  behold  here,  — 
Places,  alas  !  unto  which  no  liappy  man 
would  repair. 

Since   then  this   mighty  orb   lies  open  so 

wide  upon  all  sides, 

Has   this   region   been     found  only  my 
prison  to  be  ? 


TRISTIA,  BOOK  III.,  ELEGY  XII. 

Now  the  zephyrs  diminish  the  cold,  and  the 

year  being  ended, 

Winter  Maeotian  seems  longer  than  ever 
before  ; 

And  the  Ram  that  bore  unsafely  the  bur 
den  of  Helle, 

Now  makes  the  hours  of  the  day  equal 
with  those  of  the  night. 

Now  the  boys  and  the  laughing  girls  the 

violet  gather, 

Which   the  fields   bring    forth,    nobody 
sowing  the  seed. 

Now  the  meadows  are  blooming  with  flow 
ers  of  various  colors, 
And   with    untaught   throats   carol    the 
garrulous  birds. 

Now  the  swallow,  to  shun  the  crime  of  her 

merciless  mother, 

Under  the    rafters   builds   cradles    and 
dear  little  homes  ; 


644 


TRANSLATIONS 


And  the  blade  that  lay  hid,  covered  up  in 

the  furrows  of  Ceres, 
Now  from   the   tepid  ground  raises  its 
delicate  head. 

Where  there  is  ever  a  vine,  the  bud  shoots 

forth  from  the  tendrils, 
But  from  the  Getic  shore  distant  afar  is 
the  vine  ! 

Where  there  is  ever  a  tree,  on  the  tree  the 

branches  are  swelling, 
But  from  the  Getic  land  distant  afar  is 
the  tree  ! 

Now  it  is  holiday  there  in  Rome,  and  to 

games  in  due  order 

Give  place  the  windy  wars  of  the  vocifer 
ous  bar. 

Now  they  are  riding  the  horses  ;  with  light 

arms  now  they  are  playing, 
Now  with  the  ball,  and  now  round  rolls 
the  swift-flying  hoop  : 

Now,  when  the  young  athlete  with  flowing 

oil  is  anointed, 

He  in  the  Virgin's  Fount  bathes,  over 
wearied,  his  limbs. 

Thrives   the    stage  ;    and    applause,   with 

voices  at  variance,  thunders, 
And  the   Theatres  three   for   the  three 
Forums  resound. 


Four  times  happy  is  he,  and  times  without 

number  is  happy, 
Who  the  city  of  Rome,  uninterdicted,  en 


But  all  I  see  is  the  snow  in  the  vernal  sun 

shine  dissolving, 

And  the  waters  no  more  delved  from  the 
indurate  lake. 

Nor  is  the  sea  now  frozen,  nor  as  before 

o'er  the  Ister 

Comes  the  Sarmatian  boor   driving   his 
stridulous  cart. 

Hitherward,    nevertheless,   some  keels  al 

ready  are  steering, 

And  on   this   Pontic  shore  alien  vessels 
will  be. 


Eagerly  shall  I  run  to  the  sailor,  and,  having 

saluted, 

Who  he  may  be,  I  shall  ask  ;  wherefore 
and  whence  he  ibath  come. 

Strange  indeed  will  it  be,  if  he  come  not 

from  regions  adjacent, 
And   incautious    unless     ploughing    the 
neighboring  sea. 

Rarely  a  mariner  over  the  deep  from  Italy 

passes, 

Rarely  he  comes  to  these  shores,  wholly 
of  harbors  devoid. 

Whether  he  knoweth  Greek,  or  whether  in 

Latin  he  speaketh, 

Surely  on  this  account  he  the  more  wel 
come  will  be. 

Also   perchance   from   the   mouth   of   the 

Strait  and  the  waters  Propontic, 
Unto  the  steady  South-wind,  some  one  is 
spreading  his  sails. 

Whosoever  he  is,  the  news  he  can  faithfully 

tell  me, 

Which  may   become  a  part  and  an  ap 
proach  to  the  truth. 

He,  I   pray,   may  be  able  to  tell  me  the 

triumphs  of  Csesar, 

Which  he  has  heard  of,  and  vows  paid 
to  the  Latian  Jove  ; 

And   that   thy  sorrowful  head,  Germania, 

thou,  the  rebellious, 

Under   the   feet,   at   last,   of  the  Great 
Captain  hast  laid. 

Whoso  shall  tell  me  these  things,  that  not 

to  have  seen  will  afflict  me, 
Forthwith    unto  my  house  welcomed  as 
guest  shall  he  be. 

Woe  is  me  !     Is  the  house  of  Ovid  in  Scy 
thian  lands  now  ? 

And   doth    punishment  now  give  me  its 
place  for  a  home  ? 

Grant,  ye  gods,  that  Ca3sar  make  this  not 

my  house  and  my  homestead, 
But  decree  it  to  be  only  the  inn  of  my 
pain. 


APPENDIX 


I.    JUVENILE  POEMS 

WHEN  Mr.  Longfellow  made  his  first  collec 
tion  of  poems  in  Voices  of  the  Night,  he  included 
a  group  of  Earlier  Poems,  but  printed  only  seven 
out  of  a  number  which  bore  his  initials  or  are 
directly  traceable  to  him.  He  chose  these, 
doubtless,  not  as  specimens  of  his  youthful 
work,  but  because,  of  all  that  he  had  written 
ten  years  or  more  before,  they  only  appeared 
to  him  to  have  poetic  qualities  which  he  could 
regard  with  any  complacency.  It  is  not  likely 
that  any  readers  will  be  found  to  contravene  his 
judgment  in  the  omission  of  the  other  verses, 
but  since  this  edition  is  intended  for  the  stu 
dent  as  well  as  for  the  general  reader,  it  has 
been  thought  best  to  print  here  those  poetical 
exercises  which  curious  investigators  have  re 
covered  from  the  obscurity  in  which  Mr.  Long 
fellow  was  entirely  willing  to  leave  them.  They 
are  printed  in  as  nearly  chronological  order  as 
may  be. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LOVELL'S  POND 


Mr.  Longfellow's  first  verses,  so  far 
the  Portland  Gazette,  November  17,  182C 


known,  printed  in 


COLD,  cold  is  the  north  wind  and  rude  is  the  blast 

That  sweeps  like  a  hurricane  loudly  and  fast, 

As  it  moans  through  the  tall  waving  pines  lone  and 

drear, 
Sighs  a  requiem  sad  o'er  the  warrior's  bier. 

The  war-whoop  is  still,  and  the  savage's  yell 

Has  sunk  into  silence  along  the  wild  dell ; 

The  din  of  the  battle,  the  tumult,  is  o'er, 

And  the  war-clarion's  voice  is  now  heard  no  more. 

The  warriors  that  fought  for  their  country,  and  bled, 
Have  sunk  to  their  rest;   the  damp  earth   is    their 

bed; 

No  stone  tells  the  place  where  their  ashes  repose, 
Nor  points  out  the  spot  from  the  graves  of  their  foes. 

They  died  in  their  glory,  surrounded  by  fame, 
And  Victory's  loud  trump  their  death  did  proclaim  ; 
They  are  dead  ;  but  they  live  in  each  Patriot's  breast, 
And  their  names  are  engraven  on  honor's  bright  crest. 

HENRY. 

TO    IANTHE 

WHEN  upon  the  western  cloud 

Hang  day's  fading  roses, 
When  the  linnet  sings  aloud 

And  the  twilight  closes,  — 
As  I  mark  the  moss-grown  spring 

By  the  twisted  holly, 
Pensive  thoughts  of  thee  shall  bring 

Love's  own  melancholy. 


Lo,  the  crescent  moon  on  high 

Lights  the  half-choked  fountain  ; 
Wandering  winds  steal  badly  by 

From  the  hazy  mountain. 
Yet  that  moon  shall  wax  and  wane, 

Summer  winds  pass  over,  — 
Ne'er  the  heart  shall  love  again 

Of  the  slighted  lover  ! 

When  the  russet  autumn  brings 

Blighting  to  the  forest, 
Twisted  close  the  ivy  clings 

To  the  oak  that 's  hoarest; 
So  the  love  of  other  days 

Cheers  the  broken-hearted ; 
But  if  once  our  love  decays 

'T  is  for  aye  departed. 

When  the  hoar-frost  nips  the  leaf, 

Pale  and  sear  it  lingers, 
Wasted  in  its  beauty  brief 

By  decay's  cold  fingers  ; 
Yet  unchanged  it  ne'er  again 

Shall  its  bloom  recover  ;  — 
Thus  the  heart  shall  aye  remain 

Of  the  slighted  lover. 

Love  is  like  the  songs  we  hear 

O'er  the  moonlit  ocean  ; 
Youth,  the  spring-time  of  a  year 

Passed  in  Love's  devotion  ! 
Roses  of  their  bloom  bereft 

Breathe  a  fragrance  sweeter ; 
Beauty  has  no  fragrance  left 

Though  its  bloom  is  fleeter. 

Then  when  tranquil  evening  throws 

Twilight  shades  above  thee, 
And  when  early  morning  glows, — 

Think  on  those  that  love  thee  1 
For  an  interval  of  years 

We  ere  long  must  sever, 
But  the  hearts  that  love  endears 

Shall  be  parted  never. 


THANKSGIVING 

WHEN  first  in  ancient  time,  from  Jubal's  tongue 
The  tuneful  anthem  filled  the  morning  air, 
To  sacred  hymnings  and  elysian  song 
His  music-breathing  shell  the  minstrel  woke. 
Devotion  breathed  aloud  from  every  chord  : 
The  voice  of  praise  was  heard  in  every  tone, 
And  prayer  and  thanks  to  Him,  the  Eternal  One, 
To  Him,  that  with  bright  inspiration  touched 
The  high  and  gifted  lyre  of  heavenly  song, 
And  warmed  the  soul  with  new  vitality. 
A  stirring  energy  through  Nature  breathed : 
The  voice  of  adoration  from  her  broke, 
Swelling  aloud  in  every  breeze,  and  heard 
Long  in  the  sullen  waterfall,  what  time 
Soft  Spring  or  hoary  Autumn  threw  on  earth 
Its  bloom  or  blighting  ;  when  the  summer  smiled  j 
Or  Winter  o'er  the  year's  sepulchre  mourned. 


646 


APPENDIX 


The  Deity  was  there  ;  a  nameless  spirit 
Moved  in  the  breasts  of  men  to  do  him  homage  ; 
And  when  the  morning  smiled,  or  evening  pale 
Hung  weeping  o'er  the  melancholy  urn, 
They  came  beneath  the  broad,  o'erarching  trees, 
And  in  their  tremulous  shadow  worshipped  oft, 
Where  pale  the  vine  clung  round    their    simple    al 
tars, 

And  gray  moss  mantling  hung.     Above  was  heard 
The  melody  of  winds,  breathed  out  as  the  green  trees 
Bowed  to  their  quivering  touch  in  living  beauty  ; 
And  birds  sang  forth  their  cheerful  hymns.     Below, 
The  bright  and  widely  wandering  rivulet 
Struggled  and  gushed  amongst  the  tangled  roots 
That  choked  its  reedy  fountain,  and  dark  rocks 
Worn  smooth  by  the  constant  current.     Even  there 
The  listless  wave,  that  stole  with  mellow  voice 
Where  reeds  grew  rank  on  the  rushy-fringed  brink, 
And  the  green  sedge  bent  to  the  wandering  wind, 
Sang  with  a  cheerful  song  of  sweet  tranquillity. 
Men  felt  the  heavenly  influence  ;  and  it  stole 
Like  balm  into  their  hearts,  till  all  was  peace : 
And  even  the  air  they  breathed,  the  light  they  saw, 
Became  religion  ;  for  the  ethereal  spirit 
That  to  soft  music  wake?  the  chords  of  feeling, 
And  mellows  everything  to  beauty,  moved 
With  cheering  energy  within  their  breasts 
And  made  all  holy  there,  for  all  was  love. 
The  morning  stars,  that  sweetly  sang  together  ; 
The  moon,  that  hung  at  night  in  the  mid-sky ; 
Dayspring  and  eventide  ;  and  all  the  fair 
And  beautiful  forms  of  nature,  had  a  voice 
Of  eloquent  worship.    Ocean,  with  its  tides 
Swelling  and  deep,  where  low  the  infant  storm 
Hung  on  his  dun,  dark  cloud,  and  heavily  beat 
The  pulses  of  the  sea,  sent  forth  a  voice 
Of  awful  adoration  to  the  spirit 
That,  wrapt  in  darkness,  moved  upon  its  face. 
And  when  the  bow  of  evening  arched  the  east, 
Or,  in  the  moonlight  pale,  the  curling  wave 
Kissed  with  a  sweet  embrace  the  sea-worn  beach, 
And  soft  the  song  of  winds  came  o'er  the  waters, 
The  mingled  melody  of  wind  and  wave 
Touched  like  a  heavenly  anthem  on  the  ear ; 
For  it  arose  a  tuneful  hymn  of  worship. 
And  have  our  hearts  grown  cold  ?    Are  there  on  earth 
No  pure  reflections  caught  from  heavenly  light  ? 
Have  our  mute  lips  no  hymn,  our  souls  no  song  ? 
Let  him  that  in  the  summer-day  of  youth 
Keeps  pure  the  holy  fount  of  youthful  feeling, 
And  him  that  in  the  nightfall  of  his  years 
Lies  down  in  his  last  sleep,  and  shuts  in  peace 
His  dim,  pale  eyes  on  life's  short  wayfaring, 
Praise  Him  that  rules  the  destiny  of  man. 


AUTUMNAL   NIGHTFALL 

ROUND  Autumn's  mouldering  urn 
Loud  mourns  the  chill  and  cheerless  gale, 
When  nightfall  shades  the  quiet  vale 

And  stars  in  beauty  burn. 

'T  is  the  year's  eventide. 
The  wind,  like  one  that  sighs  in  pain 
O'er  joys  that  ne'er  will  bloom  again 

Mourns  on  the  far  hillside. 

And  yet  my  pensive  eye 
Rests  on  the  faint  blue  mountain  long ; 
And  for  the  fairy-land  of  song, 

That  lies  beyond,  I  sigh. 

The  moon  unveils  her  brow  ; 
In  the  mid-sky  her  urn  glows  bright, 
And  in  her  sad  and  mellowing  light 

The  valley  sleeps  below. 


Upon  the  hazel  gray 
The  lyre  of  Autumn  hangs  unstrung 
And  o'er  its  tremulous  chords  are  flung 

The  fringes  of  decay. 

I  stand  deep  musing  here, 
Beneath  the  dark  and  motionless  beech, 
Whilst  wandering  winds  of  nightfall  reach 

My  melancholy  ear. 

The  air  breathes  chill  and  free  : 
A  spirit  in  soft  music  calls 
From  Autumn's  gray  and  moss-grown  halls, 

And  round  her  withered  tree. 

The  hoar  and  mantled  oak, 
With  moss  and  twisted  ivy  brown, 
Bends  in  its  lifeless  beauty  down 

Where  weeds  the  fountain  choke. 

That  fountain's  hollow  voice 
Echoes  the  sound  of  precious  things ; 
Of  early  feeling's  tuneful  springs 

Choked  with  our  blighted  joys. 

Leaves,  that  the  night-wind  bears 
To  earth's  cold  bosom  with  a  sigh, 
Are  types  of  our  mortality, 

And  of  our  fading  years. 

The  tree  that  shades  the  plain, 
Wasting  and  hoar  as  time  decays, 
Spring  shall  renew  with  cheerful  days,  — 

But  not  my  joys  again. 


ITALIAN    SCENERY 

NIGHT  rests  in  beauty  on  Mont  Alto. 
Beneath  its  shade  the  beauteous  Arno  sleeps 
In  Vallombrosa's  bosom,  and  dark  trees 
Bend  with  a  calm  and  quiet  shadow  down 
Upon  the  beauty  of  that  silent  river. 

Still  in  the  west  a  melancholy  smile 

Mantles  the  lips  of  day,  and  twilight  pale 

Moves  like  a  spectre  in  the  dusky  sky, 

While  eve's  sweet  star  on  the  fast-fading  year 

Smiles  calmly.     Music  steals  at  intervals 

Across  the  water,  with  a  tremulous  swell, 

From  out  the  upland  dingle  of  tall  firs ; 

And  a  faint  footfall  sounds,  where,  dim  and  dark, 

H'uigs  the  gray  willow  from  the  river's  brink, 

O'ershadowing  its  current.     Slowly  there 

The  lover's  gondola  drops  down  the  stream, 

Silent,  save  when  its  dipping  oar  is  heard, 

Or  in  its  eddy  sighs  the  rippling  wave. 

Mouldering  and  moss-grown  through  the  lapse  of  years, 

In  motionless  beauty  stands  the  giant  oak  ; 

Whilst  those  that  saw  its  green  and  flourishing  youth 

Are  gone  and  are  forgotten.     Soft  the  fount, 

Whose  secret  springs  the  star-light  pale  discloses, 

Gushes  in  hollow  music  ;  and  beyond 

The  broader  river  sweeps  its  silent  way, 

Mingling  a  silver  current  with  that  sea, 

Whose  waters  have  no  tides,  coming  "or  going. 

On  noiseless  wing  along  that  fair  blue  sea 

The  halcyon  flits;  and,  where  the  wearied  storm 

Left  a  loud  moaning,  all  is  peace  again. 

A  calm  is  on  the  deep.     The  winds  that  came 
O'er  the  dark  sea-surge  with  a  tremulous  breathing, 
And  mourned  on  the  dark  cliff  where  weeds  grew  rank, 
And  to  the  autumnal  death-dirge  the  deep  sea 
Heaved  its  long  billows,  with  a  cheerless  song 
Have  passed  away  to  the  cold  earth  again, 
Like  a  wayfaring  mourner.     Silently 


APPENDIX 


647 


w  nere  wiiu  vemio  neaves  us  suiien  wa 
Down  the  high  cliff  of  gray  and  shapele 
Hung  on  the  curling  mist,  the  moonligh 
Arches  the  perilous  river !  A  soft  light 


Up  from  the  calm  sea's  dim  and  distant  verge, 

Full  and  unveiled,  the  moon's  broad  disk  emerges. 

On  Tivoli,  and  where  the  fairy  hues 

Of  autumn  glow  upon  Abruzzi's  woods, 

The  silver  light  is  spreading.     Far  above, 

Encompassed  with  their  thin,  cold  atmosphere, 

The  Apennines  uplift  their  snowy  brows, 

Glowing  with  colder  beauty,  where  unheard 

The  eagle  screams  in  the  fathomless  ether, 

And  stays  his  wearied  wing.     Here  let  us  pause. 

The  spirit  of  these  solitudes  — the  soul 

That  dwells  within  these  steep  and  difficult  places  — 

Speaks  a  mysterious  language  to  mine  own, 

And  brings  unutterable  musings.     Earth 

Sleeps  in  the  shades  of  nightfall,  and  the  sea 

Spreads  like  a  thin  blue  haze  beneath  my  feet  ; 

Whilst  the  gray  columns  and  the  mouldering  tombs 

Of  the  Imperial  City,  hidden  deep 

Beneath  the  mantle  of  their  shadows,  rest. 

My  spirit  looks  on  earth.     A  heavenly  voice 

Comes  silently  :   "  Dreamer,  is  earth  thy  dwelling  ? 

Lo  !  nursed  within  that  fair  and  fruitful  bosom, 

Which  has  sustained  thy  being,  and  within 

The  colder  breast  of  Ocean,  lie  the  germs 

Of  thine  own  dissolution  !    E'en  the  air, 

That  fans  the  clear  blue  sky,  and  gives  thee  strength, 

Up  from  the  sullen  lake  of  mouldering  reeds, 

And  the  wide  waste  of  forest,  where  the  osier 

Thrives  in  the  damp  and  motionless  atmosphere, 

Shall  bring  the  dire  and  wasting  pestilence, 

And  blight  thy  cheek.     Dream  thou  of  higher  things 

This  world  is  not  thy  homo  !  "    And  yet  my  eye 

Rests  upon  earth  again.     How  beautiful, 

Where  wild  Velino  heaves  its  sullen  waves 

less  granite, 
the  moonlight  bow 

rches  the  perilous  river!     A  soft  light 
Silvers  the  Albanian  mountains,  and  the  haze 
That  rests  upon  their  summits  mellows  down 
The  austerer  features  of  their  beauty.     Faint 
And  dim-discovered  glow  the  Sabine  hills  ; 
And,  listening  to  the  sea's  monotonous  shell, 
High  on  the  cliffs  of  Terracina  stands 
The  castle  of  the  royal  Goth  in  ruins. 

But  night  is  in  her  wane  :  day's  early  flush 
Glows  like  a  hectic  on  her  fading  cheek, 
Wasting  its  beauty.     And  the  opening  dawn 
With  cheerful  lustre  lights  the  royal  city, 
Where,  with  its  proud  tiara  of  dark  towers, 
It  sleeps  upon  its  own  romantic  bay. 


THE   LUNATIC    GIRL 

MOST  beautiful,  most  gentle  !    Yet  how  lost 

To  all  that  gladdens  the  fair  earth  ;  the  eye 

That  watched  her  being ;  the  maternal  care 

That  kept  and  nourished  her  ;  and  the  calm  light 

That  steals  from  our  own  thoughts,  and  softly  rests 

On  youth's  green  valleys  and  smooth-sliding  waters. 

Alas  !  few  suns  of  life,  and  fewer  winds, 

Had  withered  or  had  wasted  the  fresh  rose 

That  bloomed  upon  her  cheek  :  but  one  chill  frost 

Came  in  that  early  autumn,  when  ripe  thought 

Is  rich  and  beautiful,  and  blighted  it ; 

And  the  fair  stalk  grew  languid  day  by  day, 

And  drooped  —  and  drooped,  and  shed  its  many  leaves. 

'T  is  said  that  some  have  died  of  love  ;  and  some, 

That  once  from  beauty's  high  romance  had  caught 

Love's  passionate  feelings  and  heart-wasting  cares, 

Have  spurned  life's  threshold  with  a  desperate  foot ; 

And  others  have  gone  mad,  — and  she  was  one  ! 

Her  lover  died  at  sea ;  and  they  had  felt 

A  Boldness  for  each  other  when  they  parted, 

But  love  returned  again  :  and  to  her  ear 


Came  tidings  that  the  ship  which  bore  her  lover 

Had  sullenly  gone  down  at  sea,  and  all  were  lost. 

I  saw  her  in  her  native  vale,  when  high 

The  aspiring  lark  up  from  the  reedy  river 

Mounted  on  cheerful  pinion  ;  and  she  sat 

Casting  smooth  pebbles  into  a  clear  fountain, 

And  marking  how  they  sunk ;  and  oft  she  sighed 

For  him  that  perished  thus  in  the  vast  deep. 

She  had  a  sea-shell,  that  her  lover  brought 

From  the  far-distant  ocean  ;   and  she  pressed 

Its  smooth,  cold  lips  unto  her  ear,  and  thought 

It  whispered  tidings  of  the  dark  blue  sea  ; 

And  sad,  she  cried,  "  The  tides  are  out !  —  and  now 

I  see  his  corse  upon  the  stormy  beach  !  " 

Around  her  neck  a  string  of  rose-lipped  shells, 

And  coral,  and  white  pearl,  was  loosely  hung; 

And  close  beside  her  lay  a  delicate  fan, 

Made  of  the  halcyon's  blue  wing ;  and  when 

She  looked  upon  it,  it  would  calm  her  thoughts 

As  that  bird  calms  the  ocean,  —  for  it  gave 

Mournful,  yet  pleasant,  memory.     Once  I  marked, 

When  through  the  mountain  hollows  and  green  woods, 

That  bent  beneath  its  footsteps,  ihe  loud  wind 

Came  with  a  voice  as  of  the  restless  deep, 

She  raised  her  head,  and  on  her  pale,  cold  cheek 

A  beauty  of  diviner  seeming  came  ,• 

And  then  she  spread  her  hands,  and  smiled,  as  if 

She  welcomed  a  long-absent  friend,  —  and  then 

Shrunk  timorously  back  again,  and  wept. 

I  turned  away  :  a  multitude  of  thoughts, 

Mournful  and  dark,  were  crowding  on  my  mind  ; 

And  as  I  left  that  lost  and  ruined  one,  — 

A  living  monument  that  still  on  earth 

There  is  warm  love  and  deep  sincerity,  — 

She  gazed  upon  the  west,  where  the  blue  sky 

Held,  like  an  ocean,  in  its  wide  embrace 

Those  fairy  islands  of  bright  cloud,  that  lay 

So  calm  and  quietly  in  the  thin  ether. 

And  then  she  pointed  where,  alone  and  high, 

One  little  cloud  sailed  onward,  like  a  lost 

And  wandering  bark,  and  fainter  grew,  and  fainter, 

And  soon  was  swallowed  up  in  the  blue  depths  ; 

And,  when  it  sunk  away,  she  turned  again 

With  sad  despondency  and  tears  to  earth. 

Three  long  and  weary  months  —  yet  not  a  whisper 
Of  stern  reproach  for  that  cold  parting  !    Then 
She  sat  no  longer  by  her  favorite  fountain : 
She  was  at  rest  forever. 


THE   VENETIAN   GONDOLIER 

HERE  rest  the  weary  oar  !  —  soft  airs 
Breathe  out  in  the  o'erarching  sky ; 

And  Night  —  sweet  Night  —  serenely  wears 
A  smile  of  peace  :  her  noon  is  nigh . 

Where  the  tall  fir  in  quiet  stands, 
And  waves,  embracing  the  chaste  shores, 

Move  over  sea-shells  and  bright  sands, 
Is  heard  the  sound  of  dipping  oars. 

Swift  o'er  the  wave  the  light  bark  springs, 
Love's  midnight  hour  draws  lingering  near ; 

And  list ! —  his  tuneful  viol  strings 
The  young  Venetian  Gondolier. 

Lo  !  on  the  silver-mirrored  deep, 
On  earth,  and  her  embosomed  lakes, 

And  where  the  silent  rivers  sweep, 
From  the  thin  cloud  fair  moonlight  breaks 

Soft  music  breathes  around,  and  dies 

On  the  calm  besom  of  the  sea ; 
Whilst  in  her  cell  the  novice  sighs 

Her  vespers  to  her  rosary. 


648 


APPENDIX 


At  their  dim  altars  bow  fair  forms, 
In  tender  charity  for  those, 

That,  helpless  left  to  life's  rude  storms, 
Have  never  found  this  calm  repose. 

The  bell  swings  to  its  midnight  chime, 
Relieved  against  the  deep  blue  sky. 

Haste  !  —  dip  the  oar  again  —  't  is  time 
To  seek  Genevra's  balcony. 


THE  ANGLER'S  SONG 

FROM  the  river's  plashy  bank, 

Where  the  sedge  grows  green  and  rank, 

And  the  twisted  woodbine  springs, 
Upward  speeds  the  morning  lark 
To  its  silver  cloud  —  and  hark  ! 

On  his  way  the  woodman  sings. 

On  the  dim  and  misty  lakes 
Gloriously  the  morning  breaks, 

And  the  eagle  's  on  his  cloud  :  — 
Whilst  the  wind,  with  sighing,  wooes 
To  its  arms  the  chaste  cold  ooze, 

And  the  rustling  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Where  the  embracing  ivy  holds 
Close  the  hoar  elm  in  its  folds, 

In  the  meadow's  fenny  land, 
And  the  winding  river  sweeps 
Through  its  shallows  and  still  deeps,  — 

Silent  with  my  rod  I  stand. 

But  when  sultry  suns  are  high 
Underneath  t  e  oak  I  lie 

As  it  shades  the  water's  edge, 
And  I  mark  rny  line,  away 
In  the  wheeling  sddy,  play, 

Tangling  with  the  river  sedge. 

When  the  eye  of  evening  looks 

On  green  woods  and  winding  brooks, 

And  the  wind  sighs  o'er  the  lea,  — 
Woods  and  streams,  —  I  leave  you  then, 
While  the  shadow  in  the  glen 

Lengthens  by  the  greenwood  tree. 


LOVER'S  ROCK 

They  showed  us,  near  the  outlet  of  Sebago,  the  Lover's 
Rock,  from  which  an  Indian  maid  threw  herself  down  into 
the  lake,  when  the  guests  were  coining  together  to  the  mar 
riage  festival  of  her  false-hearted  lover."  —  Leaf  from  a  Trav 
eller's  Journal. 

THERE  is  a  love  that  cannot  die  !  — 

And  some  their  doom  have  met 
Heart-broken  —  and  gone  as  stars  go  by, 

That  rise,  and  burn,  and  set. 
Their  days  were  in  Spring's  fallen  leaf  — 
Tender  — and  young  —  and  bright  — and  brief. 

There  is  a  love  that  cannot  die  !  — 

Aye  —  it  survives  the  grave  ; 
When  life  goes  out  with  many  a  sigh, 

And  earth  takes  what  it  gave, 
Its  light  is  on  the  home  of  those 
That  heed  not  when  the  cold  wind  blows. 

With  us  there  are  sad  records  left 

Of  life's  declining  day  : 
How  true  hearts  here  were  broken  and  cleft, 

And  how  they  passed  away. 
And  yon  dark  rock  that  swells  above 
Its  blue  lake  —  has  a  tale  of  love. 


'T  is  of  an  Indian  maid,  whose  fate 
Was  saddened  by  the  burst 

Of  passion,  that  made  desolate 
The  heart  it  filled  at  first. 

Her  lover  was  false-hearted,  —  yet 

Her  love  she  never  could  forget. 

It  was  a  summer-day,  and  bright 

The  sun  was  going  down  : 
The  wave  lay  blushing  in  rich  light 

Beneath  the  dark  rock's  frown, 
And  under  the  green  maple's  shade 
Her  lover's  bridal  feast  was  made. 

She  stood  upon  the  rocky  steep, 
Grief  had  her  heart  unstrung, 

And  far  across  the  lake's  blue  sweep 
Was  heard  the  dirge  she  sung. 

It  ceased  —  and  in  the  deep  cold  wave 

The  Indian  Girl  has  made  her  grave. 


DIRGE   OVER    A    NAMELESS   GRAVE 

BY  yon  still  river,  where  the  wave 
Is  winding  slow  at  evening's  close, 

The  beech,  upon  a  nameless  grave. 
Its  sadly-moving  shadow  throws. 

O'er  the  fair  woods  the  sun  looks  down 
Upon  the  many-twinkling  leaves, 

And  twilight's  mellow  shades  are  brown, 
Where  darkly  the  green  turf  upheaves. 

The  river  glides  in  silence  there, 
And  hardly  waves  the  sapling  tree : 

Sweet  flowers  are  springing,  and  the  air 
Is  full  of  balm  —  but  where  is  she  ! 

They  bade  her  wed  a  son  of  pride, 

And  leave  the  hope  she  cherished  long  : 

She  loved  but  one  —  and  would  not  hide 
A  love  which  knew  a  wrong. 

And  months  went  sadly  on  —  and  years : 
And  she  was  wasting  day  by  day  : 

At  length  she  died  —  and  many  tears 
Were  shed,  that  she  should  pass  away. 

Then  came  a  gray  old  man,  and  knelt 
With  bitter  weeping  by  her  tomb : 

And  others  mourned  for  him,  who  felt 
That  he  had  sealed  a  daughter's  doom. 

The  funeral  train  has  long  past  on, 
And  time  wiped  dry  the  father's  tear  1 

Farewell  —  lost  maiden  !  —  there  is  one 
That  mourns  thee  yet  —  and  he  is  here. 


A  SONG   OF  SAVOY 

As  the  dim  twilight  shrouds 
The  mountain's  purple  crest, 

And  Summer's  white  and  folded  clouds 
Are  glowing  in  the  west, 

Loud  shouts  come  up  the  rocky  dell, 

And  voices  hail  the  evening-bell. 

Faint  is  the  goatherd's  song, 
And  sighing  comes  the  breeze  ; 

The  silent  river  sweeps  along 
Amid  its  bending  trees  — 

And  the  full  moon  shines  faintly  there, 

And  music  fills  the  evening  air. 


APPENDIX 


649 


Beneath  the  waving  firs 
The  tinkling  cymbals  sound  ; 

And  as  the  wind  the  foliage  stirs, 
I  see  the  dancers  bound 

Where  the  green  branches,  arched  above, 

Bend  over  this  fair  scene  of  love. 

And  he  is  there,  that  sought 

My  young  heart  long  ago  ! 
But  he  has  left  me  —  though  I  thought 

He  ne'er  could  leave  me  so. 
Ah  !  lover's  vows  —  how  frail  are  they ! 
And  his  —  were  made  but  yesterday. 

Why  comes  he  not  ?    I  call 

In  tears  upon  him  yet ; 
'T  were  better  ne'er  to  love  at  all, 

Than  love,  and  then  forget ! 
Why  comes  he  not  ?     Alas  !     I  should 
Reclaim  him  still,  if  weeping  could. 

But  see  —  he  leaves  the  glade, 

And  beckons  me  away  : 
He  comes  to  seek  his  mountain  maid  1 

I  cannot  chide  his  stay. 
Glad  sounds  along  the  valley  swell, 
And  voices  hail  the  evening-bell. 


THE    INDIAN    HUNTER 

WHEN  the  summer  harvest  was  gathered  in, 

And  the  sheaf  of  the  gleaner  grew  white  and  thin, 

And  the  ploughshare  was  in  its  furrow  left, 

Where  the  stubble  land  had  been  lately  cleft, 

An  Indian  hunter,  with  unstrung  bow, 

Looked  down  where  the  valley  lay  stretched  below. 

He  was  a  stranger  there,  and  all  that  day 
Had  been  out  on  the  hills,  a  perilous  way, 
But  the  foot  of  the  deer  was  far  and  fleet, 
And  the  wolf  kept  aloof  from  the  hunter's  feet. 
And  bitter  feelings  passed  o'er  him  then, 
As  he  stood  by  the  populous  haunts  of  men. 

The  winds  of  autumn  came  over  the  woods 
As  the  sun  stole  out  from  their  solitudes ; 
The  moss  was  white  on  the  maple's  trunk, 
And  dead  from  its  arms  the  pale  vine  shrunk. 
And  ripened  the  mellow  fruit  hung,  and  red 
Were  the  tree's  withered  leaves  round  it  shed. 

The  foot  of  the  reaper  moved  slow  on  the  lawn 
And  the  sickle  cut  down  the  yellow  corn  — 
The  mower  sung  loud  by  the  meadow-side, 
Where  the  mists  of  evening  were  spreading  wide, 
And  the  voice  of  the  herdsmen  came  up  the  lea, 
And  the  dance  went  round  by  the  greenwood  tree. 

Then  the  hunter  turned  away  from  that  scene, 
Where  the  home  of  his  fathers  once  had  been, 
And  heard  by  the  distant  and  measured  stroke, 
That  the  woodman  hewed  down  the  giant  oak, 
And  burning  thoughts  flashed  over  his  mind 
Of  the  white  man's  faith,  and  love  unkind. 

The  moon  of  the  harvest  grew  high  and  bright, 
As  her  golden  horn  pierced  the  cloud  of  white  — 
A  footstep  was  heard  in  the  rustling  brake, 
Where  the  beech  overshadowed  the  misty  lake, 
And  a  mourning  voice,  and  a  plunge  from  shore,  — 
And  the  hunter  was  seen  on  the  hills  no  more. 

When  years  had  passed  on,  by  that  still  lakeside 
The  fisher  looked  down  through  the  silver  tide, 
And  there,  on  the  smooth  yellow  sand  displayed, 


A  skeleton  wasted  and  white  was  laid, 

And  't  was  seen,  as  the  waters  moved  deep  and  slow, 

That  the  hand  was  still  grasping  a  hunter's  bow. 


ODE   WRITTEN   FOR    THE    COMMEMORATION    AT 
FRYEBURG,   MAINE,   OF    LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT. 

Air—  Bruce* 's  Address. 


MANY  a  day  and  wasted  year 
Bright  has  left  its  footsteps  here, 
Since  was  broke  the  warrior's  spear, 

And  our  fathers  bled. 
Still  the  tall  trees,  arching,  shake 
Where  the  fleet  deer  by  the  lake, 
As  he  dash'd  through  birch  and  brake, 

From  the  hunter  fled. 


In  these  ancient  woods  so  bright, 
That  are  full  of  life  and  light, 
Many  a  dark,  mysterious  rite 

The  stern  warriors  kept. 
But  their  altars  are  bereft, 
Fall'n  to  earth,  and  strewn  and  cleft, 
And  a  holier  faith  is  left 

Where  their  fathers  slept. 


From  their  ancient  sepulchres, 
Where  amid  the  giant  firs, 
Moaning  loud,  the  high  wind  stirs, 

Have  the  red  men  gone. 
Tow'rd  the  setting  sun  that  makes 
Bright  our  western  hills  and  lakes, 
Faint  and  few,  the  remnant  takes 

Its  sad  journey  on. 


Where  the  Indian  hamlet  stood, 
In  the  interminable  wood, 
Battle  broke  the  solitude, 

And  the  war-cry  rose  ; 
Sudden  came  the  straggling  shot 
Where  the  sun  looked  on  the  spot 
That  the  trace  of  war  would  blot 

Ere  the  day's  faint  close. 


Low  the  smoke  of  battle  hung ; 
Heavy  down  the  lake  it  swung, 
Till  the  death  wail  loud  was  sung 

When  the  night  shades  fell ; 
And  the  green  pine,  waving  dark, 
Held  within  its  shattered  bark 
Many  a  lasting  scathe  and  mark, 

That  a  tale  could  tell. 


And  the  story  of  that  day 
Shall  not  pass  from  earth  away, 
Nor  the  blighting  of  decay 

Waste  our  liberty  ; 
But  within  the  river's  sweep 
Long  in  peace  our  vale  shall  sleep 
And  free  hearts  the  record  keep 

Of  this  jubilee. 


650 


APPENDIX 


JECKOYVA 

The  Indian  chief,  Jeckoyva,  as  tradition  says,  perished 
alone  on  the  mountain  which  now  bears  his  name.  Night 
overtook  him  whilst  hunting  among  the  cliffs,  and  he  was  not 
heard  of  till  after  a  long  time,  when  his  half-decayed  corpse 
was  found  at  the  foot  of  a  high  rock,  over  which  he  must  have 
fallen.  Mount  Jeckoyva  is  near  the  White  Hills.  H.  W.  L. 

THEY  made  the  warrior's  grave  beside 
The  dashing  of  his  native  tide  : 
And  there  was  mourning  in  the  glen  — 
The  strong  wail  of  a  thousand  men  — 

O'er  him  thus  fallen  in  his  pride, 
Ere  mist  of  age  —  or  blight  or  blast 
Had  o'er  his  mighty  spirit  past. 

They  made  the  warrior's  grave  beneath 
The  bending  of  the  wild  elm's  wreath, 
When  the  dark  hunter's  piercing  eye 
Had  found  that  mountain  rest  on  high, 

Where,  scattered  by  the  sharp  wind's  breath, 
Beneath  the  ragged  cliff  were  thrown 
The  strong  belt  and  the  mouldering  bone. 

Where  was  the  warrior's  foot,  when  first 
The  red  sun  on  the  mountain  burst  ? 
Where  —  when  the  sultry  noon-time  came 
On  the  green  vales  with  scorching  flame, 

And  made  the  woodlands  faint  with  thirst  ? 
'T  was  where  the  wind  is  keen  and  loud, 
And  the  gray  eagle  breasts  the  cloud. 

Where  was  the  warrior's  foot  when  night 
Veiled  in  thick  cloud  the  mountain-height  ? 
None  heard  the  loud  and  sudden  crash  — 
None  saw  the  fallen  warrior  dash 

Down  the  bare  rock  so  high  and  white  ! 
But  he  that  drooped  not  in  the  chase 
Made  on  the  hills  his  burial-place. 

They  found  him  there,  when  the  long  day 

Of  cold  desertion  passed  away, 

And  traces  on  that  barren  cleft 

Of  struggling  hard  with  death  were  left  — 

Deep  marks  and  footprints  in  the  clay  ! 
And  they  have  laid  this  feathery  helm 
By  the  dark  river  and  green  elm. 


THE  SEA-DIVER 

MY  way  is  on  the  bright  blue  sea, 
My  sleep  upon  its  rocking  tide ; 

And  many  an  eye  has  followed  me 
Where  billows  clasp  the  worn  seaside. 

My  plumage  bears  the  crimson  blush, 
When  ocean  by  the  sun  is  kissed  ! 

When  fades  the  evening's  purple  flush, 
My  dark  wing  cleaves  the  silver  mist. 

Full  many  a  fathom  down  beneath 
The  bright  arch  of  the  splendid  deep 

My  ear  has  heard  the  sea-shell  breathe 
O'er  living  myriads  in  their  sleep. 

They  rested  by  the  coral  throne, 

And  by  the  pearly  diadem  ; 
Where  the  pale  sea-grape  had  o'ergrown 

The  glorious  dwellings  made  for  them. 

At  night  upon  my  storm-drench'd  wing, 
I  poised  above  a  helmless  bark, 

And  soon  I  saw  the  shattered  thing 
Had  passed  away  and  left  no  mark. 


And  when  the  wind  and  storm  were  done, 
A  ship,  that  had  rode  out  the  gale, 

Sunk  down,  without  a  signal-gun, 
And  none  was  left  to  tell  the  tale. 

I  saw  the  pomp  of  day  depart  — 
The  cloud  resign  its  golden  crown, 

When  to  the  ocean's  beating  heart 
The  sailor's  wasted  corse  went  down. 

Peace  be  to  those  whose  graves  are  made 
Beneath  the  bright  and  silver  sea  ! 

Peace  —  that  their  relics  there  were  laid 
With  no  vain  pride  and  pageantry. 


MUSINGS 

I  BAT  by  my  window  one  night, 
And  watched  how  the  stars  grew  high ; 

And  the  earth  and  skies  were  a  splendid  sight 
To  a  sober  and  musing  eye. 

From  heaven  the  silver  moon  shone  down 

With  gentle  and  mellow  ray, 
And  beneath  the  crowded  roofs  of  the  town 

In  broad  light  and  shadow  lay. 

A  glory  was  on  the  silent  sea, 

And  mainland  and  island  too, 
Till  a  haze  came  over  the  lowland  lea, 

And  shrouded  that  beautiful  blue. 

Bright  in  the  moon  the  autumn  wood 

Its  crimson  scarf  unrolled, 
And  the  trees  like  a  splendid  army  stood 

In  a  panoply  of  gold  ! 

I  saw  them  waving  their  banners  high, 
As  their  crests  to  the  night  wind  bowed, 

And  a  distant  sound  on  the  air  went  by, 
Like  the  whispering  of  a  crowd. 

Then  I  watched  from  my  window  how  fast 

The  lights  all  around  me  fled, 
As  the  wearied  man  to  his  slumber  passed 

And  the  sick  one  to  his  bed. 

All  faded  save  one,  that  burned 

With  distant  and  steady  light ; 
But  that,  too,  went  out  —  and  I  turned 

Where  my  own  lamp  within  shone  bright  .* 

Thus,  thought  I,  our  joys  must  die, 
Yes  —  the  brightest  from  earth  we  win : 

Till  each  turns  away,  with  a  sigh, 
To  the  lamp  that  burns  brightly  within. 


SONG 

WHERE,  from  the  eye  of  day, 

The  dark  and  silent  river 
Pursues  through  tangled  woods  a  way 

O'er  which  the  tall  trees  quiver; 

The  silver  mist,  that  breaks 
From  out  that  woodland  cover, 

Betrays  the  hidden  path  it  takes, 
And  hangs  the  current  over  ! 

So  oft  the  thoughts  that  burst 
From  hidden  springs  of  feeling, 

Like  silent  streams,  unseen  at  first, 
From  our  cold  hearts  are  stealing: 


APPENDIX 


651 


But  soon  the  clouds  that  veil 
The  eye  of  Love,  when  glowing, 

Betray  the  long  unwhispered  tale 
Of  thoughts  in  darkness  flowing ! 


SONG   OF  THE   BIRDS 

WITH  what  a  hollow  dirge  its  voice  did  fill 
The  vast  and  empty  hollow  of  the  night !  — 
It  had  perched  itself  upon  a  tall  old  tree, 
That  hung  its  tufted  and  thick  clustering  leaves 
Midway  across  the  brook  ;  and  sung  most  sweetly, 
In  all  the  merry  and  heart-broken  sadness 
Of  those  that  love  hath  crazed.     Clearly  it  ran 
Through  all  the  delicate  compass  of  its  voice  :  — 
And  then  again,  as  from  a  distant  hollow, 
I  heard  its  sweet  tones  like  an  echo  sounding, 
And  coming,  like  the  memory  of  a  friend 
From  a  far  distant  country  —  or  the  silent  land 
Of  the  mourned  and  the  dead,  to  which  we  all  are  pass 
ing  ; 

It  seemed  the  song  of  some  poor  broken  heart, 
Haunted  forever  with  love's  cruel  fancies !  — 
Of  one  that  has  loved  much  yet  never  known 
The  luxury  of  being  loved  again  ! 

But  when  the  morning  broke,  and  the  green  woods 

Were  all  alive  with  birds  —  with  what  a  clear 

And  ravishing  sweetness  sung  the  plaintive  thrush  ; 

I  love  to  hear  its  delicate  rich  voice, 

Chanting  through  all  the  gloomy  day,  when  loud 

Amid  the  trees  is  dropping  the  big  rain, 

And  gray  mists  wrap  the  hills  ;  —  for  aye  the  sweeter 

Its  song  is,  when  the  day  is  sad  and  dark.     And  thus, 

When  the  bright  fountains  of  a  woman's  love 

Are  gently  running  over,  if  a  cloud 

But  darken,  with  its  melancholy  shadow, 

The  bright  flowers  round  our  way,  her  heart 

Doth  learn  new  sweetness,  and  her  rich  voice  falls 

With  more  delicious  music  on  our  ears. 


II. 


UNACKNOWLEDGED   AND   UNCOL- 
LECTED    TRANSLATIONS 


THE  history  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  work  in 
translation  has  been  given  in  the  Introductory 
Note  to  the  Translations  in  the  present  volume. 
As  indicated  there,  a  number  of  poems  were 
contributed  by  Mr.  Longfellow  to  periodicals  as 
well  as  to  his  two  collections,  The  Poets  and 
Poetry^  of  Europe  and  Poems  of  Places,  which 
were  signed  by  him,  but  for  some  reason  were 
not  included  in  any  of  the  volumes  of  poetry 
which  he  put  forth  from  time  to  time.  Such 
poems  have  been  recovered  and  placed  in  their 

E  roper  groups.  Besides  these  signed  poems, 
owever,  there  are  a  number  which  may  be 
traced  without  question  to  Mr.  Longfellow's 
pen,  and  in  accordance  with  the  plan  of  this 
edition  they  have  been  reserved  for  the  Appen 
dix,  and  are  here  given. 


LET   ME   GO   WARM 
BY   LUIS   DE  GONGORA  Y   ARGOTH 

Published  in    The.  New  England  Martnzine,  July,  1831,  and 
afterwards  in  The,  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe. 

LET  me  go  warm  and  merry  still ; 
And  let  the  world  laugh,  an'  it  will. 


Let  others  muse  on  earthly  things,  — 
The  fall  of  thrones,  the  fate  of  kings, 

And  those  whose  fame  the  world  doth  fill ; 
Whilst  muffins  sit  enthroned  in  trays, 
And  orange-punch  in  winter  sways 
The  merry  sceptre  of  my  days  ;  - 

And  let  the  world  laugh,  an'  it  will. 

He  that  the  royal  purple  wears 
From  golden  plate  a  thousand  cares 

Doth  swallow  as  a  gilded  pill  : 
On  feasts  like  these  I  turn  my  back, 
Whilst  puddings  in  my  roasting-jack 
Beside  the  chimney  hiss  and  crack  ;  — 

And  let  the  world  laugh,  an'  it  will. 

And  when  the  wintry  tempest  blows, 
And  January's  sleets  and  snows 

Are  spread  o'er  every  vale  and  hill, 
With  one  to  tell  a  merry  tale 
O'er  roasted  nuts  and  humming  ale, 
I  sit,  and  care  not  for  the  gale  ;  — 

And  let  the  world  laugh,  an'  it  wilL 

Let  merchants  traverse  seas  and  lands, 
For  silver  mines  and  golden  sands ; 

Whilst  I  beside  some  shadowy  rill, 
Just  where  its  bubbling  fountain  swells, 
Do  sit  and  gather  stones  and  shells, 
And  hear  the  tale  the  blackbird  tells  ;  — 

And  let  the  world  laugh,  an'  it  will. 

For  Hero's  sake  the  Grecian  lover 
The  stormy  Hellespont  swam  over  : 

I  cross,  without  the  fear  of  ill, 
The  wooden  bridge  that  slow  bestrides 
The  Madrigal's  enchanting  sides, 
Or  barefoot  wade  through  Yepes'  tides ;  — 

And  let  the  world  laugh,  an'  it  will. 

But  since  the  Fates  so  cruel  prove, 
That  Pyramus  should  die  of  love, 

And  love  should  gentle  Thisbe  kill ; 
My  Thisbe  be  an  apple-tart, 
The  sword  I  plunge  into  her  heart 
The  tooth  that  bites  the  crust  apart,  — 

And  let  the  world  laugh,  an'  it  will. 


THE   NATIVITY  OF   CHRIST 
BY    LUIS   DE   G<5NGORA   Y   ARGOTE 

TO-DAY  from  the  Aurora's  bosom 
A  pink  has  fallen,  —  a  crimson  blossom  : 
And  oh,  how  glorious  rests  the  hay 
On  which  the  fallen  blossom  lay. 

When  silence  gently  had  unfurled 
Her  mantle  over  all  below, 
And,  crowned  with  winter's  frost  and  snow, 
Night  swayed  the  sceptre  of  the  world, 
Amid  the  gloom  descending  slow, 
Upon  the  monarch's  frozen  bosom 
A  pink  has  fallen,  — a  crimson  blossom. 

The  only  flower  the  Virgin  bore 
(Aurora  fair,)  within  her  breast, 
She  gave  to  earth,  yet  still  possessed 
Her  virgin  blossom  as  before  : 
The  hay  that  colored  drop  caressed,  — 
Received  upon  its  faithful  bosom 
That  single  flower,  —  a  crimson  blossom. 

The  manger,  unto  which  't  was  given, 
Even  amid  wintry  snows  and  cold, 
Within  its  fostering  arms  to  fold 


652 


APPENDIX 


Th3  blushing  flower  that  fell  from  Heaven, 

Was  as  a  canopy  of  gold,  — 

A  downy  couch,  —  where  on  its  bosom 

That  flower  hath  fallen,  —  that  crimson  blossom. 


THE   ASSUMPTION   OF  THE  VIRGIN 


BY   LUIS    PONCE   DE   LEON 

LADY  !  thine  upward  flight 
The  opening  heavens  receive  with  joyful  song : 

Blest,  who  thy  garments  bright 

May  seize,  amid  the  throng, 
And  to  the  sacred  mount  float  peacefully  along. 

Bright  angels  are  around  thee, 
They  that  have  served  thee  from  thy  birth  are  there : 

Their  hands  with  stars  have  crowned  thee  ; 

Thou,  —  peerless  Queen  of  air, 
As  sandals  to  thy  feet  the  silver  moon  dost  wear. 

Celestial  dove  !  so  meek 
And  mild  and  fair  !  —  oh,  let  thy  peaceful  eye 

This  thorny  valley  seek, 

Where  such  sweet  blossoms  lie, 
But  where  the  sons  of  Eve  in  pain  and  sorrow  sigh. 

For  if  the  imprisoned  soul 
Could  catch  the  brightness  of  that  heavenly  way, 

'T  would  own  its  sweet  control 

And  gently  pass  away, 
Drawn  by  its  magnet  power  to  an  eternal  day. 


THE   DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 
BY   HERNANDO   DE   HERRARA 

PURE  Spirit !  that  within  a  form  of  clay 
Once  veiled  the  brightness  of  thy  native  sky ; 
In  dreamless  slumber  sealed  thy  burning  eye, 
Nor  heavenward  sought  to  wing  thy  flight  away ! 

He  that  chastised  thee  did  at  length  unclose 
Thy  prison  doors,  and  give  thee  sweet  release  ;  — 
Unloosed  the  mortal  coil,  eternal  peace 
Received  thee  to  its  stillness  and  repose. 

Look  down  once  more  from  thy  celestial  dwelling, 
Help  me  to  rise  and  be  immortal  there,  — 
An  earthly  vapor  melting  into  air  ;  — 

For  my  whole  soul,  with  secret  ardor  swelling, 
From  earth's  dark  mansion  struggles  to  be  free, 
And  longs  to  soar  away  and  be  at  rest  with  thee. 


IDEAL  BEAUTY 
BY  HERNANDO  DE  HERRERA 

O  LIGHT  serene  !  present  in  him  who  breathes 
That  love  divine,  which  kindles  yet  restrains 
The  high-born  soul  —  that  in  its  mortal  chains 
Heavenward  aspires  for  love's  immortal  wreaths ! 

Rich  golden  locks,  within  whose  clustered  curls 
Celestial  and  eternal  treasures  lie  ! 
A  voice  that  breathes  angelic  harmony 
Among  bright  coral  and  unspotted  pearls ! 

What  marvellous  beauty  !     Of  the  high  estate 
Of  immortality,  within  this  iight 
Transparent  veil  of  flesh,  a  glimpse  is  given  ; 

And  in  the  glorious  form,  I  contemplate, 

(Although  its  brightness  blinds  my  feeble  sight,) 
The  immortal  still  I  seek  and  follow  on  to  Heaven  ! 


THE   LOVER'S   COMPLAINT 
BY    HERNANDO   DE   HERRERA 

BRIGHT  Sun  !  that,  flaming  through  the  mid-day  sky, 
Fillest  with  light  heaven's  blue,  deep-vaulted  arch, 
Say,  hast  thou  seen  in  thy  celestial  inarch 
One  hue  to  rival  this  blue,  tranquil  eye  ?  , 

Thou  Summer  Wind,  of  soft  and  delicate  touch, 
Fanning  me  gently  with  thy  cool,  fresh  pinion, 
Say,  hast  thou  found,  in  all  thy  wide  dominion, 
Tresses  of  gold,  that  can  delight  so  much  ? 

Moon,  honor  of  the  night !    Thou  glorious  choir 
Of  wandering  Planets  and  eternal  Stars  ! 
Say,  have  ye  seen  two  peerless  orbs  like  these  ? 

Answer  me,  Sun,  Air,  Moon,  and  Stars  of  fire  — 
Hear  ye  my  woes,  that  know  no  bounds  nor  bars  ? 
See  ye  these  cruel  stars,  that  brighten  and  yetfreezo  ? 


ART  AND   NATURE 
BY   FRANCISCO   DE  MEDRANO 

THE  works  of  human  artifice  soon  tire 
The  curious  eye  ;  the  fountain's  sparkling  rill, 
And  gardens,  when  adorned  by  human  skill, 
Reproach  the  feeble  hand,  the  vain  desire. 

But  oh  !  the  free  and  wild  magnificence 
Of  Nature,  in  her  lavish  hours,  doth  steal, 
In  admiration  silent  and  intense, 
The  soul  of  him  who  hath  a  soul  to  feel. 

The  river  moving  on  its  ceaseless  way, 
The  verdant  reach  of  meadows  fair  and  green, 
And  the  blue  hills,  that  boui  d  the  sylvan  scene, 

These  speak  of  grandeur,  that  defies  decay,  — 
Proclaim  the  Eternal  Architect  on  high, 
Who  stamps  on  all  his  works  his  own  eternity. 


THE   TWO   HARVESTS 
BY    FRANCISCO   DE   MEDRANO 

BUT  yesterday  these  few  and  hoary  sheaves 
Waved  in  the  golden  harvest ;  from  the  plain 
I  saw  the  blade  shoot  upward,  and  the  grain 
Put  forth  the  unripe  ear  and  tender  leaves. 

Then  the  glad  upland  smiled  upon  the  view, 
And  to  the  air  the  broad  preen  leaves  unrolled, 
A  peerless  emerald  in  each  silken  fold, 
And  on  each  palm  a  pearl  of  morning  dew. 

And  thus  sprang  up  and  ripened  in  brief  space 
All  that  beneath  the  reaper's  sickle  died, 
All  that  smiled  beauteous  in  the  summer-tide. 

And  what  are  we  ?  a  copy  of  that  race, 
The  later  harvest  of  a  longer  year ! 
And  oh  !  how  many  fall  before  the  ripened  ear ! 


CLEAR    HONOR   OF   THE   LIQUID    ELEMENT 

BY  LUIS  DH  G<SNGORA  Y  ARGOTE 

CLEAR  honor  of  the  liquid  element, 
Sweet  rivulet  of  shining  silver  sheen  ! 
Whose  waters  steal  along  the  meadows  green, 
With  gentle  step,  and  murmur  of  content ! 

When  she,  for  whom  I  bear  each  fierce  extreme, 
Beholds  herself  in  thee,  —then  Love  doth  trace 
The  snow  and  crimson  of  that  lovely  face 
In  the  soft  gentle  movement  of  thy  stream. 

Then  smoothly  flow  as  now  ;  and  set  not  free 
The  crystal  curb  and  undulating  rein 
Which  now  thy  current's  headlong  speed  restrain; 

Lest,  broken  and  confused  the  image  rest 
Of  such  rare  charms  on  the  deep-heaving  breast 
Of  him  who  holds  and  sways  the  trident  of  the  sea. 


APPENDIX 


653 


PRAISE    OF    LITTLE   WOMEN 
JUAN   RUIZ    UE   HITA 

I  WISH  to  make  my  sermon  brief ,  —  to  shorten  my  ora 
tion,  — 

For  a  never-ending  sermon  is  my  utter  detestation : 

I  like  short  women,  —  suits  at  law  without  procrastina 
tion,  — 

And  am  always  most  delighted  with  things  of  short 
duration. 

A  babbler  is  a  laughing-stock ;  he  's  a  fool  who  's  always 

grinning ; 
But  little  women  love  so  much,  one  falls  in  love  with 

sinning. 
There  are  women  who  are  very  tall,  and  yet  not  worth 

the  winning, 
And  in  the  change  of  short  for  long  repentance  finds 

beginning. 

To  praise  the  little  women  Love  besought  me  in  my 

musing ; 

To  tell  their  noble  qualities  is  quite  beyond  refusing  : 
So  I  '11  praise  the  little  women,  and  you  '11  find  the  thing 

amusing : 
They  are,  I  know,  as  cold  as  snow,  whilst  flames  around 

diffusing. 

They  're  cold  without,  whilst  warm  within  the  flame  of 
Love  is  raging ; 

They  're  gay  and  pleasant  in  the  street,  —  soft,  cheer 
ful,  and  engaging ; 

They  're  thrifty  and  discreet  at  home,  —  the  cares  of 
life  assuaging  : 

All  this  and  more  ;  —try,  and  you  '11  find  how  true  is 
my  presaging. 

In    a  little  precious  stone  what  splendor  meets  the 

eyes! 

In  a  little  lump  of  sugar  how  much  of  sweetness  lies ! 
So  in  a  little  woman  love  grows  and  multiplies  : 
You  recollect  the  proverb  says,  —  A  word  unto  the  wise. 

A  pepper-corn  is  very  small,  but  seasons  every  dinner 
More  than  all  other  condiments,  although  't  is  sprinkled 

thinner : 
Just  so  a  little  woman  is,  if  Love  will  let  you  win 

her,— 
There 's  not  a  joy  in  all  the  world  you  will  not  find 

within  her. 

And  as  within  the  little  rose  you  find  the  richest  dyes, 
And  in  a  little  grain  of  gold  much  price  and  value  lies, 
As  from  a  little  balsam  much  odor  doth  arise, 
So  in  a  little  woman  there 's  a  taste  of  paradise. 

Even  as  the  little  ruby  its  secret  worth  betrays, 
Color,  and  price,  and  virtue,  in  the  clearness  of  its 

rays,  — 

Just  so  a  little  woman  much  excellence  displays, 
Beauty,  and  grace,  and  love,  and  fidelity  always. 

The  skylark  and  the  nightingale,   though  small  and 

light  of  wing, 
Yet  warble  sweeter  in  the  grove  than  all  the  birds  that 

sing: 

And  so  a  little  woman,  though  a  very  little  thing, 
Is  sweeter  far  than  sugar,  and  flowers  that  bloom  in 

spring. 

The  magpie  and  the  golden  thrush  have  many  a  thrill 
ing  note, 

Each  as  a  gay  musician  doth  strain  his  little  throat,  — 
A  merry  little  songster  in  his  green  and  yellow  coat : 
And  such  a  little  woman  is,  when  Love  doth  make  her 
dote. 


There  's  naught  can  be  compared  to  her,  throughout 
the  wide  creation  ; 

She  is  a  paradise  on  earth,  —  our  greatest  consola 
tion,  — 

So  cheerful,  gay,  and  happy,  so  free  from  all  vexation : 

In  fine,  she  's  better  in  the  proof  than  in  anticipation. 

If  as  her  size  increases  are  woman's  charms  decreased, 
Then  surely  it  is  good  to  be  from  all  the  great  released. 
Now  of  two  evils  choose  the  less,  — said  a  wise  man  of 

the  East : 
By  consequence,  of  womankind  be  sure  to  choose  the 

least. 


MILAGROS   DE   NUESTRA  SENORA 
BY   GONZALO   DB   BERCEO 

I,  GONZALO  DE  BERCEO,  in  the  gentle  summer-tide. 
Wending  upon  a  pilgrimage,  came  to  a  meadow's  side  : 
All  green  was  it  and  beautiful,  with  flowers  far  and 

wide,  — 
A  pleasant  spot,  I  ween,  wherein  the  traveller  might 

abide. 

Flowers  with  the  sweetest  odors  filled  all  the  sunny  air, 
And  not  alone  refreshed  the  sense,  but  stole  the  mind 

from  care ; 
On  every  side  a  fountain  gushed,  whose  waters  pure 

and  fair, 
Ice-cold  beneath  the  summer  sun,  but  warm  in  winter 

were. 

There  on  the  thick  and  shadowy  trees,  amid  the  foliage 

green, 
Were  the  fig  and  the  pomegranate,  the  pear  and  apple, 

seen ; 
And  other  fruits  of  various  kinds,  the  tufted  leaves 

between, 
None  were  unpleasant  to  the  taste,  and  none  decayed,  I 

ween. 

The  verdure  of  the  meadow  green,  the  odor  of  the 
flowers, 

The  grateful  shadows  of  the  trees,  tempered  with  fra 
grant  showers, 

Refreshed  me  in  the  burning  heat  of  the  sultry  noon 
tide  hours : 

Oh,  one  might  live  upon  the  balm  and  fragrance  of 
those  bowers ! 

Ne'er  had  I  found  on  earth  a  spot  that  had  such  power 

to  please, 
Such  shadows  from  the  summer  sun,  such  odors  on  the 

breeze : 
I  threw  my  mantle  on  the  ground,  that  I  might  rest  at 

.    ease, 
And  stretched  upon  the  greensward  lay  in  the  shadow 

of  the  trees. 

There  soft  reclining  in  the  shade,  all  cares  beside  me 

flung, 
I  heard  the  soft  and  mellow  notes  that  through  the 

woodland  rung  : 
Ear  never  listened  to  a  strain,  from  instrument    or 

tongue, 
So  mellow  and  harmonious  as  the  songs  above  me 

sung. 


SONG   OF   THE   RHINE 

FORTH  rolled  the  Rhine-stream  strong  and  deep 
Beneath  Helvetia's  Alpine  steep, 
And  joined  in  youthful  company 
Its  fellow-travellers  to  the  sea. 


654 


APPENDIX 


In  Germany  embraced  the  Rhine, 
The  Neckar,  the  Mosel,  the  Lahn,  and  the  Main, 
And  strengthened  by  each  rushing  tide, 
Onward  he  marched  in  kingly  pride. 

But  soon  from  his  enfeebled  grasp 

The  satraps  of  his  power, 
The  current's  flowing  veins  unclasped  — 

He  moves  in  pride  no  more. 

Forth  the  confederate  waters  broke 

On  that  rebellious  day, 
And,  bursting  from  their  monarch's  yoke, 

Each  chose  a  separate  way. 

Wahl,  Issel,  Leek,  and  Wecht,  all,  all 

Flowed  sidewards  o'er  the  land, 
And  a  nameless  brook,  by  Leyden's  wall, 

The  Khine  sank  in  sand. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN   IN   THE   RUINS   OF  AN   OLD 
CASTLE 

BY   FRIEDRICH   VON   MATTHISSON 

SILENT,  in  the  veil  of  evening  twilight, 

Rests  the  plain ;  the  woodland  song  is  still, 
Save  that  here,  amid  these  mouldering  ruins, 

Chirps  a  cricket,  mournfully  and  shrill. 
Silence  sinks  from  skies  without  a  shadow, 
Slowly  wind  the  herds  from  field  and  meadow, 

And  the  weary  hind  to  the  repose 

Of  his  father's  lowly  cottage  goes. 

Here,  upon  this  hill,  by  forests  bounded, 

'Mid  the  ruins  of  departed  days, 
By  the  awful  shapes  of  Eld  surrounded, 

Sadness  !  unto  thee  my  song  I  raise  ! 
Sadly  think  I  what  in  gray  old  ages 
Were  these  wrecks  of  lordly  heritages  : 

A  majestic  castle,  like  a  crown, 

Placed  upon  the  mountain's  brow  of  stone. 

There,  where  round  the  column's  gloomy  ruins, 
Sadly  whispering,  clings  the  ivy  green, 

And  the  evening  twilight's  mournful  shimmer 
Blinks  the  empty  window-space  between, 

Blessed,  perhaps,  a  father's  tearful  eye 

Once  the  noblest  son  of  Germany  ; 
One  whose  heart,  with  high  ambition  rife, 
Warmly  swelled  to  meet  the  coming  strife. 

4 '  Go  in  peace !  "  thus  spake  the  hoary  warrior, 

As  he  girded  on  his  sword  of  fame  ; 
"  Come  not  back  again,  or  come  as  victor : 

Oh,  be  worthy  of  thy  father's  name  !  " 
And  the  noble  youth's  bright  eyes  were  throwing 
Deadly  flashes  forth  ;  his  cheeks  were  glowing, 

As  with  full-blown  branches  the  red  rose 

In  the  purple  light  of  morning  glows. 

Then,  a  cloud  of  thunder,  flew  the  champion, 
Even  as  Richard  Lion-Heart,  to  fight ; 

Like  a  wood  of  pines  in  storm  and  tempest, 
Bowed  before  his  path  the  hostile  might. 

Gently,  as  a  brook  through  flowers  descendeth. 

Homeward  to  the  castle-crag  he  wendetli,  — 
To  his  father's  glad,  yet  tearful  face,  — 
To  the  modest  maiden's  chaste  embrace. 

Oh,  with  anxious  longing,  looks  the  fair  one 
From  her  turret  down  the  valley  drear  ! 

Shield  and  breastplate  glow  in  gold  of  evening, 
Steeds  fly  forward,  the  beloved  draws  near  ! 

Him  the  faithful  right-hand  mute  extending, 

Stands  she,  pallid  looks  with  blushes  blending. 


Oh,  but  what  that  soft,  soft  eye  doth  say, 
Sings  not  Petrarch's,  nor  e'en  Sappho's  lay  I 

Merrily  echoed  there  the  sound  of  goblets, 
Where  the  rank  grass,  waving  in  the  gale, 

O'er  the  nests  of  owls  is  blackly  spreading, 
Till  the  silver  glance  of  stars  grew  pale. 

Tales  of  hard-won  battle  fought  afar, 

Wild  adventures  in  the  Holy  War, 
Wakened  in  the  breast  of  hardy  knight 
The  remembrance  of  his  fierce  delight. 

Oh,  what  changes  !    Awe  and  night  o'ershadow 
Now  the  scene  of  all  that  proud  array ; 

Winds  of  evening,  full  of  sadness,  whisper, 
Where  the  strong  ones  revelled  and  were  gay  ; 

Thistles  lonely  nod,  in  places  seated 

Where  for  shield  and  spear  the  boy  entreated, 
When  aloud  the  war-horn's  summons  rang, 
And  to  horse  in  speed  the  father  sprang. 

Ashes  are  the  bones  of  these,  —  the  mighty  t 

Deep  they  lie  within  earth's  gloomy  breast ; 
Hardly  the  half-sunken  funeral  tablets 

Now  point  out  the  places  where  they  rest ! 
Many  to  the  winds  were  long  since  scattered,  — 
Like  their  tombs,  their  memories  sunk  and  shattered 

O'er  the  brilliant  deeds  of  ages  gone 

Sweep  the  cloud-folds  of  Oblivion  ! 

Thus  depart  life's  pageantry  and  glory  ! 

Thus  flit  by  the  visions  of  vain  might ! 
Thus  sinks,  in  the  rapid  lapse  of  ages, 

All  that  earth  doth  bear,  to  empty  night  I 
Laurels,  that  the  victor's  brow  encircle, 
High  deeds,  that  in  brass  and  marble  sparkle, 

Urns  devoted  unto  Memory, 

And  the  songs  of  Immortality  ! 

All,  all,  that  with  longing  and  with  rapture 
Here  on  earth  a  noble  heart  doth  warm, 

Vanishes  like  sunshine  in  the  autumn, 

When  the  horizon's  verge  is  veiled  in  storm. 

Friends  at  evening  part  with  warm  embraces,  — 

Morning  looks  upon  the  death-pale  faces ; 
Even  the  joys  that  Love  and  Friendship  find 
Leave  on  earth  no  lasting  trace  behind. 

Gentle  Love  !  how  all  thy  fields  of  roses 

Bounded  close  by  thorny  deserts  lie  ! 
And  a  sudden  tempest's  awful  shadow 

Oft  doth  darken  Friendship's  brightest  sky  I 
Vain  are  titles,  honor,  might,  and  glory  ! 
On  the  monarch's  temples  proud  and  hoary, 

And  the  way-worn  pilgrim's  trembling  head, 

Doth  the  grave  one  common  darkness  spread  ! 


THE  STARS 


BY   MARTIN   OPITZ 

NIGHT  comes  stealing  from  the  East, 
Frees  from  labor  man  and  beast, 
Brings  to  all  the  wished-f  or  rest, 
And  the  sorrow  to  my  breast. 

Shines  the  moonlight  clear  and  cold, 
Shine  the  little  stars  of  gold  ; 
Glad  are  all  things  far  and  wide  ;  — 
I  alone  in  grief  abide. 

Two  are  missing,  two  in  vain 
Seek  I  in  the  starry  train  ; 
And  these  stars  that  do  not  rise 
Are  my  darling's  lovely  eyes. 


APPENDIX 


655 


Naught  I  heed  the  moonlight  clear, 
Dim  to  me  the  stars  appear. 
Since  is  hidden  from  my  sight 
Kuuigund,  my  heaven  of  light. 

But  when  in  their  splendor  shine 
Over  me  those  suns  divine, 
Then  it  seemeth  best  to  me 
Neither  moon  nor  stars  should  be. 


BY  CHARLES   D'ORLEANS 

HENCE  away,  begone,  begone, 

Carking  care  and  melancholy  ! 

Think  ye  thus  to  govern  me 
All  my  life  long,  as  ye  have  dtme  ? 
That  shall  ye  not,  I  promise  ye, 

Reason  shall  have  the  mastery. 
So  hence  away,  begone,  begone, 

Carking  care  and  melancholy  ! 

If  ever  ye  return  this  way, 
With  your  mournful  company, 

A  curse  be  on  ye,  and  the  day 
That  brings  ye  moping  back  to  me  ! 

Hence  away,  begone,  I  say, 
Carking  care  and  melancholy  ! 


THE    BANKS   OF   THE    CHER 


BY   ANTOINE-MARIN    LE   MIERRB 

IN  that  province  of  our  France 
Proud  of  being  called  its  garden, 
In  those  fields  where  once  by  chance 
Pepin's  father  with  his  lance 
Made  the  Saracen  sue  for  pardon ; 
There  between  the  old  chateau 
Which  two  hundred  years  ago 
Was  the  centre  of  the  League, 
Whose  infernal,  black  intrigue 
Almost  fatal  was,  't  is  reckoned, 
To  young  Francis,  called  the  Second, 
And  that  pleasant  city's  wall 
Of  this  canton  capital, 
City  memorable  in  story, 
And  whose  fruits  preserved  with  care 
Make  the  riches  and  the  glory 
Of  the  gourmands  everywhere  !  — 
Now,  a  more  prosaic  head 
Without  verbiage  might  have  said, 
There  between  Tours  and  Amboise 
In  the  province  of  Touraine  ; 
But  the  poet,  and  with  cause, 
Loves  to  ponder  and  to  pause  ; 
Ever  more  his  soul  delighteth 
In  the  language  that  he  writeth, 
Finer  far  than  other  people's ; 
So,  while  he  describes  the  steeples, 
One  might  travel  through  Touraine, 
Far  as  Tours  and  back  again. 

On  the  borders  of  the  Cher 
Is  a  valley  green  and  fair, 
Where  the  eye,  that  travels  fast, 
Tires  with  the  horizon  vast ; 
There,  since  five  and  forty  lustres, 
From  the  bosom  of  the  stream, 
Like  the  castle  of  a  dream, 
High  into  the  fields  of  air 
The  chateau  of  Chenonceaux 
Lifts  its  glittering  vanes  in  clusters. 
Six  stone  arches  of  a  bridge 


Into  channels  six  divide 
The  swift  river  in  its  flow, 
And  upon  their  granite  ridge 
Hold  this  beautiful  chateau, 
Flanked  with  turrets  on  each  side. 
Time,  that  grand  old  man  with  wingB, 
Who  destroys  all  earthly  things, 
Hath  not  tarnished  yet  one  stone, 
White  as  ermine  is  alone, 
Of  this  palace  of  dead  kings. 

One  in  speechless  wonder  sees 
In  the  rampart-walls  of  Blois, 
To  the  shame  of  the  Valois, 
Marble  stained  with  blood  of  Guise  ; 
By  the  crimes  that  it  can  show, 
By  its  war-beleaguered  gates, 
Famous  be  that  black  chateau  ; 
Thou  art  famous  for  thy  fgtes 
And  thy  f eastings,  Chenonceaux ! 
Ah,  most  beautiful  of  places, 
With  what  pleasure  thee  I  see  ; 
Everywhere  the  selfsame  traces, 
Residence  of  all  the  Graces 
And  Love's  inn  and  hostelry  ! 

Here  that  second  Agrippina, 
The  imperious  Catharina, 
Jealous  of  all  pleasant  things, 
To  her  cruel  purpose  still 
Subjugating  every  will, 
Kept  her  sons  as  underlings 
Fastened  to  her  apron-strings. 

Here,  divested  of  his  armor, 

As  gallant  as  he  was  brave, 

Francis  First  to  some  fair  charmer 

Many  an  hour  of  dalliance  gave. 

Here,  beneath  these  ceilings  florid, 

Chose  Diana  her  retreat,  — 

Not  Diana  of  the  groves 

With  the  crescent  on  her  forehead, 

Who,  as  swiftest  arrow  fleet, 

Flies  before  all  earthly  loves  ; 

But  that  charming  mortal  dame, 

She  the  Poiterine  alone, 

She  the  Second  Henry's  flame, 

Who  with  her  celestial  zone 

Loves  and  Laughters  made  secure 

From  banks  of  Cher  to  banks  of  Eure. 

Cher,  whose  stream,  obscure  and  troubled, 

Flowed  before  with  many  a  halt, 

By  this  palace  is  ennobled,        , 

Since  it  bathes  its  noble  vault. 

Even  the  boatman,  hurrying  fast, 

Pauses,  mute  with  admiration 

To  behold  a  pile  so  vast 

Rising  like  an  exhalation 

From  the  stream  ;  and  with  his  mast 

Lowered  salutes  it,  gliding  past. 


TO   THE  FOREST   OF   GASTINE 
BY   PIERRE  DE   RONSARD 

STRETCHED  in  thy  shadows  I  rehearse, 

Gastine,  thy  solitudes, 
Even  as  the  Grecians  in  their  verse 

The  Erymanthian  woods. 

For  I,  alas  !  cannot  conceal 

From  any  future  race 
The  pleasure,  the  delight,  I  feel 

In  thy  green  dwelling-place. 


656 


APPENDIX 


Thou  who  beneath  thy  sheltering  bowers 

Dost  make  me  visions  see ; 
Thou  who  dost  cause  that  at  all  hours 

The  Muses  answer  me  ; 

Thou  who  from  each  importunate  care 

Dost  free  me  with  a  look, 
When  lost  I  roam  I  know  not  where 

Conversing  with  a  book  ! 

Forever  may  thy  thickets  hold 

The  amorous  brigade 
Of  Satyrs  and  of  Sylvans  bold, 

That  make  the  Nymphs  afraid  ; 

In  thee  the  Muses  evermore 

Their  habitation  claim, 
And  never  may  thy  woods  deplore 

The  sacrilegious  flame. 


FONTENAY 
BY  GUILLAUME  AMFRYE   DE  CHAULIEU 

O  AMIABLE  solitude, 
Sojourn  of  silence  and  of  peace  ! 
Asylum  where  forever  cease 
All  tumult  and  inquietude  ! 

I,  who  have  chanted  many  a  time 
To  tender  accents  of  my  lyre 
All  that  one  suffers  from  the  fire 
Of  love  and  beauty  in  its  prime,  — 

Shall  I,  whose  gratitude  requites 
All  blessing  I  from  thee  receive,  — 
Shall  I,  unsung,  in  silence  leave 
Thy  benefactions  and  delights  ? 

Thou  bringest  back  my  youthful  dream  ; 
Calmest  my  agitated  breast, 
And  of  my  idleness  and  rest 
Makest  a  happiness  extreme. 

Amid  these  hamlets  and  these  woods 
Again  do  I  begin  to  live, 
And  to  the  winds  all  memory  give 
Of  sorrows  and  solicitudes. 

What  smiling  pictures  and  serene 
Each  day  reveals  to  sight  and  sense, 
Of  treasures  with  which  Providence 
Embellishes  this  rural  scene  ! 

How  sweet  it  is  in  yonder  glade 
To  see,  when  noonday  burns  the  plain, 
The  flocks  around  the  shepherd  swain 
Reposing  in  the  elm-tree's  shade  ! 

To  hear  at  eve  our  flageolets 
Answered  by  all  the  hills  around, 
And  all  the  villages  resound 
With  hautbois  and  with  canzonets  ! 

Alas !  these  peaceful  days,  perforce, 
With  too  great  swiftness  onward  press  ; 
My  indolence  and  idleness 
Are  powerless  to  suspend  their  course. 

Old  age  comes  stealing  on  apace ; 
And  cruel  Death  shall  soon  or  late 
Execute  the  decree  of  fate 
That  gives  me  to  him  without  grace. 

O  Fontenay  !  forever  dear  ! 
Where  first  I  saw  the  light  of  day, 


I  soon  from  life  shall  steal  away 
To  sleep  with  my  forefathers  here. 

Ye  Muses,  that  have  nourished  me 
In  this  delightful  spot  of  earth  ; 
Beautiful  trees,  that  saw  my  birth, 
Erelong  ye  too  my  death  shall  see ! 

Meanwhile  let  me  in  patience  wait 
Beneath  thy  shadowy  woods,  nor  grieve 
That  I  so  soon  their  shade  must  leave 
For  that  dark  manor  desolate, 

Whither  not  one  shall  follow  me 
Of  all  these  trees  that  my  own  hand 
Hath  planted,  and  for  pastime  planned, 
Saving  alone  the  cypress-tree  ! 


PRAY    FOR    ME 
BY   CHARLES-HUBERT   MILLEVOYE 

IN  the  hamlet  desolate, 
Brooding  o'er  his  woes  in  vain, 
Lay  a  young  man,  doomed  by  fate, 
Wasted  by  disease  and  pain. 
;  People  of  the  chaumiere," 
Said  he,  "  't  is  the  hour  of  prayer ; 
Ringing  are  the  bells  !  all  ye 
Who  are  praying,  pray  for  me  ! 

1  When  you  see  the  waterfall 
Covered  with  dark  boughs  in  spring, 
You  will  say,  He 's  free  from  all, 
All  his  pain  and  suffering. 
Then  returning  to  this  shore 
Sing  your  simple  plaint  once  more, 
And  when  ring  the  bells,  all  ye 
Who  are  praying,  pray  for  me. 

1  Falsehood  I  could  not  endure, 
Was  the  enemy  of  hate  ; 
Of  an  honest  life  and  pure 
The  end  approaches,  and  I  wait. 
Short  my  pilgrimage  appears  ; 
In  the  springtime  of  my  years 
I  am  dying  ;  and  all  ye 
Who  are  praying,  pray  for  me. 

'  Best  of  friends  and  only  friend, 
Worthy  of  all  love  and  praise, 
Thine  my  life  was  to  the  end ; 
Ah,  't  was  but  a  life  of  days. 
People  of  the  chaumiere, 
Pity,  at  the  hour  of  prayer, 
Her  who  comes  with  bended  knee; 
Saying  also,  Pray  for  me  !  " 


VIRE 


BY  GUSTAVE   LE  VAVASSEUR 

IT  is  good  to  rhyming  go 

From  the  valleys  of  Vire  to  the  valleys  of  Bures ! 

For  a  poet  of  Normandy  the  Low 

It  is  good  to  rhyming  go  ! 

One  is  inspired  and  all  aglow 

With  the  old  singers  of  voice  so  pure. 

It  is  good  to  rhyming  go 

From  the  valleys  of  Vire  to  the  valleys  of  Bures  ! 

Do  you  know  one  Thomas  Sonnet  ? 
He  was  a  medical  man  of  Vire  ; 
And  turned  very  well  a  roundelay, 
Do  you  know  this  Thomas  Sonnet? 


APPENDIX 


657 


To  the  sick  he  used  to  say, 
"Never  drink  bad  wine,  my  dear !  " 
Do  you  know  this  Thomas  Sonnet  ? 
He  was  a  medical  man  of  Vire. 

Do  you  know  one  Master  Le  Houx  ? 
He  was  an  advocate  of  Vire ; 
The  taste  of  dry  and  sweet  he  knew ; 
Do  you  know  this  Master  Le  Houx  ? 
From  the  holly  boughs  his  name  he  drew 
Which  as  tavern-signs  one  sees  appear. 
Do  you  know  this  Master  Le  Houx  ? 
He  was  an  advocate  of  Vire. 

Do  you  know  one  Master  Olivier  ? 

He  was  an  ancient  fuller  of  Vire ; 

He  only  fulled  his  tub,  they  say ; 

Do  you  know  this  Master  Olivier  ? 

As  to  his  trade,  it  was  only  play  ; 

He  knew  how  to  sing  and  drink  and  leer ; 

Do  you  know  this  Master  Olivier  ? 

He  was  an  ancient  fuller  of  Vire. 

Olivier,  Le  Houx,  Le  Sonnet 
Are  Peace,  and  Tavern,  and  Poesy ; 
Every  good  rhymer  knows  to-day 
Olivier,  Le  Houx,  Le  Sonnet. 
Dame  Reason  throws  her  cap  away 
If  the  rhyme  well  chosen  be  ; 
Olivier,  Le  Houx,  Le  Sonnet 
Are  Peace,  and  Tavern,  and  Poesy. 

Vire  is  a  delicious  place, 

Vire  is  a  little  Norman  town. 

'T  is  not  the  home  of  a  godlike  race, 

Vire  is  a  delicious  place ; 

But  what  gives  it  its  crowning  grace 

Is  the  peace  that  there  comes  down. 

Vire  is  a  delicious  place, 

Vire  is  a  little  Norman  town. 

There  are  taverns  by  the  score 
And  solid  are  the  drinkers  there. 
More  than  in  Evreux  of  yore, 
There  are  taverns  by  the  score. 
One  sees  there  empty  brains  no  more, 
But  empty  glasses  everywhere. 
There  are  taverns  by  the  score, 
And  solid  are  the  drinkers  there. 

'T  is  the  fresh  cradle  of  the  Song, 
And  mother  of  the  Vaudeville ; 
Lawyers  as  cupbearers  throng, 
'T  is  the  fresh  cradle  of  the  Song. 
The  fullers  pierce  the  puncheons  strong, 
The  doctors  drink  abroad  their  fill ; 
'T  is  the  fresh  cradle  of  the  Song 
And  mother  of  the  Vaudeville. 

It  is  good  to  rhyming  go 

From  the  valleys  of  Vire  to  the  valleys  of  Bures  1 

For  a  poet  of  Normandy  the  Low, 

It  is  good  to  rhyming  go  ! 

One  is  inspired  and  all  aglow 

With  the  old  singers  of  voice  so  pure. 

It  is  good  to  rhyming  go 

From  the  valleys  of  Vire  to  the  valleys  of  Bures ! 


A  FLORENTINE   SONG 

IF  I  am  fair  't  is  for  myself  alone, 

I  do  not  wish  to  have  a  sweetheart  near  me, 

Nor  would  I  call  another's  heart  my  own, 

Nor  have  a  gallant  lover  to  revere  me. 

For  surely  I  will  plight  my  faith  to  none, 

Though  many  an  amorous  cit  would  jump  to  hear  me  ; 


For  I  have  heard  that  lovers  prove  deceivers. 
When  once  they  find  that  maidens  are  believers. 

Yet  should  I  find  one  that  in  truth  could  please  me, 
One  whom  I  thought  my  charms  had  power  to  move, 
Why  then,  I  do  confess,  the  whim  might  seize  me, 
To  taste  for  once  the  porringer  of  love. 
Alas !  there  is  one  pair  of  eyes  that  tease  me  ; 
And  then  that  mouth  !  —  he  seems  a  star  above, 
He  is  so  good,  so  gentle,  and  so  kind. 
And  so  unlike  the  sullen,  clownish  hind. 

What  love  may  be,  indeed  I  cannot  tell, 
Nor  if  I  e'er  have  known  his  cunning  arts ; 
But  true  it  is,  there  's  one  I  like  so  well, 
That  when  he  looks  at  me  my  bosom  starts. 
And,  if  we  meet,  my  heart  begins  to  swell ; 
And  the  green  fields  around,  when  he  departs, 
Seem  like  a  nest  from  which  the  bird  has  flown  ; 
Can  this  be  love  ?  —  say  —  ye  who  love  have  known  I 


A  NEAPOLITAN   CANZONET 

ONE  morning,  on  the  sea-shore  as  I  strayed, 
My  heart  dropped  in  the  sand  beside  the  sea ; 
I  asked  of  yonder  mariners,  who  said 
They  saw  it  in  thy  bosom,  —  worn  by  thee. 
And  I  am  come  to  seek  that  heart  of  mine, 
For  I  have  none,  and  thou,  alas,  hast  two ; 
If  this  be  so,  dost  know  what  thou  shalt  do  ?  — 
Still  keep  my  heart,  and  give  me,  give  me  thine. 


CHRISTMAS   CAROL 
One  of  the  Neapolitan  Pastorali  de1  Zampognari. 

WHEN  Christ  was  born  in  Bethlehem, 
'T  was  night,  but  seemed  the  noon  of  day ; 
The  stars,  whose  light 
Was  pure  and  bright, 
Shone  with  unwavering  ray  ; 
But  one,  one  glorious  star 
Guided  the  Eastern  Magi  from  afar. 

Then  peace  was  spread  throughout  the  land  ; 
The  lion  fed  beside  the  tender  lamb  ; 
And  with  the  kid, 
To  pasture  led, 
The  spotted  leopard  fed  ; 
In  peace,  the  calf  and  bear, 
The  wolf  and  lamb  reposed  together  there. 

As  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night, 
An  angel,  brighter  than  the  sun's  own  light, 
Appeared  in  air, 
And  gently  said, 
Fear  not,  —  be  not  afraid, 
For  lo  !  beneath  your  eyes, 
Earth  has  become  a  smiling  paradise. 


A  SOLDIER'S  SONG 
Paraphrase  of  a  Neapolitan  popular  song. 

"  WHO  knocks,  — who  knocks  at  my  door, 
Who  knocks,  and  who  can  it  be  ?  " 

"  Thy  own  true  lover,  betrothed  forever, 
So  open  the  door  to  me." 

"  My  mother  is  not  at  home, 

So  I  cannot  open  to  thee." 
"  Why  make  me  wait  so  long  at  the  gate, 

For  mercy's  sake  open  to  me." 


658 


APPENDIX 


'  Thou  canst  not  come  in  so  late, 

From  the  window  I  '11  listen  to  thee." 

'My  cloak  is  old,  and  the  wind  blows  cold, 
So  open  the  door  to  me." 


TELL   ME,   TELL   ME,    THOU    PRETTY   BEE 
BY  GIOVANNI   MELI 

TELL  me,  tell  me,  thou  pretty  bee, 
Whither  so  early  thy  flight  may  be  ? 
Not  a  neighboring  mountain  height 
Yet  blushes  with  the  morning  light ; 
Still  the  dew  on  spray  and  blossom 
Trembling  shines  in  the  meadow's  bosom ; 
Why  do  I  see  thee,  then,  unfold 
Thy  soft  and  dainty  wings  of  gold  ;  — 
Those  little  wings  are  weary  quite, 
Still  thou  boldest  thy  onward  flight,  — 
Then  tell  me,  tell  me,  thou  pretty  bee, 
Whither  so  early  thy  flight  may  be. 

Thou  seekest  honey  ?  —if  it  be  so, 
Fold  up  thy  wings,  —  no  farther  go  ; 
I  '11  show  thee  a  safe  and  sacred  spot, 
Where  all  the  year  round  't  will  fail  thee  not. 
Knowest  thou  the  maid  for  whom  I  sigh,  — 
Her  of  the  bright  and  beaming  eye  ? 
Endless  sweetness  shalt  thou  sip, 
Honied  stores  upon  her  lip. 
On  those  lips  of  brightest  red, 
Lips  of  the  beloved  maid, 
Sweetest  honey  lies  for  thee ;  — 
Sip  it,  —  sip  it ;  —  this  is  she. 


SICILIAN    CANZONET 

WHAT  shall  I  do,  sweet  Nici,  tell  me, 
I  burn,  —  I  burn,  —  I  can  no  more  ! 
I  know  not  how  the  thing  befell  me, 
But  I  'm  in  love,  and  all  is  o'er. 
One  look,  —  alas  !  one  glance  of  thine, 
One  single  glance  my  death  shall  be  ; 
Even  this  poor  heart  no  more  is  mine, 
For,  Nici,  it  belongs  to  thee. 

How  shall  I  then  my  grief  repress, 
How  shall  this  soul  in  anguish  live  ? 
I  fear  a  no,  —  desire  a  yes,  — 
But  which  the  answer  thou  wilt  give  ? 
No,  —  Love,  —  not  so  deceived  am  I ; 
Soft  pity  dwells  in  those  bright  eyes, 
And  no  tyrannic  cruelty 
Within  that  gentle  bosom  lies. 

Then,  fairest  Nici,  speak  and  say 
If  I  must  know  thy  love  or  hate  ; 
Oh,  do  not  leave  me  thus,  I  pray, 
But  speak,  —  be  quick,  —  I  cannot  wait. 
Quick,  —  I  entreat  thee  ;  —if  not  so, 
This  weary  soul  no  more  shall  sigh  ;  — 
So  tell  me  quickly,  —  yes  or  no, 
Which,  —  which  shall  be  my  destiny. 


THE    GLEANER    OF   SAPRI 
BY  LUIGI  MERCANTINI 

published  in  the  Supplement  to  The  Poets  and  Poetri/  of 
Europe.  "This  poet,"  says  Mr.  Longfellow,  "  is  a  professor 
in  the  University  of  Palermo.  The  following  simple  and 
striking  poem  from  his  pen  has  reference  to  the  ill-fated  expe 
dition  of  Carlo  Pisacane,  on  the  shores  of  the  kingdom  of  Na 
ples  in  the  summer  of  1857,  in  which,  says  Ball'  Ongaro,  '  he 
fell  with  his  followers  like  Leonidas  with  his  three  hundred.'  " 


THEY  were  three  hundred,  they  were  young  and  strong. 

And  they  are  dead  ! 

One  morning  as  I  went  to  glean  the  grain, 
I  saw  a  bark  in  middle  of  the  main  ; 
It  was  a  bark  came  steaming  to  the  shore, 
And  hoisted  for  its  flag  the  tricolor. 
At  Ponza's  isle  it  stopped  beneath  the  lea, 
It  stayed  awhile,  and  then  put  out  to  sea, 
Put  out  to  sea,  and  came  unto  our  strand  ; 
Landed  with  arms,  but  not  as  f  oemen  land. 
They  were  three  hundred,  they  were  young  and  strong, 

And  they  are  dead  ! 

Landed  with  arms,  but  not  as  f  oernen  land, 
For  they  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  very  sand. 
And  one  by  one  I  looked  them  in  the  face ; 
A  tear  and  smile  in  each  one  I  could  trace  ! 
"  Thieves  from  their  dens  are  these,"  some  people  said, 
And  yet  they  took  not  even  a  loaf  of  bread  ! 
I  heard  them  utter  but  a  single  cry : 
"  We  for  our  native  land  have  come  to  die  ! " 
They  were  three  hundred,  they  were  young  and  strong, 
And  they  are  dead ! 

With  eyes  of  azure,  and  with  hair  of  gold, 
A  young  man  marched  in  front  of  them ;  and  bold 
I  made  myself,  and  having  seized  his  hand, 
Asked  him,  "  Where  goest,  fair  captain  of  the  band  ?  " 
He  looked  at  me  and  answered,  "  Sister  mine, 
I  go  to  die  for  this  fair  land  of  thine  !  " 
I  felt  my  heart  was  trembling  through  and  through, 
Nor  could  I  say  to  him,  "  God  comfort  you  !  " 
They  were  three  hundred,  they  were  young  and  strong, 
And  they  are  dead  ! 

That  morning  I  forgot  to  glean  the  grain, 
And  set  myself  to  follow  in  their  train. 
Twice  over  they  encountered  the  gens-d'armes, 
Twice  over  they  despoiled  them  of  their  arms  ; 
But  when  we  came  before  Certosa's  wall 
We  heard  the  drums  beat  and  the  trumpets  call, 
And  'mid  the  smoke,  the  firing,  and  the  glare, 
More  than  a  thousand  fell  upon  them  there. 
They  were  three  hundred,  they  were  young  and  strong, 
And  they  are  dead  ! 

They  were  three  hundred,  and  they  would  not  fly ; 
They  seemed  three  thousand,  and  they  wished  to  die, 
But  wished  to  die  with  weapons  in  their  hands  ; 
Before  them  ran  with  blood  the  meadow  lauds. 
I  prayed  for  them,  but  ere  the  fight  was  o'er, 
Swooned  suddenly  away,  and  looked  no  more  ; 
For  in  their  midst  I  could  no  more  behold 
Those  eyes  of  azure  and  that  hair  of  gold  ! 
They  were  three  hundred,  they  were  young  and  strong, 
And  they  are  dead  1 


III.     NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page  9.  Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of 
Bethlehem. 

[This  poem  -was  suggested  by  the  following 
sentence  in  an  article  upon  Pulaski  in  the 
North  American  Review,  for  April,  1825  : 
"  The  standard  of  his  legion  was  formed  of  a 
piece  of  crimson  silk  embroidered  by  the  Mo 
ravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem  in  Pennsylvania." 
The  historic  facts  in  regard  to  the  banner  ap 
pear  to  be  that  Pnlaski  ordered  it  of  the 
Moravian  sisters  at  Bethlehem,  who  helped  to 
support  their  house  by  needlework.  This  ban 
ner  is  preserved  in  the  cabinet  of  the  Maryland 
Historical  Society  at  Baltimore ;  it  is  twenty 


APPENDIX 


659 


inches  square  and  made  to  be  carried  on  a  lance. 
It  is  of  double  silk,  now  so  much  faded  and  dis 
colored  by  time  as  to  make  it  impossible  to  de 
termine  its  original  color.  On  both  sides 
designs  are  embroidered  with  what  was  yellow 
silk,  shaded  with  green,  and  deep  silk  fringe 
bordering.  On  one  side  are  the  letters  "  U.  S.," 
and  in  a  circle  around  them  the  words,  ' '  Unitas 
Virtus  Fortior "  ;  on  the  other  side,  in  the 
centre,  is  embroidered  an  all-seeing  eye  and 
the  words  "  Non  Alius  Regit."  Pulaski  re 
ceived  a  mortal  wound  at  the  siege  of  Savannah, 
and  dying  on  one  of  the  vessels  of  the  fleet 
when  he  was  on  his  way  north,  was  buried  at  sea. 
It  is  said  that  Lafayette  lay  sick  at  Bethlehem, 
and  that  it  was  on  a  visit  to  his  brother  officer 
that  Pulaski  ordered  the  flag.  Its  size,  in 
any  event,  would  have  precluded  its  use  as  a 
shroud.] 

Page  11.  The  Skeleton  in  Armor. 

[The  historic  groundwork  upon  which  Mr. 
Longfellow  built  his  legend  is  in  two  parts,  the 
Newport  tower  and  the  Fall  River  skeleton. 
The  passage  from  Rafn,  to  which  Mr.  Long 
fellow  ref ers  as  affording  a  poet  sufficient  basis 
upon  which  to  build,  is  as  follows  :  — 

"  There  is  no  mistaking  in  this  instance  the 
style  in  which  the  more  ancient  stone  edifices 
of  the  North  were  constructed,  —  the  style 
which  belongs  to  the  Roman  or  Ante-Gothic 
architecture,  and  which,  especially  after  the 
time  of  Charlemagne,  diffused  itself  from  Italy 
over  the  whole  of  the  West  and  North  of 
Europe,  where  it  continued  to  predominate 
until  the  close  of  the  twelfth  century,  —  that 
style  which  some  authors  have,  from  one  of  its 
most  striking  characteristics,  called  the  round 
arch  style,  the  same  which  in  England  is  de 
nominated  Saxon  and  sometimes  Norman  archi 
tecture. 

"  On  the  ancient  structure  in  Newport  there 
are  no  ornaments  remaining  which  might  pos 
sibly  have  served  to  guide  us  in  assigning  the 
probable  date  of  its  erection.  That  no  vestige 
whatever  is  found  of  the  pointed  arch,  nor  any 
approximation  to  it,  is  indicative  of  an  earlier 
rather  than  of  a  later  period.  From  such  char 
acteristics  as  remain,  however,  we  can  scarcely 
form  any  other  inference  than  one,  in  which  I 
am  persuaded  that  all  who  are  familiar  with 
Old-Northern  architecture  will  concur,  THAT 

THIS  BUILDING  WAS  ERECTED  AT  A  PERIOD 
DECIDEDLY  NOT  LATER  THAN  THE  TWELFTH 

CENTURY.  This  remark  applies,  of  course,  to 
the  original  building  only,  and  not  to  the  alter 
ations  that  it  subsequently  received  ;  for  there 
are  several  such  alterations  in  the  upper  part  of 
the  building  which  cannot  be  mistaken,  and 
which  were  most  likely  occasioned  by  its  being 
adapted  in  modem  times  to  various  uses  ;  for 
example,  as  the  substructure  of  a  windmill, 
and  latterly  as  a  hay  magazine.  To  the  same 
times  may  be  referred  the  windows,  the  fire 
place,  and  the  apertures  made  above  the  col 
umns.  That  this  building  could  not  have  been 
erected  for  a  windmill,  is  what  an  architect  will 
easily  discern." 


Dr.  Palfrey,  in  his  History  of  New  England, 
so  cogently  presented  the  reasons  for  believing 
this  tower  to  have  been  constructed  by  Governor 
Arnold,  that  most  students  have  since  been 
disposed  to  accept  this  explanation  ;  but  there 
have  not  been  wanting  those  who  maintained 
other  views,  as  witness  an  article  by  R.  G. 
Hatfield  in  Scribner's  Monthly  for  March,  1879, 
in  which  the  author  maintains  that  the  old  mill 
at  Newport  ought  to  be  called  the  Vinland  Bap 
tistery  ;  and  also  an  article  by  Mr.  S.  Edward 
Forbes  who  maintains  that  the  structure  had  no 
thing  in  common  with  the  Chesterton  mill  in 
Warwickshire,  with  which  it  is  commonly  com 
pared. 

With  regard  to  the  Fall  River  skeleton, 
which  with  its  appurtenances  was  unfortunately 
burned  before  it  could  be  satisfactorily  exam 
ined  by  experts,  the  following  description  taken 
from  The  American  Monthly  Magazine  for  Jan 
uary,  1836,  will  give  the  reader  as  full  an  ac 
count  as  is  now  possible  : 

"  In  digging  down  a  hill  near  the  village,  a 
large  mass  of  earth  slid  off,  leaving  in  the  bank 
and  partially  uncovered  a  human  skull,  which 
on  examination  was  found  to  belong  to  a  body 
buried  in  a  sitting  posture  ;  the  head  being 
about  one  foot  below  what  had  been  for  many 
years  the  surface  of  the  ground.  The  surround 
ing  earth  was  carefully  removed,  and  the  body 
found  to  be  enveloped  in  a  covering  of  coarse 
bark  of  a  dark  color.  Within  this  envelope 
were  found  the  remains  of  another  of  coarse 
cloth,  made  of  fine  bark,  and  about  the  texture 
of  a  Manilla  coffee  bag.  On  the  breast  was  a 
plate  of  brass,  thirteen  inches  long,  six  broad  at 
the  upper  end,  and  five  in  the  lower.  This  plate 
appears  to  have  been  cast,  and  is  from  one 
eighth  to  three  thirty-seconds  of  an  inch  in 
thickness.  It  is  so  much  corroded  that  whether 
or  not  anything  was  engraved  upon  it  has  not 
yet  been  ascertained.  It  is  oval  in  form,  the 
edges  being  irregular,  apparently  made  so  by 
corrosion.  Below  the  breastplate,  and  entirely 
encircling  the  body,  was  a  belt  composed  of 
brass  tubes,  each  four  and  a  half  inches 
in  length,  and  three  sixteenths  of  an  inch 
in  diameter,  arranged  longitudinally  and  close 
together,  the  length  of  the  tube  being  the 
width  of  the  belt.  The  tubes  are  of  thin  brass, 
cast  upon  hollow  reeds,  and  were  fastened  to 
gether  by  pieces  of  sinew.  Near  the  right  knee 
was  a  quiver  of  arrows.  The  arrows  are  of 
brass,  thin,  flat,  and  triangular  in  shape,  with  a 
round  hole  cut  through  near  the  base^.  The 
shaft  was  fastened  to  the  head  by  inserting  the 
latter  in  an  opening  at  the  end  of  the  wood  and 
then  tying  with  a  sinew  through  the  round  hole, 
a  mode  of  constructing  the  weapon  never  prac 
tised  by  the  Indians,  not  even  with  their  arrows 
of  thin  shell.  Parts  of  the  shaft  still  remain  on 
some  of  them.  When  first  discovered,  the  ar 
rows  were  in  a  sort  of  quiver  of  bark,  which  fell 
to  pieces  when  exposed  to  the  air." 

The  more  generally  received  opinion  amongst 
archaeologists  makes  the  skeleton  to  be  that  of 
an  Indian.] 


60o 


APPENDIX 


Page  13.    Skoal ! 

In  Scandinavia,  this  is  the  customary  saluta 
tion  when  drinking  a  health.     I  have  slightly 
changed  the  orthography  of  the  word,  in  order 
to  preserve  the  correct  pronunciation  \skaal} . 
Page  24.    As  Lope  says. 

La  colera 

De  un  Espanol  sentado  no  se  templa, 
Sino  le  representan  en  dos  horas 
Hasta  el  final  juicio  desde  el  Genesis. 

LOPE  DE  VEGA. 

Page  25.    Abrenuncio  Satanas  ! 

"  Digo,  Sefiora,  respondid  Sancho,  lo  que  ten- 
go  dicho,  que  de  los  azotes  abernuncio.  Abre 
nuncio,  habeis  de  decir,  Sancho,  y  no  como  de- 
cis,  dijo  el  Duque."  — Don  Quixote,  Part  II., 
ch.  35. 

Page  29.     Fray  Carrillo. 

The  allusion  here  is  to  a  Spanish  Epigram. 

Siempre  Fray  Carrillo  estas 
Causandonos  aca  fuera ; 
Quien  en  tu  celda  estuviera 
Para  no  verte  jamas ! 

BOHL  DE  FABER,  Floresta,  No.  611. 

Page  29.    Padr?  Francisco. 

This  is  from  an  Italian  popular  song. 

"  Padre  Francesco, 

Padre  Francesco !  " 
—  Cosa  volete  del  Padre  Francesco  ?  — 
"  V'e  una  bella  ragazzina 

Che  si  vuole  confessar  I  " 
Fatte  P  entrare,  f  atte  1'  entrare  ! 
Che  la  voglio  confessare. 

KOPISCH,  Volksthumliche Poesien  aus alien  Mundarten 
Italiens  und  seiner  Inseln,  p.  194. 

Page  30.    Ave  /  cujus  calcem  dare. 

From  a  monkish  hymn  of  the  twelfth  century, 
in  Sir  Alexander  Croke's  Essay  on  the  Origin, 
Progress,  and  Decline  of  Rhyming  Latin  Verse, 
p.  109. 

Page  33.     The  Gold  of  the  Busne. 

Busn^  is  the  name  given  by  the  Gypsies  to  all 
who  are  not  of  their  race. 

Page  33.     Count  of  the  Gales. 

The  Gypsies  call  themselves  Gale's.  See  Bor 
row 's  valuable  and  extremely  interesting  work, 
The  Zincali ;  or  an  Account  of  the  Gypsies  in 
Spain.  London,  1841. 

Page  35.    Asks  if  his  money-bags  would  rise. 

"  <J  Y  volvie"ndome  a  un  lado,  vi  a  un  Avari- 
ento,  que  estaba  preguntando  a  otro,  (que  por 
haber  sido  embalsamado,  y  estar  le"xos  sus  tripas 
no  hablaba,  porque  no  habian  llegado  si  habian 
de  resucitar  aquel  dia  todos  los  enterrados)  si 
resucitarian  unos  bolsones  suyos  ?  "  — El  Sueno 
de  las  Calaveras. 

Page  35.  And  amen  !  said  my  Cid  the  Cam- 
peador. 

A  line  from  the  ancient  Poema  del  Cid. 

Amen,  dixo  Mio  Cid  el  Campeador. 

Line  3044. 

Page  35.     The  river  of  his  thoughts. 
This  expression  is  from  Dante  :  — 

Si  che  chiaro 
Per  essa  scenda  della  mente  il  fiume. 


Byron  has  likewise  used  the  expression. 

[She  was  his  life, 

The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
Which  terminated  all. 

The  Dream.'] 

Page  35.     Mari  Franca. 
A  common  Spanish  proverb,   used  to    turn 
aside  a  question  one  does  not  wish  to  answer : — 

Porque  caso  Mari  Franca 
Quatro  leguas  de  Salamanca. 

Page  36.     Ay,  soft,  emerald  eyes. 

The  Spaniards,  with  good  reason,  consider 
this  color  of  the  eye  as  beautiful,  and  celebrate 
it  in  song  ;  as,  for  example,  in  the  well-known 
Villancico :  — 

Ay  ojuelos  verdes, 
Ay  los  mis  ojuelos, 
Ay  hagan  los  cielos 
Que  de  mi  te  acuerdes  ! 


Tengo  confianza 
De  mis  verdes  ojos. 

BOHL  DE  FABER,  Floresta,  No.  255. 

Dante  speaks  of  Beatrice's  eyes  as  emeralds. 
Purgatorio,  xxxi.  116.  Lami  says,  in  his  Anno- 
tazioni,  "  Erano  i  suoi  occhi  d'  un  turchino  ver- 
diccio,  simile  a  quel  del  mare." 

Page  36.     The  Avenging  Child. 

See  the  ancient  Ballads  of  El  Infante  Venga- 
dor,  and  Calaynos. 

Page  36.    All  are  sleeping. 

From  the  Spanish.  Bohl  de  Faber.  Floresta, 
No.  282. 

Page  42.     Good  night. 

From  the  Spanish  ;  as  are  likewise  the  songs 
immediately  following,  and  that  which  com 
mences  the  first  scene  of  Act  III.  (by  Lopez 
Maldonado). 

Page  48.     The  evil  eye. 

"  In  the  Gitano  language,  casting  the  evil  eye 
is  called  Querelar  nasula,  which  simply  means 
making  sick,  and  which,  according  to  the  com 
mon  superstition,  is  accomplished  by  casting 
an  evil  look  at  people,  especially  children,  who, 
from  the  tenderness  of  their  constitution,  are 
supposed  to  be  more  easily  blighted  than  those 
of  a  more  mature  age.  After  receiving  the 
evil  glance,  they  fall  sick,  and  die  in  a  few 
hours. 

"  The  Spaniards  have  very  little  to  say  re 
specting  the  evil  eye,  though  the  belief  in  it  is 
very  prevalent,  especially  in  Andalusia,  amongst 
the  lower  orders.  A  stag's  horn  is  considered 
a  good  safeguard,  and  on  that  account  a  small 
horn,  tipped  with  silver,  is  frequently  attached 
to  the  children's  necks  by  means  of  a  cord 
braided  from  the  hair  of  a  black  mare's  tail. 
Should  the  evil  glance  be  cast,  it  is  imagined 
that  the  horn  receives  it,  and  instantly  snaps 
asunder.  Such  horns  may  be  purchased  in  some 
of  the  silversmiths'  shops  at  Seville."  —  Bor- 
row's  Zincali,  vol.  i.,  ch.  9. 

Page  48.     On  the  top  of  a  mountain  I  stand. 

This  and  the  following  scraps  of  song  are 
from  Borrow 's  Zincali. 


APPENDIX 


661 


The  Gypsy  words  in  the  same  scene  may  be 
thus  interpreted  :  — 

John-Dorados,  pieces  of  gold. 

Pigeon,  a  simpleton. 

In  your  morocco,  stripped. 

Doves,  sheets. 

Moon,  a  shirt. 

Chirelin,  a  thief. 

Murciaalleros,  those  who  steal  at  nightfall. 

Eastitleros,  footpads. 

Hermit,  a  highway-robber. 

Planets,  candles. 

Commandments,  the  fingers. 

St.  Martin  asleep,  to  rob  a  person  asleep. 

Lanterns,  eyes. 

Goblin,  police  officer. 

Papagayo,  a  spy. 

Vineyards  ana  Dancing  John,  to  take  flight. 

Page  52.     If  thpu  art  sleeping,  maiden. 

From  the  Spanish  ;  as  is  likewise  the  song  of 
the  Contrabandista  on  the  same  page. 

Page  55.    All  the  Foresters  of  Flanders. 

The  title  of  Foresters  was  given  to  the  early 
governors  of  Flanders,  appointed  by  the  kings 
of  France.  Lyderick  du  Bucq,  in  the  days  of 
Clotaire  the  Second,  was  the  first  of  them ; 
and  Beaudoin  Bras-de-Fer,  who  stole  away  the 
fair  Judith,  daughter  of  Charles  the  Bald,  from 
the  French  court,  and  married  her  in  Bruges, 
was  the  last.  After  him  the  title  of  Forester 
was  changed  to  that  of  Count.  Philippe  d' Al 
sace,  Guy  de  Dampierre,  and  Louis  de  Cre*cy, 
coming  later,  in  the  order  of  time,  were  there 
fore  rather  Counts  than  Foresters.  Philippe 
went  twice  to  the  Holy  Land  as  a  Crusader, 
and  died  of  the  plague  at  St.  Jean-d'Acre, 
shortly  after  the  capture  of  the  city  by  the 
Christians.  Guy  de  Dampierre  died  in  the 
prison  of  Compie'gne.  Louis  de  Cre*cy  was  son 
and  successor  of  Robert  de  Be'thune,  who  stran 
gled  his  wife,  Yolande  de  Bourgogne,  with  the 
bridle  of  his  horse,  for  having  poisoned,  at  the 
age  of  eleven  years,  Charles,  his  son  by  his 
first  wife,  Blanche  d'Anjou. 

Page  55.     Stately  dames,  like  queens  attended. 

When  Philippe-le-Bel,  king  of  France,  visited 
Flanders  with  his  queen,  she  was  so  astonished 
at  the  magnificence  of  the  dames  of  Bruges, 
that  she  exclaimed:  "Je  croyais  gtre  seule 
reine  ici,  mais  il  parait  que  ceux  de  Flandre 
qui  se  trouvent  dans  nos  prisons  sont  tous  des 
princes,  car  leurs  f  emmes  sont  habille'es  comme 
des  princesses  et  des  reines." 

When  the  burgomasters  of  Ghent,  Bruges,  and 
Ypres  went  to  Paris  to  pay  homage  to  King  John, 
in  1351,  they  were  received  with  great  pomp 
and  distinction  ;  but,  being  invited  to  a  festival, 
they  observed  that  their  seats  at  table  were  not 
furnished  with  cushions  ;  whereupon,  to  make 
known  their  displeasure  at  this  want  of  regard 
to  their  dignity,  they  folded  their  richly  embroid 
ered  cloaks  and  seated  themselves  upon  them. 
On  rising  from  table,  they  left  their  cloaks 
behind  them,  and,  being  informed  of  their  ap 
parent  f  orgetf  ulness,  Simon  van  Eertrycke,  bur 
gomaster  of  Bruges,  replied,  "We  Flemings 


are  not  in  the  habit  of  carrying  away  our  cush 
ions  after  dinner." 

Page  55.    Knights  who  bore  the  Fleece  of  Gold. 

Philippe  de  Bourgogne,  surnamed  Le  Bon, 
espoused  Isabella  of  Portugal  on  the  10th  of 
January,  1430  ;  and  on  the  same  day  instituted 
the  famous  order  of  the  Fleece  of  Gold. 

Page  55.     I  beheld  the  gentle  Mary. 

Marie  de  Valois,  Duchess  of  Burgundy,  was 
left  by  the  death  of  her  father,  Charles  le  Te"- 
me*raire,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  the  richest  heir 
ess  of  Europe.  She  came  to  Bruges,  as  Coun 
tess  of  Flanders,  in  1477,  and  in  the  same  year 
was  married  by  proxy  to  the  Archduke  Maxi 
milian.  According  to  the  custom  of  the  time, 
the  Duke  of  Bavaria,  Maximilian's  substitute, 
slept  with  the  princess.  They  were  both  in 
complete  dress,  separated  by  a  naked  sword, 
and  attended  by  four  armed  guards.  Marie  was 
adored  by  her  subjects  for  her  gentleness  and 
her  many  other  virtues. 

Maximilian  was  son  of  the  Emperor  Freder 
ick  the  Third,  and  is  the  same  person  mentioned 
afterwards  in  the  poem  of  Nuremberg  as  the 
Kaiser  Maximilian,  and  the  hero  of  Pfinzing's 
poem  of  Teuerdank.  Having  been  imprisoned 
by  the  revolted  burghers  of  Bruges,  they  re 
fused  to  release  him  till  he  consented  to  kneel 
in  the  public  square,  and  to  swear  on  the  Holy 
Evangelists  and  the  body  of  Saint  Donatus  that 
he  would  not  take  vengeance  upon  them  for 
their  rebellion. 

Page  55.  The  bloody  battle  of  the  Spurs  of 
Gold. 

This  battle,  the  most  memorable  in  Flemish 
history,  was  fought  under  the  walls  of  Court- 
ray,  on  the  llth  of  July,  1302,  between  the 
French  and  the  Flemings,  the  former  com 
manded  by  Robert,  Comte  d'Artois,  and  the 
latter  by  Guillaume  de  Juliers,  and  Jean,  Comte 
de  Namur.  The  French  army  was  completely 
routed,  with  a  loss  of  twenty  thousand  infantry 
and  seven  thousand  cavalry  ;  among  whom  were 
sixty-three  princes,  dukes,  and  counts,  seven 
hundred  lords-banneret,  and  eleven  hundred 
noblemen.  The  flower  of  the  French  nobility 
perished  on  that  day  ;  to  which  history  has  given 
the  name  of  the  Journ&e  des  Eperons  rf'Or,  from 
the  great  number  of  golden  spurs  found  on  the 
field  of  battle.  Seven  hundred  of  them  were 
hung  up  as  a  trophy  in  the  church  of  Notre 
Dame  de  Courtray ;  and,  as  the  cavaliers  of 
that  day  wore  but  a  single  spur  each,  these 
vouched  to  God  for  the  violent  and  bloody  death 
of  seven  hundred  of  his  creatures. 

Page  55.     Saw  the  fight  at  Minnewater. 

When  the  inhabitants  of  Bruges  were  digging 
a  canal  at  Minnewater,  to  bring  the  waters  of 
the  Lys  from  Deynze  to  their  city,  they  were 
attacked  and  routed  by  the  citizens  of  Ghent, 
whose  commerce  would  have  been  much  injured 
by  the  canal.  They  were  led  by  Jean  Lyons, 
captain  of  a  military  company  at  Ghent,  called 
the  Chaperons  Blancs.  He  had  great  sway 
over  the  turbulent  populace,  who,  in  those  pros 
perous  times  of  the  city,  gained  an  easy  liveli 
hood  by  laboring  two  or  three  days  in  the  week, 


662 


APPENDIX 


and  had  the  remaining  four  or  five  to  devote  to 
public  affairs.  The  fight  at  Minnewater  was 
followed  by  open  rebellion  against  Louis  de 
Maele,  the  Count  of  Flanders  and  Protector  of 
Bruges.  His  superb  chateau  of  Wondelghem 
was  pillaged  and  burnt ;  and  the  insurgents 
forced  the  gates  of  Bruges,  and  entered  in  tri 
umph,  with  Lyons  mounted  at  their  head.  A 
few  days  afterwards  he  died  suddenly,  perhaps 
by  poison. 

Meanwhile  the  insurgents  received  a  check 
at  the  village  of  Nevele  ;  and  two  hundred  of 
them  perished  in  the  church,  which  was  burned 
by  the  Count's  orders.  One  of  the  chiefs,  Jean 
de  Lannoy,  took  refuge  in  the  belfry.  From 
the  summit  of  the  tower  he  held  forth  his  purse 
filled  with  gold,  and  begged  for  deliverance.  It 
was  in  vain.  His  enemies  cried  to  him  from 
below  to  save  himself  as  best  he  might ;  and, 
half  suffocated  with  smoke  and  flame,  he  threw 
himself  from  the  tower  and  perished  at  their 
feet.  Peace  was  soon  afterwards  established, 
and  the  Count  retired  to  faithful  Bruges. 

Page  55.     The  Golden  Dragon's  nest. 

The  Golden  Dragon,  taken  from  the  church 
of  St.  Sophia,  at  Constantinople,  in  one  of  the 
Crusades,  and  placed  on  the  belfry  of  Bruges, 
was  afterwards  transported  to  Ghent  by  Philip 
van  Artevelde,  and  still  adorns  the  belfry  of 
that  city. 

The  inscription  on  the  alarm-bell  at  Ghent  is, 
"  Mynen  naem  is  Roland ;  als  ik  klep  is  cr  brand, 
and  als  ik  luy  is  er  victorie  in  het  land."  My 
name  is  Roland  ;  when  I  toll  there  is  fire,  and 
when  I  ring  there  is  victory  in  the  land. 

Page  57.  That  their  great  imperial  city 
stretched  its  hand  through  every  clime. 

An  old  popular  proverb  of  the  town  runs 
thus :  — 

Nurnberg's  Hand 
Geht  durch  alle  Land. 

Nuremberg's  Hand 
Goes  through  every  land. 

Page  57.  Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser 
Maximilian's  praise. 

Melchior  Pfinzing  was  one  of  the  most  cele 
brated  German  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
The  hero  of  his  Teuerdank  was  the  reigning 
Emperor,  Maximilian  ;  and  the  poem  was  to  the 
Germans  of  that  day  what  the  Orlando  Furioso 
was  to  the  Italians.  Maximilian  is  mentioned 
before,  in  the  Belfry  of  Bruges.  See  preceding 


57.  ^  In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald 
sleeps  enshrined  his  holy  dust. 

The  tomb  of  Saint  Sebald,  in  the  church 
which  bears  his  name,  is  one  of  the  richest 
works  of  art  in  Nuremberg.  It  is  of  bronze, 
and  was  cast  by  Peter  Vischer  and  his  sons,  who 
labored  upon  it  thirteen  years.  It  is  adorned 
with  nearly  one  hundred  figures,  among  which 
those  of  the  Twelve  Apostles  are  conspicuous 
for  size  and  beauty. 

Page  57._  In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence 
Stands  a  pix  of  sculpture  rare. 

This  pix,  or  tabernacle  for  the  vessels  of  the 


sacrament,  is  by  the  hand  of  Adam  Kraft.    It 
is  an  exquisite  piece  of  sculpture  in  white  stone, 
and  rises  to  the  height  of  sixty-four  feet.    It 
stands  in  the  choir,  whose  richly  painted  win 
dows  cover  it  with  varied  colors. 
Page  58.     Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters. 
The  Twelve  Wise  Masters  was  the  title  of  the 
original  corporation  of  the  Mastersingers.  Hans 
Sachs,  the  cobbler  of  Nuremberg,  though  not 
one  of  the  original  Twelve,  was  the  most  re 
nowned  of  the  Mastersingers,  as  well  as  the 
most  voluminous.     He  flourished  in  the  six 
teenth  century  ;  and  left  behind  him  thirty-four 
folio  volumes  of  manuscript,   containing    two 
i  hundred  and  eight  plays,  one  thousand  and  seven 
hundred  comic  tales,  and  between  four  and  five 
thousand  lyric  P9ems. 
Page  58.    As  in  Adam  Puschman's  song. 
Adam  Puschman,  in  his  poem  on  the  death  of 
Hans  Sachs,  describes  him  as  he  appeared  in  a 
vision :  — 

An  old  man, 

Gray  and  white,  and  dove-like, 
Who  had,  in  sooth,  a  great  beard, 
And  read  in  a  fair,  great  book, 
Beautiful  with  golden  clasps. 

Page  58.  As  the  old  man,  gray  and  dove-like. 
[In  a  letter  to  Freiligrath,  written  in  the  spring 
of  1844,  Mr.  Longfellow  says:  "Here  I  send 
you  a  poem  on  Nuremberg.  ...  I  trust  I  have 
not  mistranslated  wie  ein  Taub  Jermas.  It  cer 
tainly  stands  for  eine  Taube  or  ein  Tauber,  and 
is  dove  and  not  deaf,  though  old  Hans  Sachs 
was  deaf.  But  that  Pusehma-n  describes  after 
wards  when  he  says :  — 

Dann  seiu  Red  und 

Gehor  beguimt 

lime  abzugchn,  etc. 

Therefore  dove-like  it  is  and  shall  be.  for  F. 
says  '  I  would  have  it  so  at  any  rate !  and  at 
any  rate  I  will."] 

Page  64.  Who,  unharmed,  on  his  tusks  once 
caught  the  bolts  of  the  thunder. 

"  A  delegation  of  warriors  from  the  Delaware 
tribe  having  visited  the  governor  of  Virginia, 
during  the  Revolution,  on  matters  of  business, 
after  these  had  been  discussed  and  settled  in 
council,  the  governor  asked  them  some  ques 
tions  relative  to  their  country,  and,  among  oth 
ers,  what  they  knew  or  had  heard  of  the  animal 
whose  bones  were  found  at  the  Saltlicks  on  the 
Ohio.  Their  chief  speaker  immediately  put 
himself  into  an  attitude  of  oratory,  and,  with  a 
pomp  suited  to  what  he  conceived  the  elevation 
of  his  subject,  informed  him  that  it  was  a  tra 
dition  handed  down  from  their  fathers, '  that  in 
ancient  times  a  herd  of  these  tremendous  ani 
mals  came  to  the  Big-bone  licks,  and  began  an 
universal  destruction  of  the  bear,  deer,  elks, 
buffaloes,  and  other  animals  which  had  been 
created  for  the  use  of  the  Indians:  that  the 
Great  Man  above,  looking  down  and  seeing  this, 
was  so  enraged  that  he  seized  his  lightning,  de 
scended  on  the  earth,  seated  himself  on  a  neigh 
boring  mountain,  on  a  rock  of  which  his  seat 
and  the  print  of  his  feet  are  still  to  be  seen,  and 
hurled  his  bolts  among  them  till  the  whole  were 


APPENDIX 


663 


slaughtered,  except  the  big  bull,  who,  present 
ing  his  forehead  to  the  shafts,  shook  them  off 
as  they  fell ;  but  missing  one  at  length,  it 
wounded  him  in  the  side ;  whereon,  springing 
round,  he  bounded  over  the  Ohio,  over  the  Wa- 
bash,  the  Illinois,  and  finally  over  the  great 
lakes,  where  he  is  living  at  this  day.'  "  — Jef 
ferson's  Notes  on  Virginia,  Query  VI. 

Page  66.     Once  some  ancient  Scald. 

[In  commenting  on  this  poem  in  his  diary, 
Mr.  Longfellow  writes :  "What  is  said  of  the 
Scald  refers,  of  course,  only  to  some  of  the  mel 
odies,  which  may  possibly  be  as  old  as  the  days  of 
Hakon  Jarl,  or  older.  Hamlet  and  Yorick  are 
only  symbolical  of  any  old  king  and  his  jester."] 

Page  66.     Vogelweid  the  Minnesinger. 

Walter  von  der  Vogelweid,  or  Bird-Meadow, 
was  one  of  the  principal  Minnesingers  of  the 
thirteenth  century.  lie  triumphed  over  Hein- 
rich  von  Ofterdingen  in  that  poetic  contest  at 
Wartburg  Castle,  known  in  literary  history  as 
the  War  of  Wartburg. 

Page  69.    Like  imperial  Charlemagne. 

Charlemagne  may  be  called  by  preeminence 
the  monarch  of  farmers.  According  to  the  Ger 
man  tradition,  in  seasons  of  great  abundance, 
his  spirit  crosses  the  Rhine  on  a  golden  bridge 
at  Bingen,  and  blesses  the  cornfields  and  the 
vineyards.  During  his  lifetime,  he  did  not  dis 
dain,  says  Montesquieu,  "  to  sell  the  eggs  from 
the  farmyards  of  his  domains,  and  the  superflu 
ous  vegetables  of  his  gardens  ;  while  he  distrib 
uted  among  his  people  the  wealth  of  the  Lom 
bards  and  the  immense  treasures  of  the  Huns." 

Page  72.  List  to  a  Tale  of  Love  in  Acadie, 
home  of  the  happy. 

[In  the  earliest  records  Acadie  is  called  Cadie  ; 
afterwards  it  was  called  Arcadia,  Accaclia,  or 
L' Acadie.  The  name  is  probably  a  French 
adaptation  of  a  word  common  among  the  Mic- 
mac  Indians,  signifying  place  or  region,  and  used 
as  an  affix  to  other  words  to  indicate  the  place 
where  various  things,  such  as  cranberries,  eels, 
seals,  were  found  in  abundance.  The  French 
turned  this  Indian  term  into  Cadie  or  Acadie  ; 
the  English  into  Quoddy,  in  which  form  it  re 
mains  when  applied  to  the  Quoddy  Indians,  to 
Quoddy  Head,  the  last  point  of  the  United 
States  next  to  Acadia,  and  in  the  compound 
Passamaquoddy,  or  Pollock-Ground.] 

Page  74.  Lucky  was  he  who  found  that  stone 
in  the  nest  of  the  sivallovo. 

["If  the  eyes  of  one  of  the  young  of  a  swallow 
be  put  out,  the  mother  bird  will  bring  from  the 
sea-shore  a  little  stone,  which  will  immediately 
restore  its  sight ;  fortunate  is  the  person  who 
finds  this  little  stone  in  the  nest,  for  it  is  a  mi 
raculous  remedy."  Pluquet,  Contes  Populaires, 
quoted  by  Wright,  Literature  and  Superstitions 
of  England  in  the  Middle  Ages,  I.  128.] 

Page  74.  "Sunshine  of  Saint  Eulalie"  was 
she  called. 

Si  le  soleil  rit  le  jour  Sainte-Eulalie 
II  y  aura  pouames  et  cidre  a  folie." 

PLUQCET  in  WRIGHT,  I.  131. 

Page  75.  Flashed  like  a  plane-tree  the  Persian 
adorned  with  mantles  and  jewels. 


See  Evelyn's  Silva,  II.  53.  [The  story  runs 
back  to  Herodotus,  VII.  31,  the  "Persian" 
being  Xerxes.] 

Page  77.     For  he  told  them  tales. 

[The  stories  of  the  Loup-garou,  or  were-wolf, 
and  the  Letiche,  and  the  miraculous  properties 
of  spiders,  clover,  and  horseshoes,  may  be  found 
in  Pluquet,  Contes  Populaires,  who  conjectures 
that  the  white  fleet  ermine  fox  gave  rise  to  the 
story  of  the  Letiche.] 

Page  77.     Well  I  remember  a  story. 

[This  is  an  old  Florentine  story  ;  in  an  altered 
form  it  is  the  theme  of  Rossini's  opera  of  La 
Gazza  Ladra.] 

Page  85.  Thou  art  too  fair  to  be  left  to  braid 
St.  Catherine's  tresses. 

There  is  a  Norman  saying  of  a  maid  who 
does  not  marry  —  Elle  restera  pour  coiffer 
Sainte  Katherine. 

Page  86.  On  the  Acadian  coast,  and  the 
prairies  of  fair  Opelousas. 

[Between  the  1st  of  January  and  the  13th  of 
May,  1765,  about  six  hundred  and  fifty  Acadi- 
ans  had  arrived  at  New  Orleans.  The  existence 
of  a  French  population  there  attracted  the 
exiles,  and  they  were  sent  by  the  authorities  to 
form  settlements  in  Attakapas  and  Opelousas. 
They  afterward  established  themselves  on  both 
sides  of  the  Mississippi  from  the  German  Coast 
to  Baton  Rouge  and  even  as  high  as  Pointe 
Couple.  Hence  the  name  of  Acadian  Coast, 
which  a  portion  of  the  banks  of  the  river  still 
bears.  See  Gayarrd's  History  of  Louisiana,  the 
French  Dominion,  vol.  II.] 

Page  102. 

Behold,  at  last, 

Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 

Is  swung  into  its  place. 

I  wish  to  anticipate  a  criticism  on  this  pas 
sage,  by  stating  that  sometimes,  though  not 
usually,  vessels  are  launched  fully  sparred  and 
rigged.  I  have  availed  myself  of  the  exception 
as  better  suited  to  my  purposes  than  the  gen 
eral  rule  ;  but  the  reader  will  see  that  it  is 
neither  a  blunder  nor  a  poetic  license.  On  this 
subject  a  friend  in  Portland,  Maine,  writes  me 
thus  :  — 

"In  this  State,  and  also,  I  am  told,  in  New- 
York,  ships  are  sometimes  rigged  upon  the 
stocks,  in  order  to  save  time,  or  to  make  a  show. 
There  was  a  fine  large  ship  launched  last  sum 
mer  at  Ellsworth,  fully  sparred  and  rigged. 
Some  years  ago  a  ship  was  launched  here,  with 
her  rigging,  spars,  sails,  and  cargo  aboard. 
She  sailed  the  next  day  and  —  was  never  heard 
of  again !  I  hope  this  will  not  be  the  fate  of 
your  poem ! " 

Page  105.     Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed. 

"  When  the  wind  abated  and  the  vessels  were 
near  enough,  the  Admiral  was  seen  constantly 
sitting  in  the  stern,  with  a  book  in  his  hand. 
On  the  9th  of  September  he  was  seen  for  the 
last  time,  and  was  heard  by  the  people  of  the 
Hind  to  say,  '  We  are  as  near  heaven  by  sea  as 
by  land.'  In  the  following  night,  the  lights  of 
the  ship  suddenly  disappeared.  The  people  in 


664 


APPENDIX 


the  other  vessel  kept  a  good  lookout  for  him 
during  the  remainder  of  the  voyage.  On  the 
22d  of  September  they  arrived,  through  much 
tempest  and  peril,  at  Falmouth.  But  nothing 
more  was  seen  or  heard  of  the  Admiral."  — 
Belknap's  American  Biography,  i.  203. 
Page  107. 

These  severe  afflictions 
Not  from  the  ground  arise. 

"  Although  affliction  cometh  not  forth  of  the 
dust,  neither  doth  trouble  spring  out  of  the 
ground."  —  Job  y.  6. 

Page  109.     Witlaf,  a  king  of  the  Saxons. 

[In  an  entry  in  Mr.  Longfellow's  diary  is  the 
source  from  which  the  legend  was  derived. 
"Here  is  the  part  of  King  Witlaf 's  charter  to 
the  Abbey  of  Croyland  relating  to  his  drink 
ing-horn,  cited  in  Maitland's  Dark  Ages.  I 
also  offer  to  the  refectory  the  horn  of  my 
table,  that  the  elders  of  the  monastery  may 
drink  out  of  it  on  the  festivals  of  the  Saints, 
and  may  sometimes  amid  their  benedictions  re 
member  the  soul  of  the  donor,  Witlaf." 

In  point  of  fact,  Witlaf  was  one  of  the 
Angle  kings  of  Mercia,  who  made  a  gallant 
stand  against  the  Saxon  invaders.  It  was  while 
falling  back  before  Egbert  that  Witlaf  took 
sanctuary  at  Croyland,  where  he  was  for  four 
months  kept  hidden  by  Siward,  third  Abbot  of 
Croyland.  At  the  end  of  three  years  Siward's 
influence  procured  the  restoration  of  Witlaf, 
who  became  tributary  to  Egbert.  In  gratitude 
to  the  monks,  Witlaf  greatly  added  to  the 
grants  and  privileges  of  the  house.] 

Page  113.  THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA.  This 
Indian  Edda  —  if  I  may  so  call  it  —  is  founded 
on  a  tradition,  prevalent  among  the  North 
American  Indians,  of  a  personage  of  miraculous 
birth,  who  was  sent  among  them  to  clear  their 
rivers,  forests,  and  fishing-grounds,  and  to 
teach  them  the  arts  of  peace.  He  was  known 
among  different  tribes  by  the  several  names  of 
Michabou,  Chiabo,  Manabozo,  Tarenya-wagon 
and  Hiawatha.  Mr.  Schoolcraft  gives  an 
account  of  him  in  his  Algic  Researches,  vol.  I. 
p.  134 ;  and  in  his  History,  Condition,  and 
Prospects  of  the  Indian  Tribes  of  the  United 
States, _  Part  III.  p.  314,  may  be  found  the 
Iroquois  form  of  the  tradition,  derived  from  the 
verbal  narrations  of  an  Onondaga  chief. 

Into  this  old  tradition  I  have  woven  other 
curious  Indian  legends,  drawn  chiefly  from  the 
various  and  valuable  writings  of  Mr.  School- 
craft,  to  whom  the  literary  world  is  greatly  in 
debted  for  his  indefatigable  zeal  in  rescuing 
from  oblivion  so  much  of  the  legendary  lore  of 
the  Indians. 

The  scene  of  the  poem  is  among  the  0  jib  ways 
on  the  southern  shore  of  Lake  Superior,  in  the 
region  between  the  Pictured  Rocks  and  the 
Grand  Sable. 

VOCABULARY 

Adjidau'mo,  the  red  squirrel. 
Ahdeek',  the  reindeer. 
Ahkose'win,  fever. 


Ahmeek',  the  beaver. 

Algon'quin,  Ojibway. 

Annemee'kee,  the  thunder. 

Apuk'wa,  a  bulrush. 

Baim-wa/wa,  the  sound  of  the  thunder. 

Bemah'gut,  the  grapevine. 

Be/na,  the  pheasant. 

Big-Sea-Water,  Lake  Superior. 

Bukada'win,  famine. 

Cheemaun',  a  birch  canoe. 

Chetowaik',  the  plover. 

Chibia/bos,  a  musician  ;  friend  of  Hiawatha  ;  ruler  in 

the  Land  of  Spirits. 
Dahin'da,  the  bull-frog. 

Dush-kwo-ne'she,  or  Kwo-ne/she,  the  dragon-fly. 
Esa,  shame  upon  you. 
Ewa-yea',  lullaby. 
Ghee'zis,  the  sun. 

Gitche  Gu'mee,  the  Big  Sea-Water,  Lake  Superior. 
Gitche  Man'ito,  the  Great  Spirit,  the  Master  of  Life. 
Gushkewau',  the  darkness. 
Hiawa/tha,  the  Wise  Man,  the  Teacher ;  son  of  Mudje- 

keewis,  the  West-Wind,  and  Wenonah,  daughter  oj 

Nokomis. 

la'goo,  a  great  boaster  and  story-teller. 
Inin'ewug,  men,  or  paivns  in  the  Game  of  the  Bowl. 
Ishkoodah'j/re  ;  a  comet. 
Jee'bi,  a  ghost,  a  spirit. 
Joss'akeed,  a  prophet. 
Kabibonok'ka,  the  North-Wind. 
Kagh,  the  hedgehog. 
Ka'go,  do  not. 
Kahgahgee',  the  raven. 
Kaw,  no. 

Kayoshk',  the  sea-gull. 
Kaween',  no  indeed. 
Kee'go,  a  fish. 

Keeway'din,  the  Northwest  Wind,  the  Home-Wind. 
Kena'beek,  a  serpent. 
Keneu',  the  great  war-eagle. 
Keno'zha,  the  pickerel. 
Ko'ko-ko'  ho,  the  owl. 
Kuntasoo7,  the  Game  of  Plum-stones. 
Kwa'sind,  the  Strong  Man. 
Kwo-ne/she,  or  Dush-kwo-ne'she,  the  dragon-fly. 
Mahnahbe'zee,  the  swan. 
Malmg,  the  loon. 

Mahn-go-tay'see,  loon-hearted  brave. 
Mahnomo'iiee,  wild  rice. 
Ma'ma,  the  woodpecker. 
Maskeno/zha,  the  pike. 
Me'da,  a  medicine-man. 
Meenah/ga,  the  blueberry. 
Megissog'won,  the  great  Pearl- Feather,  a  magician  and 

the  Manito  of  Wealth. 
Meshinau'wa,  a  pipe-bearer. 
Minjekab/wun,  Hiawatha's  mittens. 
Mmneha/ha,  Laughing  Water  ;  a  waterfall  on  a  stream 

running  into  the  Mississippi,  between  Fort  Snelling 

and  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony. 

Mmneha/lia,  Laughing  Water;  wife  of  Hiawatha,. 
Minne-wa'wa,  a  pleasant  sound,  us  of  the  wind  in  ths 

trees. 

Mishe-Mo/kwa,  the  Great  Bear. 
Mishe-Nab/ma,  the  Great  Sturgeon. 
Miskodeed/,  the  Spring  Beauty,  the  Claytonia  Virainica, 
Monda/min,  Indian  Corn. 
Moon  of  Bright  Nights,  April. 
Moon  of  Leaves,  May. 
Moon  of  Strawberries,  June. 
Moon  of  the  Falling  Leaves,  September. 
Moon  of  Snow-Shoes,  November. 
Mudjekee'wis,  the  West-Wind;  father  of  Hiawatha. 
Mudway-ausb/ka,  sound  of  waves  on  a  shore. 
Mushkoda'sa,  the  grouse. 

Na'gow  Wudj'oo,  the  Sand  Dunes  of  Lake  Superior. 
Nab/ma,  the  sturgeon. 


APPENDIX 


665 


Nah/ma-wusk,  spearmint. 

Nee-ba-naw/baigs,  water  spirits. 

Nenemoo'sha,  sweetheart. 

Nepah'win,  sleep. 

Noko'mis,  a  grandmother  ;  mother  of  Wenonah. 

No'sa,  my  father. 

Nush'ka,  look  !  look  .' 

Odah/min,  the  strawberry. 

Okahah'wis,  the  fresh-water  herring, 

Ome'mee,  the  pigeon. 

Ona'gon,  a  bowl. 

Onaway',  awake. 

Ope'chee,  the  robin. 

Osse'o,  Son  of  the  Evening  Star. 

Ovvais'sa,  the  bluebird. 

Chveenee',  wife  of  Osseo. 

Ozawa/beek,  a  round  piece  of  brass  or  copper  in  the 

Game  of  the  Bowl. 
Pah'-puk-kee/na,  the  grasshopper. 
Pau'guk,  death. 

Pau-Puk-Kee'wis,  the  handsome  Yenadizze,  the  Storm- 
Fool. 

Pauwa'ting,  Sault  Sainte  Marie. 
Pe'boan,  Winter. 

Pem'ican,  meat  of  the  deer  or  buffalo  dried  and  pounded. 
Pezheekee',  the  bison. 
Pishnekuh',  the  brant. 
Pone'inah,  hereafter. 
Pugasaing',  Game  of  the  Bowl. 
Puggawaiv'gun,  a  war-club. 

Puk-Wudj'ies,  little  ivild  men  of  the  woods  ;  pygmies. 
Sah/wa,  the  perch. 
Sebowish/a,  rapids. 
Segwun',  Spring. 
Sha'da,  the  pelican. 
Shahbo/min,  the  gooseberry. 
Shah-shah,  long  ago. 
Shaugoda'ya,  a  coward. 
Shawgash.ee/,  the  crawfish. 
Shawonda/see,  the  South-  Wind. 
Shaw-shaw,  the  swallow. 

Shesh/ebwug,  ducks  ;  pieces  in  the  Game  of  the  Bowl. 
Shin'gebis,  the  diver  or  grebe. 
Showain/  iieme'shin,  pity  me. 
Shuh-shuh'gah,  the  blue  heron. 
Soan-ge-ta'ha,  strong  hearted. 
Subbeka/she,  the  spider. 
Sugge'ina,  the  mosquito. 
To'tem,  family  coat  of  arms. 
Ugh,  yes. 

Ugudwash'',  the  sun-fish. 
Unktab.ee/,  the  God  of  Water. 
Wabas/so,  the  rabbit;  the  North. 
Wabe/no,  a  magician,  a  juggler. 
Wabe/no-wusk,  yarrow. 
Wa-bun,  the  East- Wind. 
W  a/bun  An/nung,  the  Star  of  the  East,  the  Morning 

Star. 

Wahono/win,  a  cry  of  lamentation. 
Wah-wah-tay/see,  the  fire-fly. 
Wam/purn,  beads  of  shell. 
Waubewy/on,  a  white  skin  wrapper. 
Wa/wa,  the  wild  goose. 
Waw'beek,  a  rock. 
Waw-be-wa'sra,  the  white  goose. 
Wavvonais/sa,  the  ichippoorwill. 
Way-muk-kwa/na,  the  caterpillar. 
Wen/digoes,  giants. 

Weno'nah,  Hiawatha's  mother,  daughter  of  NoTcomis. 
Yenadiz/ze,  an  idler  and  gambler  ;  an  Indian  dandy. 

Page  114.     In  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha. 

This  valley,  now  called  Norman's  Kill,  is  in 
Albany  County,  New  York. 

Page  115.     On  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie. 

Mr.  Catlin,  in  his   Letters  and  Notes  on  the 
Manners,  Customs,  and  Condition  of  the  North 


American  Indians,  vol.  II.  p.  160,  gives  an  in 
teresting  account  of  the  Coteau  des  Prairies, 
and  the  Red  Pipestone  Quarry.  He  says :  — 

"Here  (according  to  their  traditions)  hap 
pened  the  mysterious  birth  of  the  red  pipe, 
which  has  blown  its  fumes  of  peace  and  war  to 
the  remotest  corners  of  the  continent ;  which 
has  visited  every  warrior,  and  passed  through  its 
reddened  stem  the  irrevocable  oath  of  war  and 
desolation.  And  here,  also,  the  peace-breathing 
calumet  was  born,  and  fringed  with  the  eagle's 
quills,  which  has  shed  its  thrilling  fumes  over 
the  land,  and  soothed  the  fury  of  the  relentless 
savage. 

"  The  Great  Spirit  at  an  ancient  period  here 
called  the  Indian  nations  together,  and,  stand 
ing  on  the  precipice  of  the  red  pipe-stone  rock, 
broke  from  its  wall  a  piece,  and  made  a  huge 
pipe  by  turning  it  in  his  hand,  which  he  smoked 
over  them,  and  to  the  North,  the  South,  the 
East,  and  the  West,  and  told  them  that  this 
stone  was  red,  —  that  it  was  their  flesh,  —  that 
they  must  use  it  for  their  pipes  of  peace,  —  that 
it  belonged  to  them  all,  and  that  the  war-club 
and  scalping-knife  must  not  be  raised  on  its 
ground.  At  the  last  whiff  of  his  pipe  his  head 
went  into  a  great  cloud,  and  the  whole  surface 
of  the  rock  for  several  miles  was  melted  and 
glazed  ;  two  great  ovens  were  opened  beneath, 
and  two  women  (guardian  spirits  of  the  place) 
entered  them  in  a  blaze  of  fire ;  and  they  are 
heard  there  yet  (Tso-mec-cos-tee  and  Tso-me- 
cos-te-won-dee),  answering  to  the  invocations  of 
the  high-priests  or  medicine-men,  who  consult 
them  when  they  are  visitors  to  this  sacred  place." 

Page  116.  Hark  you,  Bear !  you  are  a  cow 
ard. 

This  anecdote  is  from  Heckewelder.  In  his 
account  of  the  Indian  Nations,  he  describes  an 
Indian  hunter  as  addressing-  a  bear  in  nearly 
these  words.  "  I  was  present,"  he  says,  "  at  the 
delivery  of  this  curious  invective  ;  when  the  hun 
ter  had  despatched  the  bear,  I  asked  him  how 
he  thought  ^that  poor  animal  could  understand 
what  he  said  to  it.  '  Oh,'  said  he  in  answer, 
'  the  bear  understood  me  very  well ;  did  you 
not  observe  how  ashamed  he  looked  while  I 
was  upbraiding  him  ?  '  "  —  Transactions  of  the 
American  Philosophical  Society,  vol.  I.  p.  240. 

Page  118.     Sent  the  robin,  the  Opechee. 

[In  his  first  edition,  Mr.  Longfellow  printed, 
Sent  the  Opechee,  the  robin,  but  apparently  was 
corrected  in  the  pronunciation  of  the  Indian 
word.  A  similar  change  was  made  by  him  in 
the  line,  All  the  Wendigoes,  the  giants,  which  at 
first  read,  All  the  giants,  the  Wendigoes.] 

Page  120.  Hush  !  the  Naked  Bear  will  hear 
thee ! 

Heckewelder,  in  a  letter  published  in  the 
Transactions  of  the  American  Philosophical  So 
ciety,  vol.  IV.  p.  260,  speaks  of  this  tradition  as 
prevalent  among  the  Mohicans  and  Delawares. 
"Their  reports,"  he  says,  "run  thus:  that 
among  all  animals  that  had  been  formerly  in 
this  country,  this  was  the  most  ferocious  ;  that 
it  was  much  larger  than  the  largest  of  the  com 
mon  bears,  and  remarkably  long  -  bodied  ;  all 


666 


APPENDIX 


over  (except  a  spot  of  hair  on  its  back  of  a  white 
color)  naked.  .  .  . 

"  The  history  of  this  animal  used  to  be  a  sub 
ject  of  conversation  among  the  Indians,  espe 
cially  when  in  the  woods  a-hunting.  I  have 
also  heard  them  say  to  their  children  when  cry 
ing  :  '  Hush  !  the  naked  bear  will  hear  you,  be 
upon  you,  and  devour  you.'  " 

Page  123.  Where  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha, 
etc. 

' '  The  scenery  about  Fort  Snelling  is  rich  in 
beauty.  The  Falls  of  St.  Anthony  are  familiar 
to  travellers,  and  to  readers  of  Indian  sketches. 
Between  the  fort  and  these  falls  are  the  '  Little 
Falls,'  forty  feet  in  height,  on  a  stream  that 
empties  into  the  Mississippi.  The  Indians 
called  them  Mine-hah-hah,  or  'laughing  wa 
ters.'  "—Mrs.  Eastman's  Dacotah,  or  Legends 
of  the  Sioux,  Introd.  p.  ii. 

Page  138.     Sand  Hills  of  the  Nagow  Wudjoo. 

A  description  of  the  Grand  Sable,  or  great 
sand-dunes  of  Lake  Superior,  is  given  in  Foster 
and  Whitney's  Report  on  the  Geology  of  the  Lake 
Superior  Land  District,  Part  II.  p.  131. 

' '  The  Grand  Sable  possesses  a  scenic  interest 
little  inferior  to  that  of  the  Pictured  Rocks. 
The  explorer  passes  abruptly  from  a  coast  of 
consolidated  sand  to  one  of  loose  materials  ;  and 
although  in  the  one  case  the  cliffs  are  less  pre 
cipitous,  yet  in  the  other  they  attain  a  higher 
altitude.  He  sees  before  him  a  long  reach  of 
coast,  resembling  a  vast  sand-bank,  more  than 
three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  height,  without 
a  trace  of  vegetation.  Ascending  to  the  top, 
rounded  hillocks  of  blown  sand  are  observed, 
with  occasional  clumps  of  trees,  standing  out 
like  oases  in  the  desert." 

Page  138.     Onaway  !   Awake,  beloved  ! 

The  original  of  this  song  may  be  found  in  Lit- 
telVs  Living  Age,  vol.  XXXV.  p.  45. 

Page  139.     Or  the  Bed  Swan  floating,  .flying. 

The  fanciful  tradition  of  the  Red  Swan  may 
be  found  in  Schoolcraft's  Algic  Researches,  vol. 
II.  p.  9. 

Page  143.     When  I  think  of  my  beloved. 

The  original  of  this  song  may  be  found  in 
Oneo'ta,  p.  15. 

Page  143.     Sing  the  mysteries  of  Mondamin. 

The  Indians  hold  the  maize,  or  Indian  corn, 
in  great  veneration.  "  They  esteem  it  so  im 
portant  and  divine  a  grain,"  says  Schoolcraft, 
_'that  their  story-tellers  invented  various  tales, 
in  which  this  idea  is  symbolized  under  the  form 
of  a  special  gift  from  the  Great  Spirit.  The 
Odjibwa-Algonquins,  who  call  it  Mon-da-min, 
that  is,  this  Spirit's  grain  or  berry,  have  a  pretty 
story  of  the  kind,  in  which  the  stalk  in  full  tas 
sel  is  represented  as  descending  from  the  sky, 
under  the  guise  of  a  handsome  youth,  in  answer 
to  the  prayers  of  a  young  man  at  his  fast  of  vi 
rility,  or  coming  to  manhood. 

"It  is  well  known  that  corn-planting  and 
corn-gathering,  at  least  among  all  the  still  un- 
colonized  tribes,  are  left  entirely  to  the  females 
and  children,  and  a  few  superannuated  old  men. 
It  is  not  generally  known,  perhaps,  that  this 
labor  is  not  compulsory,  and  that  it  is  assumed 


by  the  females  as  a  just  equivalent,  in  their 
view,  for  the  onerous  and  continuous  labor  of 
the  other  sex,  in  providing  meats,  and  skins  for 
clothing,  by  the  chase,  and  in  defending  their 
villages  against  their  enemies,  and  keeping  in 
truders  off  their  territories.  A  good  Indian 
housewife  deems  this  a  part  of  her  prerogative, 
and  prides  herself  to  have  a  store  of  corn  to  ex~ 
ercise  her  hospitality,  or  duly  honor  her  hus 
band's  hospitality  in  the  entertainment  of  the 
lodge  guests."  —  Oneo'ta,  p.  82. 

Page  143.  Thus  the  fields  shall  be  more  fruit 
ful. 

"  A  singular  proof  of  this  belief,  in  both  sexes, 
of  the  mysterious  influence  of  the  steps  of  a 
woman  on  the  vegetable  and  insect  creation,  is 
found  in  an  ancient  custom,  which  was  related 
to  me,  respecting  corn-planting.  It  was  the 
practice  of  the  hunter's  wife,  when  the  field  of 
corn  had  been  planted,  to  choose  the  first  dark 
or  overclouded  evening  to  perform  a  secret  cir 
cuit,  sans  habillement,  around  the  field.  For 
this  purpose  she  slipped  out  of  the  lodge  in  the 
evening,  unobserved,  to  some  obscure  nook, 
where  she  completely  disrobed.  Then,  taking 
her  matchecota,  or  principal  garment,  in  one 
hand,  she  dragged  it  around  the  field.  This 
was  thought  to  insure  a  prolific  crop,  and  to 
prevent  the  assaults  of  insects  and  worms  upon 
the  grain.  It  was  supposed  they  could  not 
creep  over  the  charmed  line."  —  Oneo'ta,  p.  83. 

Page  144.  With  his  prisoner-string  he  bound 
him. 

"These  cords,"  says  Mr.  Tanner,  "are  made 
of  the  bark  of  the  elm-tree,  by  boiling  and  then 
immersing  it  in  cold  water.  .  .  .  The  leader  of 
a  war  party  commonly  carries  several  fastened 
about  his  waist,  and  if,  in  the  course  of  the 
fight,  any  one  of  his  young  men  takes  a  prisoner, 
it  is  his  duty  to  bring  him  immediately  to  the 
chief,  to  be  tied,  and  the  latter  is  responsible  for 
his  safe  keeping."  —  Narrative  of  Captivity  and 
Adventures,  p.  412. 

Page  145. 

Wagemin,  the  thief  of  cornfields, 
Paimosaid,  who  steals  the  maize-ear. 

"  If  one  of  the  young  female  huskers  finds  a 
red  ear  of  corn,  it  is  typical  of  a  brave  admirer, 
and  is  regarded  as  a  fitting  present  to  some 
young  warrior.  But  if  the  ear  be  crooked,  and 
tapering  to  a  point,  no  matter  what  color,  the 
whole  circle  is  set  in  a  roar,  and  wa-ge-min  is 
the  word  shouted  aloud.  It  is  the  symbol  of  a 
thief  in  the  cornfield.  It  is  considered  as  the 
image  of  an  old  man  stooping  as  he  enters  the 
lot.  Had  the  chisel  of  Praxiteles  been  employed 
to  produce  this  image,  it  could  not  more  vividly 
bring  to  the  minds  of  the  merry  group  the  idea 
of  a  pilferer  of  their  favorite  mondamin.  .  .  . 

"  The  literal  meaning  of  the  term  is,  a  mass, 
or  crooked  ear  of  grain  ;  but  the  ear  of  corn  so 
called  is  a  conventional  type  of  a  little  old  man 
pilfering  ears  of  corn  in  a  cornfield.  It  is  in 
this  manner  that  a  single  word  or  term,  in  these 
curious  languages,  becomes  the  fruitful  parent 
of  many  ideas.  And  we  can  thus  perceive  why 


APPENDIX 


667 


it  is  that  the  word  wagemin  is  alone  competent 
to  excite  merriment  in  the  husking  circle. 

"  This  term  is  taken  as  a  basis  of  the  cereal 
chorus,  or  corn  song,  as  sung  by  the  Northern 
Algonquin  tribes,  it  is  coupled  with  the  phrase 
Paimosaid,  —  a  permutative  form  of  the  Indian 
substantive,  made  from  the  verb  pim-o-sa,  to 
walk.  Its  literal  meaning  is,  he  who  walks,  or 
the  walker ;  but  the  ideas  conveyed  by  it  are, 
he  who  walks  by  night  to  pilfer  corn.  It  offers, 
therefore,  a  kind  of  parallelism  in  expression  to 
the  preceding  term."  —  Onedta,  p.  254. 

Page  149.     Pugasaing,  with  thirteen  ^pieces. 

This  Game  of  the  Bowl  is  the  principal  game 
of  hazard  among  the  Northern  tribes  of  Indians. 
Mr.  Schoolcraf t  gives  a  particular  account  of  it 
in  Onedta,  p.  85.  "This  game,"  he  says^  "is 
very  fascinating  to  some  portions  of  the  Indians. 
They  stake  at  it  their  ornaments,  weapons, 
clothing,  canoes,  horses,  everything  in  fact  they 
possess  ;  and  have  been  known,  it  is  said,  to  set 
up  their  wives  and  children,  and  even  to  forfeit 
their  own  liberty.  Of  such  desperate  stakes  I 
have  seen  no  examples,  nor  do  I  think  the  game 
itself  in  common  use.  It  is  rather  confined  to 
certain  persons,  who  hold  the  relative  rank  of 
gamblers  in  Indian  society,  —  men  who  are  not 
noted  as  hunters  or  warriors,  or  steady  provid 
ers  for  their  families.  Among  these  are  persons 
who  bear  the  term  of  lenadizze-wug,  that  is, 
wanderers  about  the  country,  braggadocios,  or 
fops.  It  can  hardly  be  classed  with  the  popular 
games  of  amusement,  by  which  skill  and  dex 
terity  are  acquired.  I  have  generally  found  the 
chiefs  arid  graver  men  of  the  tribes,  who  en 
couraged  the  young  men  to  play  ball,  and  are 
sure  to  be  present  at  the  customary  sports,  to 
witness,  and  sanction,  and  applaud  them,  speak 
lightly  and  disparagingly  of  this  game  of  haz 
ard.  Yet  it  cannot  be  denied  that  some  of  the 
chiefs,  distinguished  in  war  and  the  chase,  at 
the  West,  can  be  referred  to  as  lending  their 
example  to  its  fascinating  power." 

See  also  his  History,  Conditions,  and  Prospects 
of  the  Indian  Tribes,  Part  II.  p.  72. 

Page  154.  To  the  Pictured  Rocks  of  sand 
stone. 

The  reader  will  find  a  long  description  of  the 
Pictured  Rocks  in  Foster  and  Whitney's  Report 
on  the  Geology  of  the  Lake  Superior  Land  Dis 
trict,  Part  II.  p.  124.  From  this  I  make  the 
following  extract  :  — 

u  The  Pictured  Rocks  may  be  described,  in 
general  terms,  as  a  series  of  sandstone  bluffs 
extending  along  the  shore  of  Lake  Superior  for 
about  five  miles,  and  rising,  in  most  places,  ver 
tically  from  the  water,  without  any  beach  at  the 
base,  to  a  height  varying  from  fifty  to  nearly 
two  hundred  feet.  Were  they  simply  a  line  of 
cliffs,  they  might  not,  so  far  as  relates  to  height 
or  extent,  be  worthy  of  a  rank  among  great 
natural  curiosities,  although  such  an  assem 
blage  of  rocky  strata,  washed  by  the  waves  of 
the  great  lake,  would  not,  under  any  circum 
stances,  be  destitute  of  grandeur.  To  the  voy 
ager,  coasting  along  their  base  in  his  frail  canoe, 
they  would,  at  all  times,  be  an  object  of  dread ; 


the  recoil  of  the  surf,  the  rock-bound  coast, 
affording  for  miles  no  place  of  refuge,  —  the 
lowering  sky,  the  rising  wind,  —  all  these  would 
excite  his  apprehension,  and  induce  him  to  ply 
a  vigorous  oar  until  the  dreaded  wall  was  passed. 
But  in  the  Pictured  Rocks  there  are  two  fea 
tures  which  communicate  to  the  scenery  a  won 
derful  and  almost  unique  character.  These 
are,  first,  the  curious  manner  in  which  the  cliffs 
have  been  excavated  and  worn  a\vay  by  the  ac 
tion  of  the  lake,  which  for  centuries  has  dashed 
an  ocean-like  surf  against  their  base  ;  and,  sec 
ond,  the  equally  curious  manner  in  which  large 
portions  of  the  surface  have  been  colored  by 
bands  of  brilliant  hues. 

"It  is  from  the  latter  circumstance  that  the 
name,  by  which  these  cliffs  are  known  to  the 
American  traveller,  is  derived ;  while  that  ap 
plied  to  them  by  the  French  voyageurs  ('  Les 
Portails ')  is  derived  from  the  former,  and  by 
far  the  most  striking  peculiarity. 

"  The  term  Pictured  Bocks  has  been  in  use 
for  a  great  length  of  time  ;  but  when  it  was  first 
applied  we  have  been  unable  to  discover.  It 
would  seem  that  the  first  travellers  were  more 
impressed  with  the  novel  and  striking  distribu 
tion  of  colors  on  the  surface  than  with  the  as 
tonishing  variety  of  form  into  which  the  cliffs 
themselves  have  been  worn.  .  .  . 

"Our  voyageurs  had  many  legends  to  relate 
of  the  pranks  of  the  Menni-bojou  in  these  cav 
erns,  and,  in  answer  to  pur  inquiries,  seemed 
disposed  to  fabricate  stories  without  end  of  the 
achievements  of  this  Indian  deity." 

Page  162.  Toward  the  sun  his  hands  were, 
lifted.  < 

In  this  manner,  and  with  such  salutations, 
was  Father  Marquette  received  by  the  Illinois. 
See  his  Voyages  et  Decouvertes,  Section  V. 

Page  166.  Full  of  the  name  and  the  fame  of 
the  Puritan  maiden  Priscilla. 

[Among  the  names  of  the  Mayflower  company 
are  those  of  "  Mr.  William  Mullines  and  his 
wife,  and  2  children,  Joseph  and  Priscila  ;  and 
a  servant,  Robart  Carter."] 

Page  167.     She  is  alone  in  the  world. 

["Mr.  Molines,  and  his  wife,  his  sone  and  his 
servant,  dyed  the  first  winter.  Only  his  daugh 
ter  Priscila  survived  and  married  with  John 
Alden,  who  are  both  living  and  have  11  chil 
dren."  —  Bradford :  History  of  Plymouth  Plan 
tation.'] 

Page  169.  Gathering  still,  as  he  went,  the 
Mayflowers  blooming  around  him. 

[The  Mayflower  is  the  well-known  Epigcea  re- 
pens,  sometimes  also  called  the  Trailing  Arbu 
tus.  The  name  Mayflower  was  familiar  in  Eng 
land,  as  the  application  of  it  to  the  historic 
vessel  shows,  but  it  was  applied  by  the  English, 
and  still  is,  to  the  hawthorn.  Its  use  here  in 
connection  with  Epigota  repens,  dates  from  a 
very  early  day,  some  claiming  that  the  first  Pil 
grims  so  used  it,  in  affectionate  memory  of  the 
vessel  and  its  English  flower  association.] 

Page  175.  With  Stephen  and  Richard  and 
Gilbert. 

[These  names  are  not  taken  at  random.    Ste- 


668 


APPENDIX 


phen  Hopkins,  Richard  Warren,  and  Gilbert 
Winslow  were  all  among  the  Mayflower  passen 
gers,  and  were  alive  at  this  time.] 

Page  183.  After  the  Puritan  way,  and  the 
laudable  custom  of  Holland. 

["  May  12  was  the  first  marriage  in  this  place, 
which,  according  to  the  laudable  custome  of  the 
Low-Cuiitries,  in  which  they  had  lived,  was 
thought  most  requisite  to  be  performed  by  the 
magistrate,  as  being  a  civill  thing,  upon  which 
many  questions  aboute  inheritances  doe  de- 
pende,  with  other  things  most  proper  to  their 
cognizans,  and  most  consonante  to  the  scripturs, 
Ruth  4,  and  no  wher  found  in  the  gospell  to  be 
layed  on  the  ministers  as  a  part  of  their  office." 
—  Bradford:  History  of  Plymouth  Plantation, 
p.  101.] 

Page  186. 

That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 
A.  ladder. 

The  words  of  St.  Augustine  are,  "  De  vitiis 
nostris  scalam  nobis  facimus,  si  vitia  ipsa  cal- 
camus." — Sermon  III.  De  Ascensione. 

Page  187.     In  Mather's  Magnolia  Christi. 

[The  passage  in  Mather  upon  which  the  poem 
is  based  is  found  in  Book  1.  chapter  vi.,  and  is 
in  the  form  of  a  letter  to  Mather  from  the  Rev. 
James  Pierpont,  Pastor  of  New  Haven.] 

Page  190.    And  the  Emperor  but  a  Macho. 

Macho,  in  Spanish,  signifies  a  mule.  Golon- 
drina  is  the  feminine  form  for  Golondrino,  a 
swallow,  and  also  a  cant  name  for  a  deserter. 

Page  192.    OLIVER  BASSELIN. 

Oliver  Basselin,  the  "  Perejoyeux  du  Vaude 
ville,"  flourished  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and 
gave  to  his  convivial  songs  the  name  of  his  native 
valleys,  in  which  he  sang  them,  Vaux-de-Vire. 
This  name  was  afterwards  corrupted  into  the 
modern  Vaudeville. 

Page  193.    VICTOR  GALBRAITH. 

Victor  Galbraith  was  a  bugler  in  a  company 
of  volunteer  cavalry ;  and  was  shot  in  Mexico 
for  some  breach  of  discipline.  It  is  a  common 
superstition  among  soldiers,  that  no  balls  will 
kill  them  unless  their  names  are  written  on 
them.  The  old  proverb  says  :  "Every  bullet 
has  its  billet." 

Page  194.     I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away. 

This  was  the  engagement  between  the  Enter 
prise  and  Boxer  off  the  harbor  of  Portland,  in 
which  both  captains  were  slain.  They  were 
buried  side  by  side  in  the  cemetery  on  Mount- 
joy.  [The  fight  took  place  in  1813.  The  Enter 
prise  was  an  American  brig,  the  Boxer  an  Eng 
lish  one.  The  fight,  which  could  be  seen  from 
the  shore,  lasted  for  three  quarters  of  an  hour, 
when  the  Enterprise  came  into  the  harbor, 
bringing  her  captive  with  her.] 

Page  197.     The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spear. 

"At  Pisa  the  church  of  San  Francisco  con 
tains  a  chapel  dedicated  lately  to  Santa  Filo- 
mena ;  over  the  altar  is  a  picture,  by  Sabatelli, 
representing  the  Saint  as  a  beautiful,  nymph- 
like  figure,  floating  down  from  heaven,  attended 
by  two  angels  bearing  the  lily,  palm,  and  jave 
lin,  and  beneath,  in  the  foreground,  the  sick 
and  maimed,  who  are  healed  by  her  interces 


sion." —  Mrs.  Jameson,  Sacred  and  Legendary 
Art,  II.  298. 

Page  200.     Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer. 

1"  Rabbi  Eliezer  hath  said  :  '  There  is  an  An- 
who  standeth  on  earth  and  reacheth  with 
his  head  to  the  door  of  Heaven.     It  is  taught 
in  the  Mishna  that  he  is  called  Sandalphon.'  " 

"There  are  three  [angels]  who  weave  or 
make  garlands  out  of  the  prayers  of  the  Israel 
ites  .  .  .  the  third  is  Sandalphon." 

"  There  be  Angels  which  are  of  Wind  and 
there  be  Angels  which  are  of  Fire." 

"  The  holy  and  blessed  God  creates  everyday 
a  multitude  of  angels  in  heaven,  who,  after 
they  have  sung  a  hymn  before  Him,  do  perish. 
.  .  .  Except  Michael  and  Gabriel  .  .  .  and 
Sandalphon  and  their  equals,  who  remain  in 
their  glory  wherewith  they  were  invested  in  the 
six  days'  creation." 

"  The  prophet  Elias  is  the  Angel  Sandalphon, 
who  twisteth  or  bindeth  garlands  out  of  the 
prayers,  for  his  Lord." 

The  above  passages  from  J.  P.  Stehelin's  The 
Traditions  of  the  Jews  were  marked  by  Mr. 
Longfellow,  and  evidently  furnished  the  mate 
rial  upon  which  he  based  his  poem.] 

Page  205. 

Writ  near  a  century  ago 

By  the  great  Major  Molineaux 

Whom  Hawthorne  has  immortal  made. 

[The  lines  are  as  follows  :  — 

What  do  you  think  ? 

Here  is  good  drink, 
Perhaps  you  may  not  know  it ; 

If  not  in  haste, 

Do  stop  and  taste  ! 
You  merry  folk  will  show  it. 

On  another  pane  appears  the  Major's  name, 
Wm.  Molineux  Jr.  Esq.,  and  the  d,(te,  June  24, 
1774.  The  allusion  is  to  Hawthorne's  tale, 
My  Kinsman,  Major  Molineux.  Hawthorne, 
writing  to  Mr.  Longfellow  after  the  publication 
of  the  Tales,  says,  "  It  gratifies  my  mind  to 
find  my  OAvn  name  shining  in  your  verse,  —  even 
as  if  I  had  been  gazing  up  at  the  moon  and 
detected  my  own  features  in  its  profile."] 

Page  207.  The  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Se 
vere. 

[It  is  possible  that  Mr.  Longfellow  derived 
the  story  from  Paul  Revere's  account  of  the 
incident  in  a  letter  to  Dr.  Jeremy  Belknap, 
printed  in  Mass.  Hist.  Coll.  V.  Mr.  Frothing- 
ham,  in  his  Siege  of  Boston,  pp.  57-59,  gives 
the  story  mainly  according  to  a  memorandum 
of  Richard  Devens,  Revere's  friend  and  asso 
ciate.  The  publication  of  Mr.  Longfellow's 
poem  called  out  a  protracted  discussion  both  as 
to  the  church  from  which  the  signals  were 
hung,  and  as  to  the  friend  who  hung  the  lan 
terns.  The  subject  is  discussed  and  authori 
ties  cited  in  Memorial  History  of  Boston,  III. 
101.] 

Page  209.    THE  FALCON  OF  SER  FEDERIGO. 

[The  story  is  found  in  the  Decameron,  Fifth 
day,  ninth  tale.  As  Boccaccio,  however,  was 
not  the  first  to  tell  it,  so  Mr.  Longfellow  is  not 


APPENDIX 


669 


the  only  one  after  him  to  repeat  it.  So  re 
mote  a  source  as  Pantschatantra^  (Benfey,  II. 
247)  contains  it,  and  La  Fontaine  includes  it  in 
his  Contes  et  Nouvelles  under  the  title  of  Le 
Fauc.on.  Tennyson  has  treated  the  subject  dra 
matically  in  The  Falcon.  See  also  Delisle  de  la 
DreVetiere,  who  turned  Boccaccio's  story  into  a 
comedy  in  three  acts.] 

Page  214.  THE  LEGEND  OF  RABBI  BEN 
LEVI. 

[Varnhagen  refers  to  three  several  sources  of 
this  legend  in  the  books  Col  Bo,  Ben  Sira,  and 
Ketuboth,  but  it  is  most  likely  that  Mr.  Longfel 
low  was  indebted  for  the  story  to  his  friend 
Emmanuel  Vitalis  Scherb.] 

Page  215.    KING  ROBERT  OF  SICILY. 

[This  story  is  one  of  very  wide  distribution. 
It  is  given  in  Gesta  Homanorum  as  the  story  of 
Joyinian.  Frere  in  his  Old  Deccan  Days,  or 
Hindoo  Fairy  Legends  current  in  Southern  In 
dia,  recites  it  in  the  form  of  The  Wanderings 
of  Vicram  Maharajah.  Varnhagen  pursues 
the  legend  through  a  great  variety  of  forms. 
Leigh  Hunt,  among  moderns,  has  told  the  story 
in  A  Jar  of  Honey  from  Mt.  HyUa,  from  which 
source  Mr.  Longfellow  seems  to  have  drawn. 
Dante  refers  to  the  King  in  Paradiso,  Canto 
VIII.] 

Page  240.     THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWORTH. 

[Killingworth  in  Connecticut  was  named  from 
the  English  town  Kenilworth  in  Warwick 
shire,  and  had  the  same  orthography  in  the 
early  records,  but  was  afterwards  corrupted  into 
its  present  form.  Sixty  or  seventy  years  ago, 
according  to  Mr.  Henry  Hull,  writing  from 
personal  recollection,  "  the  men  of  the  northern 
part  of  the  town  did  yearly  in  the  spring  choose 
two  leaders,  and  then  the  two  sides  were 
formed  :  the  side  that  got  beaten  should  pay 
the  bills.  Their  special  game  was  the  hawk, 
the  owl,  the  crow,  the  blackbird,  and  any  other 
bird  supposed  to  be  mischievous  to  the  corn. 
Some  years  each  side  would  bring  them  in  by 
the  bushel.  This  was  followed  up  for  only  a 
few  years,  for  the  birds  began  to  grow  scarce." 
The  story,  based  upon  such  a  slight  suggestion, 
was  Mr.  Longfellow's  own  invention.] 

Page  245.    THE  BELL  OF  ATRI. 

[See  Gualteruzzi's  Cento  Novelle  Antiche.] 

Page  247.    KAMBALU. 

[See  Boni's  edition  of  II  Milione  di  Marco 
Polo,  II.  35  and  I.  14.] 

Page  255.    LADY  WENTWORTH. 

[The  incidents  of  this  tale  are  recounted  by 
C.  W.  Brewster,  Rambles  about  Portsmouth,  I. 
101.  After  the  publication  of  Mr.  Longfellow's 
poem,  Mr.  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson 
wrote  to  one  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  kinsmen  aver 
sion  of  the  story  sent  him  by  Mrs.  Mary  Anne 
Williams,  who  had  the  story  from  her  grandmo 
ther,  nee  Mary  Wentworth,  Avho  was  niece  to 
Governor  Wentworth,  and  a  child  at  the  time  of 
the  incident.  "I  have  seen  Mr.  Longfellow's 
poem,"  writes  Mrs.  Williams,  tk  but  I  should 
think  he  would  be  afraid  some  of  the  old 
fellows  would  appear  to  him  for  making  it  ap 
pear  that  any  others  than  the  family  were  pres 


ent  to  witness  what  they  considered  a  great  deg 
radation.  Only  the  brothers  and  brothers  in  law 
were  present,  and  Mr.  Brown  ;  and  the  bride, 
who  had  been  his  housekeeper  for  seven  years, 
was  then  35,  and  attired  in  a  calico  dress  and 
a  white  apron.  The  family  stood  in  whole 
some  awe  of  the  sturdy  old  governor,  so  treated 
Patty  with  civility,  but  it  was  hard  work  for 
the  stately  old  dames,  and  she  was  dropped 
after  his  death."  Governor  Wentworth  was 
born  July  24,  1696,  and  his  marriage  was  on 
March  15,  1760.] 

Page  265.    CHARLEMAGNE. 

[In  his  diary,  under  date  of  May  12, 1872,  Mr. 
Longfellow  writes:  "Wrote  a  short  poem  on 
Charlemagne  from  a  story  in  an  old  chronicle, 
De  Fact  is  Carol  i  Magni,  quoted  by  Cantu, 
Storia  degli  Italiani,  II.  122.  I  first  heard  it 
from  Charles  Perkins,  in  one  of  his  lectures."] 

Page  270.    ELIZABETH. 

[As  intimated  in  the  Interlude  which  fol 
lows,  the  tale  of  Elizabeth  was  founded  on  a 
prose  tale  by  Mrs.  Lydia  Maria  Child,  entitled 
The  Youthful  Emigrant,  which  fell  under  Mr. 
Longfellow's  eye  in  a  Portland  paper.  Besides 
this  he  had  recourse  to  A  Call  to  the  Unfaithful 
Professors  of  Truth,  by  John  Estaugh,  with  Pre 
face  by  his  widow.  E.  E.'s  Testimony  concern 
ing  her  husband  J.  E.  Several  expressions  in 
the  poem  are  derived  from  this  little  book.] 

Page  282.    THE  MOTHER'S  GHOST. 

[A  Danish  ballad  to  be  found  in  Grundtvig's 
Danmarks  gamle  Folkeviser,  II.  478,  was  the 
basis  of  this  poem.] 

Page  310. 

"  O  Ccesar,  we  who  are  about  to  die 
Salute  you  I" 

[This  use  of  the  phrase  Morituri  Salutarnus 
agrees  with  the  treatment  of  Ge"rome  in  his 
painting,  beneath  which  he  wrote  the  words, 
Ave  Cfesar,  Imperator,  Morituri  te  Salutant- 
The  reference  to  a  gladiatorial  combat,  however, 
is  doubted  by  some  scholars,  who  quote  Sue 
tonius  and  Dion  Cassius  as  using  the  phrase  in 
connection  with  the  great  sea-fight  exhibition 
given  by  the  Emperor  on  Lacus  Fueinus.  The 
combatants  were  condemned  criminals,  and 
they  were  to  fight  until  one  of  the  parties  was 
killed,  unless  saved  by  the  interposition  of  the 
Emperor.] 

Page  311.     All  save  one. 

[Professor  Alpheus  Spring  Packard,  since  de 
ceased.] 

Page  314.  In  Attica  thy  birthplace  should 
have  been. 

[Cornelius  Conway  Felton,  at  one  time  Pro 
fessor  of  Greek,  and  afterward  President,  at 
Harvard  College.] 

Page  314.  Piteously  calling  and  lamenting 
thee. 

[Jean  Louis  Rodolphe  Agassiz,  the  eminent 
naturalist,  whose  summer  home  at  Nahant  was 
near  Mr.  Longfellow's,  while  they  were  also  fel 
low-townsmen  in  Cambridge.] 

Page  315.    A  friend  who  bore  thy  name. 

[Charles  Sumner,  one  of  Mr.  Longfellow's 
closest  friends.] 


6;o 


APPENDIX 


Page  318.    Here  lies  the  gentle  humorist. 

[Washington  Irving.  It  is  interesting  to 
note  the  influence  which  this  writer  had  upon 
Mr.  Longfellow,  as  shown  not  only  in  his  early 
prose,  but  in  his  direct  testimony.  In  present 
ing  the  resolutions  upon  the  death  of  Irving  at 
a  meeting  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Soci 
ety,  December  5,  1859,  Mr.  Longfellow  said  : 
"Every  reader  has  his  first  book  ;  I  mean  to 
say,  one  book  among  all  others  which  in  early 
youth  first  fascinates  his  imagination,  and  at 
once  excites  and  satisfies  the  desires  of  his 
mind.  To  me,  this  first  book  was  the  Sketch- 
Book  of  Washington  Irving.  I  was  a  school 
boy  when  it  was  published,  and  read  each  suc 
ceeding  number  with  ever  increasing  wonder 
and  delight,  spell-bound  by  its  pleasant  humor, 
its  melancholy  tenderness,  its  atmosphere  of 
revery,  —  nay,  even  by  its  gray-brown  covers, 
the  shaded  letters  of  its  titles,  and  the  fair 
clear  type,  which  seemed  an  outward  symbol  of 
its  style.  How  many  delightful  books  the  same 
author  has  given  us,  written  before  and  since, 
•  —  volumes  of  history  and  of  fiction  ;  most  of 
which  illustrate  his  native  land,  and  some  of 
which  illuminate  it  and  make  the  Hudson,  I 
will  not  say  as  classic,  but  as  romantic  as  the 
Rhine!  Yet  still  the  charm  of  the  Sketch- 
Book  remains  unbroken  ;  the  old  fascination 
remains  about  it  ;  and  whenever  I  open  its 
pages,  I  open  also  that  mysterious  door  which 
leads  back  into  the  haunted  chambers  of 


youth."  .  .  .] 

Page  319.    PARKER  CLEAVELAND. 

[A  distinguished  naturalist  who  was  senior 
professor  at  Bowdoin  College,  where  Mr.  Long 
fellow  was  first  a  student  and  afterward  an  in 
structor.  The  father  of  the  poet  was  an  inti 
mate  friend  of  Professor  Cleaveland,  and  when 
the  son  went  to  Brunswick  he  found  in  the 
older  man  one  of  his  most  cherished  associates. 
When  he  went  back  to  give  his  poem,  Morituri 
Salutamus,  he  made  his  stay  at  the  Cleaveland 
mansion,  with  the  daughter  of  the  deceased 
professor.] 

Page  323.  Poet  !  I  come  to  touch  thy  lance 
with  mine. 

u  When  any  came  to  take  the  government  of 
the  Hundred  or  Wapentake  in  a  day  and  place 
appointed,  as  they  were  accustomed  to  meete, 
all  the  better  sort  met  him  with  lances,  and  he 
alighting  from  his  horse,  all  rise  up  to  him,  and 
he  setting  or  holding  his  lance  upright,  all  the 
rest  come  with  their  lances,  according  to  the 
auncient  custome  in  confirming  league  and  pub- 
like  peace  and  obedience,  and  touch  his  lance 
or  weapon,  and  thereof  called  Wapentake,  for 
the  Saxon  or  old  English  wapun  is  weapon, 
and  tac,  tactus,  a  touching,  thereby  this  meeting 
called  Wapentake,  or  touching  of  weapon,  be 
cause  that  by  that  signe  and  ceremonie  of  touch 
ing  weapon  or  the  lance,  they  were  sworne  and 
confederate."  —  Master  Lamberd  in  Minshew. 

Page  336.  Of  the  White  Chief  with  yellow 
hair. 

[General  George  A.  Custer,  who  was  surprised 


and  with  his  entire  force  put  to  death  by  the 
Sioux,  June  25,  1876.] 

Page  342.     Watch  o'er  Maximilian's  tomb. 

In  the  Hofkirche  at  Innsbruck. 

Page  343.    FROM  MY  ARM-CHAIR. 

[This  chair  bears  the  inscription, 

To 
THE  AUTHOR 

of 
THE   VILLAGE   BLACKSMITH, 

This  chair,  made  from  the  wood  of  the 
spreading  chestnut-tree, 

is  presented  as 
An  expression  of  grateful  regard  and  veneration  by 

The  children  of  Cambridge, 

Who  with  their  friends  join  in  best  wishes 

and  congratulations 

on 

This  Anniversary. 
February  27,  1879. 

In  1880,  when  the  city  of  Cambridge  celebrated 
the  two  hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  of 
the  founding  of  the  town,  December  28th, 
there  was  a  children's  festival  at  Sanders  Thea 
tre  in  the  morning,  and  the  chair  stood  on  the 
platform  in  full  view  of  the  thousand  children 
assembled.  Mr.  George  Riddle  read  the  poem  ; 
then,  to  the  surprise  of  all,  the  poet  himself 
came  forward  and  made  this  little  speech  :  — 

"  My  dear  young  Friends, — I  do  not  rise  to 
make  an  address  to  you,  but  to  excuse  myself 
from  making  one.  I  know  the  proverb  says  that 
he  who  excuses  himself  accuses  himself,  and  I 
am  willing  on  this  occasion  to  accuse  myself,  for 
I  feel  very  much  as  I  suppose  some  of  you  do 
when  you  are  suddenly  called  upon  in  your 
class-room,  and  are  obliged  to  say  that  you  are 
not  prepared.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  faces  and 
to  hear  your  voices.  I  am  glad  to  have  this  op 
portunity  of  thanking  you  in  prose,  as  I  have 
already  done  in  verse,  for  the  beautiful  present 
you  made  me  some  two  years  ago.  Perhaps 
some  of  you  have  forgotten  it,  but  I  have  not ; 
and  I  am  afraid  —  yes,  I  am  afraid  —  that  fifty 
years  hence,  when  you  celebrate  the  three  hun 
dredth  anniversary  of  this  occasion,  this  day 
and  all  that  belongs  to  it  will  have  passed  from 
your  memory  :  for  an  English  philosopher  has 
said  that  the  ideas  as  well  as  children  of  our 
youth  often  die  before  us,  and  our  minds  repre 
sent  to  us  those  tombs  to  which  we  are  ap 
proaching,  where  though  the  brass  and  marble 
remain,  yet  the  inscriptions  are  effaced  by  time, 
and  the  imagery  moulders  away."] 

Page  355. 

So  the  Hexameter,  rising  and  singing,  with  ca 
dence  sonorous, 

Falls  ;  and  in  refluent  rhythm  back  the  Pentame 
ter,  flows. 

[Schiller's  lines  will  be  recalled  :  — 
In  Hexameter  steigt  des  Springquells  fliissige  Saule ; 
In  Pentameter  drauf  fallt  sie  melodisch  herab. 


APPENDIX 


671 


In  his  diary,  under  date  of  February  24,  1847, 
Mr.  Longfellow  writes  :  — 

"  Walking  down  to  Felton's  this  morning, 
seduced  by  the  magnetic  influence  of  the  air 
and  the  approach  to  classic  ground,  I  composed 
the  following,  a  pendant  to  Schiller's,  — 

In  Hexameter  headlong  the  cataract  plunges, 
In  Pentameter  up  whirls  the  eddying  mist. 

In  my  afternoon's  walk  I  changed  it  and  added 
three  more. 

i 

In  Hexameter  plunges  the  headlong  cataract  downward, 
In  Pentameter  up  whirls  the  eddying  mist. 


In  Hexameter  rolls  sonorous  the  peal  of  the  organ  ; 
In  Pentameter  soft  rises  the  chant  of  the  choir. 


In  Hexameter  gallops  delighted  a  beggar  on  horseback ; 
In  Pentameter,  whack !  tumbles  he  off  of  his  steed. 


In  Hexameter  sings  serenely  a  Harvard  Professor  ; 
In  Pentameter  him  damns  censorious  Poe."] 

Page  408.  THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 

The  old  Legenda  Aurea,  or  Golden  Legend, 
was  originally  written  in  Latin,  in  the  thir 
teenth  century,  by  Jacobus  de  Voragine,  a  Do 
minican  friar,  who  afterwards  became  Arch 
bishop  of  Genoa,  and  died  in  1292. 

He  called  his  book  simply  Legends  of  the 
Saints.  The  epithet  of  Golden  was  given  it  by 
his  admirers ;  for,  as  Wynkin  de  Worde  says, 
"  Like  as  passeth  gold  in  value  all  other  metals, 
so  this  Legend  exceedeth  all  other  books." 
But  Edward  Leigh,  in  much  distress  of  mind, 
calls  it  "a  book  written  by  a  man  of  a  leaden 
heart  for  the  basenesse  of  the  errours,  that  are 
without  wit  or  reason,  and  of  a  brazen  forehead, 
for  his  impudent  boldnesse  in  reporting  things 
so  fabulous  and  incredible." 

This  work,  the  great  text-book  of  the  legen 
dary  lore  of  the  Middle  Ages,  was  translated 
into  French  in  the  fourteenth  century  by  Jean 
de  Vignay,  and  in  the  fifteenth  into  English  by 
William  Caxton.  It  has  lately  been  made  more 
accessible  by  a  new  French  translation :  La 
Legende  Doree.  traduite  du  Latin,  par  M.  G.  B. 
Paris,  1850.  There  is  a  copy  of  the  original, 
with  the  Gesta  Longobardorum  appended,  in  the 
Harvard  College  Library,  Cambridge,  printed 
at  Strasburg,  1496.  The  title-page  is  wanting ; 
and  the  volume  begins  with  the  Tabula  Legen- 
dorum. 

I  have  called  this  poem  the  Golden  Legend, 
because  the  story  upon  which  it  is  founded 
seems  to  me  to  surpass  all  other  legends  in 
beauty  and  significance.  It  exhibits,  amid  the 
corruptions  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  virtue  of 
disinterestedness  and  self-sacrifice,  and  the 
power  of  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,  sufficient 
for  all  the  exigencies  of  life  and  death.  The 
story  is  told,  and  perhaps  invented,  by  Hart- 
mann  von  der  Aue,  a  Minnesinger  of  the 


twelfth  century.  The  original  may  be  found  in 
Mailath's  Altdeutsche  Gedichte,  with  a  modern 
German  version.  There  is  another  in  Marbach's 
Volksbucher,  No.  32. 

[Mr.  S.  Arthur  Bent  has  annotated  The 
Golden  Legend  with  fulness  and  care,  and  the 
reader  is  referred  to  his  volume  for  more  ex 
tended  notes  than  are  here  expedient.] 

Page  409. 

For  these  bells  have  been  anointed. 
And  baptized  with  holy^  water  ! 

The  consecration  and  baptism  of  bells  is  one 
of  the  most  curious  ceremonies  of  the  Church 
in  the  Middle  Ages.  The  Council  of  Cologne 
ordained  as  follows :  — • 

"  Let  the  bells  be  blessed,  as  the  trumpets  of 
the  Church  militant,  by  which  the  people  are 
assembled  to  hear  the  word  of  God  ;  the  clergy 
to  announce  his  mercy  by  day,  and  his  truth  in 
their  nocturnal  vigils  :  that  by  their  sound  the 
faithful  may  be  invited  to  prayers,  and  that  the 
spirit  of  devotion  in  them  may  be  increased. 
The  fathers  have  also  maintained  that  demons, 
affrighted  by  the  sound  of  bells  calling  Chris 
tians  to  prayers,  would  flee  away ;  and  when 
they  fled,  the  persons  of  the  faithful  would  be 
secure :  that  the  destruction  of  lightnings  and 
whirlwinds  would  be  averted,  and  the  spirits  of 
the  storm  defeated."  —  Edinburgh  Encyclopae 
dia,  Art.  "Bells." 

See  also  Scheible's  Kloster,  vi.  776. 

Page  418.    EVENING  SONG. 

[Mr.  Bent,  in  his  annotated  edition  of  The 
Golden  Legend,  remarks  that  this  is  modelled 
upon  the  choral  songs  which  the  Reformed 
Church  of  Germany  adopted  from  existing  pop 
ular  chorals,  which  had  long  been  in  use  in  the 
social  and  public  observances  of  the  German 
people.] 

Page  420.     Who  would  think  her  but  fifteen  ? 

[In  Der  Arme  Heinrich,  Elsie  is  but  eight 
years  of  age.] 

Page  421.    It  is  the  malediction  of  Eve  ! 

' '  Nee  esses  plus  quam  f emina,  quse  mine 
etiam  viros  transcendis,  et  quse  maledictionem. 
Evae  in  benedictionem  vertisti  Marise."  —  Epis- 
tola  Aboelardi  Heloissce. 

Page  429.     To  come  back  to  my  text ! 

In  giving  this  sermon  of  Friar  Cuthbert  as  a 
specimen    of    the   Risus  Paschales,  or  street- 
preaching  of  the  monks  at  Easter,  I  have  exag 
gerated  nothing.     This  very  anecdote,   offen 
sive  as  it  is,  comes  from  a  discourse  of  Father 
Barletta,  a   Dominican   friar  of  the   fifteenth 
century,  whose  fame  as  a  popular  preacher  was 
so  great  that  it  gave  rise  to  the  proverb,  — 
Nescit  predicare 
Qui  nescit  Barlettare. 

"  Among  the  abuses  introduced  in  this  cen 
tury,"  says  Tiraboschi,  "was  that  of  exciting 
from  the  pulpit  the  laughter  of  the  hearers  ;  as 
if  that  were  the  same  thing  as  converting  them. 
We  have  examples  of  this,  not  only  in  Italy, 
but  also  in  France,  where  the  sermons  of  Menot 
and  Maillard,  and  of  others,  who  would  make  a 
better  appearance  on  the  stage  than  in  the  pul 
pit,  are  still  celebrated  for  such  follies." 


672 


APPENDIX 


If  the  reader  is  curious  to  see  how  far  the 
freedom  of  speech  was  carried  in  these  popular 
sermons,  he  is  referred  to  Scheible's  Ktoster, 
vol.  I.,  where  he  will  find  extracts  from  Abra 
ham  a  Sancta  Clara,  Sebastian  Frank,  and  oth 
ers  ;  and  in  particular  an  anonymous  discourse 
called  Der  Grduel  der  Verwustung,  The  Abomi 
nation  of  Desolation,  preached  at  Ottakring,  a 
village  west  of  Vienna,  November  25,  1782,  in 
which  the  license  of  language  is  carried  to  its 
utmost  limit. 

See  also  Predicatoriana^u  Revelations  singu- 
lieres  et  amusantes  sur  les  Predicateurs ;  par  G. 
P.  Philomneste.  (Menin.)  This  work  contains 
extracts  from  the  popular  sermons  of  St.  Vin 
cent  Ferrier,  Barletta,  Menot,  Maillard,  Ma- 
rini,  Raulin,  Valladier,  De  Besse,  Camus,  Pere 
Andre",  Bening,  and  the  most  eloquent  of  all, 
Jacques  Brydaine. 

My  authority  for  the  spiritual  interpretation 
of  bell-ringing,  which  follows,  is  Durandus,  lla- 
tion.  Divin.  Offic.,  Lib.  1.,  cap.  4. 

Page  431.    THE  NATIVITY  :  a  Miracle-Play. 

A  singular  chapter  in  the  history  of  the  Mid 
dle  Ages  is  that  which  gives  account  of  the 
early  Christian  Drama,  the  Mysteries,  Morali 
ties,  and  Miracle-Plays,  which  were  at  first 
performed  in  churches,  and  afterwards  in  the 
streets,  on  fixed  or  movable  stages.  For  the 
most  part,  the  Mysteries  were  founded  on  the 
historic  portions  of  the  Old  and  New  Testa 
ments,  and  the  Miracle-Plays  on  the  lives  of 
Saints  ;  a  distinction  not  always  observed,  how 
ever,  for  in  Mr.  Wright's  Early  Mysteries  and 
other  Latin  Poems  of  the  Twelfth  and  Thirteenth 
Centuries,  the  Resurrection  of  Lazarus  is  called 
a  Miracle,  and  not  a  Mystery.  The  Moralities 
were  plays  in  which  the  Virtues  and  Vices  were 
personified. 

The  earliest  religious  play  which  has  been 
preserved  is  the  Christos  Paschon  of  Gregory 
Nazianzen,  written  in  Greek,  in  the  fourth  cen 
tury.  Next  to  this  come  the  remarkable  Latin 
plays  of  Roswitha,  the  Nun  of  Gandersheim,  in 
the  tenth  century,  which,  though  crude  and 
wanting  in  artistic  construction,  are  marked  by 
a  good  deal  of  dramatic  power  and  interest. 
A  handsome  edition  of  these  plays,  with  a 
French  translation,  has  been  lately  published, 
entitled  Theatre  de  Rotsvitha,  Religteuse  alle- 
mande  du  Xe  Siecle.  Par  Charles  Maqnin. 
Paris,  1845. 

The  most  important  collections  of  English 
Mysteries  and  Miracle-Plays  are  those  known 
as  the  Townley,  the  Chester,  and  the  Coventry 
Plays.  The  first  of  these  collections  has  been 
published  by  the  Surtees  Society,  and  the  other 
two  by  the  Shakespeare  Society.  In  his  Intro 
duction  to  the  Coventry  Mysteries,  the  editor, 
Mr.  Halliwell,  quotes  the  following  passage 
from  Dugdale's  Antiquities  of  Warwickshire :  — 

"Before  the  suppression  of  the  monasteries, 
this  city  was  very  famous  for  the  pageants,  that 
were  played  therein,  upon  Corpus-Christi  day; 
which,  occasioning  very  great  confluence  of  peo 
ple  thither,  from  far  and  near,  was  of  no  small 
benefit  thereto;  which  pageants  being  acted 


with  mighty  state  and  reverence  by  the  friars 
of  this  house  had  theaters  for  the  severall 
scenes,  very  large  and  high,  placed  upon  wheels, 
and  drawn  to  all  the  eminent  parts  of  the  city, 
for  the  better  advantage  of  spectators  :  and 
contain'd  the  story  of  the  New  Testament, 
composed  into  old  English  Rithme,  as  appear- 
eth  by  an  ancient  MS.  intituled  Ludus  Corpo- 
ris  Christi,  or  Ludus  Conv&ntrice.  I  have  been 
told  by  some  old  people,  who  in  their  younger 
years  were  eyewitnesses  of  these  pageants  so 
acted,  that  the  yearly  confluence  of  people  to  see 
that  shew  was  extraordinary  great,  and  yielded 
no  small  advantage  to  this  city." 

The  representation  of  religious  plays  has  not 
yet  been  wholly  discontinued  by  the  Roman 
Church.  At  Ober-Ammergau,  in  the  Tyrol,  a 
grand  spectacle  of  this  kind  is  exhibited  once  in 
ten  years.  A  very  graphic  description  of  that 
which  took  place  in  the  year  1850  is  given  by 
Miss  Anna  Mary  Howitt,  in  her  Art-Student  in 
Munich,  vol.  I.,  chap.  4. 

Mr.  Bayard  Taylor,  in  his  Eldorado,  gives  a 
description  of  a  Mystery  he  saw  performed  at 
San  Lionel,  in  Mexico.  See  vol.  II.,  chap.  11. 

In  1852  there  was  a  representation  of  this 
kind  by  Germans  in  Boston :  and  1  have  now 
before  me  the  copy  of  a  play-bill,  announcing 
the  performance,  on  June  10,  1852,  in  Cincin 
nati,  of  the  Great  Biblico-Historical  Drama,  the 
Life  of  Jesus  Christ,  with  the  characters  and  the 
names  of  the  performers. 

Page  432.  Here  the  Angel  Gabriel  shall  leave 
Paradise. 

[A  stage  of  three  stories  was  often  erect 
ed,  the  topmost  representing  Paradise  (hence 
in  Germany  this  word  is  used  for  the  upper 
gallery  of  a  theatre,  anglice,  "  the  Gods  ")  ; 
on  the  middle  stage  was  the  Earth  ;  below  were 
the  "Jaws  of  Hell,"  sometimes  represented 
by  the  opening  and  shutting  of  the  mouth  of  an 
enormous  dragon.  Goethe  introduces  the  Jaws 
of  Hell  to  the  stage  machinery  of  Faust  (V.  6). 
—  S.  A.  Bent.] 

Page  439.     The  Scriptorium. 

A  most  interesting  volume  might  be  written 
on  the  Calligraphers  and  Chrysographers,  the 
transcribers  and  illuminators  of  manuscripts  in 
the  Middle  Ages.  These  men  were  for  the 
most  part  monks,  who  labored,  sometimes  for 
pleasure  and  sometimes  for  penance,  in  multi 
plying  copies  of  the  classics  and  the  Scriptures. 

"  Of  all  bodily  labors  which  are  proper  for 
us,"  says  Cassiodorus,  the  old  Calabrian  monk, 
"that  of  copying  books  has  always  been  more 
to  my  taste  than  any  other.  The  more  so, 
as  in  this  exercise  the  mind  is  instructed  by 
the  reading  of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  and  it  is  a 
kind  of  homily  to  the  others,  whom  these  books 
may  reach.  It  is  preaching  with  the  hand,  by 
converting  the  fingers  into  tongues  ;  it  is  pub 
lishing  to  men  in  silence  the  words  of  salvation  ; 
in  fine,  it  is  fighting  against  the  demon  with  pen 
and  ink.  As  many  words  as  a  transcriber 
writes,  so  many  wounds  the  demon  receives. 
In  a  word,  a  recluse,  seated  in  his  chair  to  copy 
books,  travels  into  different  provinces  without 


APPENDIX 


673 


moving  from  the  spot,  and  the  labor  of  his 
hands  is  felt  even  where  he  is  not." 

Nearly  every  monastery  was  provided  with  its 
Scriptorium.  Nicolas  de  Clairvaux,  St.  Ber 
nard's  secretary,  in  one  of  his  letters  describes 
his  cell,  which  he  calls  Scriptoriolum,  where  he 
copied  books.  And  Mabillon,  in  his  Etudes 
MonastiqueS)  says  that  in  his  time  were  still 
to  be  seen  at  Citeaux  "many  of  those  little 
cells,  where  the  transcribers  and  bookbind 
ers  worked." 

Silvestre's  Paleographie  Universelle  contains 
a  vast  number  of  f  ac-similes  of  the  most  beauti 
ful  illuminated  manuscripts  of  all  ages  and  all 
countries  ;  and  Montfaucon,  in  his  Palceographia 
Grceca,  gives  the  names  of  over  three  hundred 
calligraphers.  He  also  gives  an  account  of  the 
books  they  copied,  and  the  colophons  with 
which,  as  with  a  satisfactory  flourish  of  the  pen, 
they  closed  their  long-continued  labors.  Many 
of  these  are  very  curious  ;  expressing  joy,  humil 
ity,  remorse  ;  entreating  the  reader's  prayers 
and  pardon  for  the  writer's  sins ;  and  some 
times  pronouncing  a  malediction  on  any  one 
who  should  steal  the  book.  A  few  of  these  I 
subjoin :  — 

"  As  pilgrims  rejoice,  beholding  their  native 
land,  so  are  transcribers  made  glad,  beholding 
the  end  of  a  book." 

"  Sweet  is  it  to  write  the  end  of  any  book." 

"  Ye  who  read,  pray  for  me,  who  have  written 
this  book,  the  humble  and  sinful  Theodulus." 

"As  many  therefore  as  shall  read  this  book, 
pardon  me,  I  beseech  you,  if  aught  I  have  erred 
in  accent  acute  and  grave,  in  apostrophe,  in 
breathing  soft  or  aspirate ;  and  may  God  save 
you  all !  Amen." 

"If  anything  is  well,  praise  the  transcriber; 
if  ill,  pardon  his  unskilfulness." 

"  Ye  who  read,  pray  for  me,  the  most  sinful 
of  all  men,  for  the  Lord's  sake." 

"  The  hand  that  has  written  this  book  shall 
decay,  alas !  and  become  dust,  and  go  down  to 
the  grave,  the  corrupter  of  all  bodies.  But  all 
ye  who  are  of  the  portion  of  Christ,  pray  that  I 
may  obtain  the  pardon  of  my  sins.  Again  and 
again  I  beseech  you  with  tears,  brothers  and 
fathers,  accept  my  miserable  supplication,  O 
holy  choir !  I  am  called  John,  woe  is  me  !  I  am 
called  Hiereus,  or  Sacerdos,  in  name  only,  not 
in  unction." 

"  Whoever  shall  carry  away  this  book,  with 
out  permission  of  the  Pope,  may  he  incur  the 
malediction  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  of  the  Holy 
Mother  of  God,  of  Saint  John  the  Baptist,  of 
the  one  hundred  and  eighteen  holy  Nicene  Fa 
thers,  and  of  all  the  Saints  ;  the  fate  of  Sodom 
and  Gomorrah  ;  and  the  halter  of  Judas  I  Ana 
thema,  amen." 

"  Keep  safe,  0  Trinity,  Father,  Son  and  Holy 
Ghost,  my  three  fingers,  with  which  I  have 
written  this  book." 

''  Mathusalas  Machir  transcribed  this  divinest 
book  in  toil,  infirmity,  and  dangers  many." 

"  Bacchius  Barbardorius  and  Michael  Sophi- 
anus  wrote  this  book  in  sport  and  laughter,  be 
ing  the  guests  of  their  noble  and  common  friend 


Vincentius  Pinellus,  and  Petrus  Nunnius,  a 
most  learned  man." 

This  last  colophon  Montfaucon  does  not  suffer 
to  pass  without  reproof.  "  Other  calligraph 
ers,"  he  remarks,  "  demand  only  the  prayers  of 
their  readers,  and  the  pardon  of  their  sins  ;  but 
these  glory  in  their  wantonness." 

Page  443.     Drink  down  to  your  peg  ! 

One  of  the  canons  of  Archbishop  Anselm,  pro 
mulgated  at  the  beginning  of  the  twelfth 
century,  ordains  "  that  priests  go  not  to  drink 
ing-bouts,  nor  drink  to  pegs."  In  the  times  of 
the  hard-drinking  Danes,  King  Edgar  ordained 
that  pins  or  nails  should  be  fastened  into  the 
drinking-cups  or  horns  at  stated  distances,  and 
whosoever  should  drink  beyond  those  marks  at 
one  draught  should  be  obnoxious  to  a  severe 
punishment. 

Sharpe,  in  his  History  of  the  Kings  of  Eng 
land,  says  :  "  Our  ancestors  were  formerly  fa 
mous  for  compotation ;  their  liquor  was  ale, 
and  one  method  of  amusing  themselves  in  this 
way  was  with  the  peg-tankard.  I  had  lately 
one  of  them  in  my  hand.  It  had  on  the  inside 
a  row  of  eight  pins,  one  above  another,  from  top 
to  bottom.  It  held  two  quarts,  and  was  a 
noble  piece  of  plate,  so  that  there  was  a  gill  of 
ale,  half  a  pint  Wincester  measure,  between 
each  peg.  The  law  was,  that  every  person  that 
drank  was  to  empty  the  space  between  pin  and 
pin,  so  that  the  pins  were  so  many  measures  to 
make  the  company  all  drink  alike,  and  to  swal 
low  the  same  quantity  of  liquor.  This  was  a 
pretty  sure  method  of  making  all  the  company 
drunk,  especially  if  it  be  considered  that  the 
rule  was,  that  whoever  drank  short  of  his  pin, 
or  beyond  it,  was  obliged  to  drink  again,  and 
even  as  deep  as  to  the  next  pin." 

Page  444.  The  convent  of  St.  Gildas  de 
Rhuys. 

Abelard,  in  a  letter  to  his  friend  Philintus, 
gives  a  sad  picture  of  this  monastery.  "I 
live,"  he  says,  "  in  a  barbarous  country,  the 
language  of  which  I  do  not  understand  ;  I  have 
no  conversation  but  with  the  rudest  people, 
my  walks  are  on  the  inacessible  shore  of  a  sea, 
which  is  perpetually  stormy,  my  monks  are 
only  known  by  their  dissoluteness,  and  living 
without  any  rule  or  order,  could  you  see  the 
abby,  Philintus,  you  would  not  call  it  one.  the 
doors  and  walls  are  without  any  ornament,  ex 
cept  the  heads  of  wild  boars  and  hinds  feet, 
which  are  nailed  up  against  them,  and  the  hides 
of  frightful  animals,  the  cells  are  hung  with 
the  skins  of  deer,  the  monks  have  not  so  much 
as  a  bell  to  wake  them,  the  cocks  and  dogs 
supply  that  defect,  in  short,  they  pass  their 
whole  days  in  hunting ;  would  to  heaven  that 
were  their  greatest  fault  !  or  that  their  pleasure 
terminated  there  !  I  endeavor  in  vain  to  recall 
them  to  their  duty  ;  they  all  combine  against 
me,  and  I  only  expose  myself  to  continual  vex 
ations  and  dangers.  I  imagine  I  see  every  mo 
ment  a  naked  sword  hang  over  my  head, 
sometimes  they  surround  me,  and  load  me  with 
infinite  abuses  ;  sometimes  they  abandon  me, 
and  I  am  left  alone  to  my  own  tormenting 


674 


APPENDIX 


thoughts.  I  make  it  my  endeavor  to  merit  by 
my  sufferings,  and  to  appease  an  angry  God. 
sometimes  I  grieve  for  the  los?  of  the  house  of 
the  Paraclete,  and  wish  to  see  it  again,  ah 
Philintus,  does  not  the  love  of  Heloise  still 
burn  in  my  heart  ?  I  have  not  yet  triumphed 
over  that  unhappy  passion,  in  the  midst  of  my 
retirement  I  sigh,  I  weep,  I  pine,  I  speak  the 
dear  name  Heloise,  and  am  pleased  to  hear  the 
sound."  —  Letters  of  the  Celebrated  Abelard 
and  Heloise.  Translated  by  Mr.  John  Hughes. 
Glasgow,  1751. 

Page  452.  Were  it  not  for  my  magic  garters 
and  staff. 

The  method  of  making  the  Magic  Garters  and 
the  Magic  IStaff  is  thus  laid  down  in  Les  Secrets 
MerveiUeux  du  Petit  Albert,  a  French  transla 
tion  of  Alberti  ParviLucii  Libellus  deMirabili- 
bus  Naturae,  Arcanis :  — 

"  Gather  some  of  the  herb  called  motherwort, 
when  the  sun  is  entering  the  first  degree  of  the 
sign  of  Capricorn ;  let  it  dry  a  little  in  the 
shade,  and  make  some  garters  of  the  skin  of  a 
young  hare  ;  that  is  to  say,  having  cut  the  skin 
of  the  hare  into  strips  two  inches  wide,  double 
them,  sew  the  before-mentioned  herb  between, 
and  wear  them  on  your  legs.  No  horse  can 
long  keep  up  with  a  man  on  foot,  who  is  fur 
nished  with  these  garters."  —  Page  128. 

"Gather,  on  the  morrow  of  All -Saints,  a 
strong  branch  of  willow,  of  which  you  will 
make  a  staff,  fashioned  to  your  liking.  Hollow 
it  out,  by  removing  the  pith  from  within,  after 
having  furnished  the  lower  end  with  an  iron 
ferule.  Put  into  the  bottom  of  the  staff  the  two 
eyes  of  a  young  wolf,  the  tongue  and  heart  of  a 
dog,  three  green  lizards,  and  the  hearts  of  three 
swallows.  These  must  all  be  dried  in  the  sun, 
between  two  papers,  having  been  first  sprinkled 
with  pulverized  saltpetre.  Besides  all  these, 
put  into  the  staff  seven  leaves  of  vervain,  gath 
ered  on  the  eve  of  St.  John  the  Baptist,  with  a 
stone  of  divers  colors,  which  you  will  find  in 
the  nest  of  the  lapwing,  and  stop  the  end  of  the 
staff  with  a  pomel  of  box,  or  of  any  other  ma 
terial  you  please,  and  be  assured  that  this  staff 
will  guarantee  you  from  the  perils  and  mishaps 
which  too  often  befall  travellers,  either  from 
robbers,  wild  beasts,  mad  dogs,  or  venomous 
animals.  It  will  also  procure  you  the  good-will 
of  those  with  whom  you  lodge."  Page  130. 

Page  455.     Saint  Elmo's  stars. 

So  the  Italian  sailors  called  the  phosphores 
cent  gleams  that  sometimes  play  about  the 
masts  and  rigging  of  ships. 

Page  455.     The  School  of  Salerno. 

For  a  history  of  the  celebrated  schools  of  Sa 
lerno  and  Monte-Cassino,  the  reader  is  referred 
to  Sir  Alexander  Croke's  Introduction  to  the 
Regimen  Sanitatis  Salernitanum  ;  and  to  Kurt 
Sprengel's  Geschichte  der  -4rzne?'£imc?e,  i.  463,  or 
Jourdan's  French  translation  of  it,  Histoire  de 
la  Me'decine,  ii.  354. 

Page  504.    He  must  spell  Baker. 

A  local  expression  for  doing  anything  diffi 
cult.  In  the  old  spelling-books,  Baker  was  the 
first  word  of  two  syllables,  and  when  a  child 


came  to  it  he  thought  he  had  a  hard  task  before 
him. 

Page  525. 

To  King  Antiochus, 
The  God,  Epiphanes  :  a  Memorial 
From  the  Sidonians^  who  live  at  Sichem. 

[The  reader  will  notice  in  The  Divine  Tragedy 
the  ease  with  which  Mr.  Longfellow  adjusted 
the  Scriptural  phraseology  to  the  demands  of 
blank  verse.  So  here,  he  has  been  able  to  use 
without  change  the  words  found  in  Josephus, 
Antiquities  of  the  Jews,  Book  XII.  Chapter  V. 
in  Whis  ton's  translation.  The  text  of  the  Me 
morial  is  slightly  condensed,  but  otherwise  is  al 
most  a  transcript  from  Whiston.] 

Page  526.    THE  DUNGEONS  IN  THE  CITADEL. 

[This  powerful  scene  is  a  dramatization  of  II. 
Maccabees,  chapter  7,  with  the  effective  change 
by  which  the  mother  is  shown  apart  from  tho 
sons,  and  the  torture  is  made  inferential.] 

Page  538. 

And  I  at  Fondi  have  my  Fra  Bastiano, 

The  famous  artist,  who  has  come  from  Rome 

To  paint  my  portrait. 

[In  1533  Cardinal  Ippolito  de  Medici  sent  Se 
bastian  with  an  armed  force  to  paint  the  por 
trait  of  Julia  Gonzaga.    It  was  accomplished  in 
!  a  month  and  sent  to  Francis  I.  of  France. 

"  The  real  portrait  of  Giulia  Gonzaga  is  sup 
posed  to  exist  in  two  different  collections.  In 
the  National  Gallery,  we  have  the  likeness  of  a 
lady  in  the  character  of  St.  Agatha,  as  symbol 
ized  by  a  nimbus  and  pincers.  Natural  pose 
and  posture  and  dignified  mien  indicate  rank. 
The  treatment  is  free  and  bold,  but  the  colors 
are  not  blended  with  the  care  which  Sebastian 
would  surely  have  bestowed  in  such  a  case.  In 
the  Staedel  Museum  at  Frankfort,  the  person 
represented  is  of  a  noble  and  elegant  carriage, 
seated,  in  rich  attire,  and  holding  a  fan  made  of 
feathers.  A  pretty  landscape  is  seen  through 
an  opening,  and  a  rich  green  hanging  falls  be 
hind  the  figure.  The  handling  curiously  reminds 
us  of  Bronzino.  It  is  well  known  that  the  like 
ness  of  Giulia  was  sent  to  Francis  the  First  in 
'  Paris,  and  was  registered  in  Ldpici^'s  catalogue. 
The  canvas  of  the  National  Gallery  was  pur 
chased  from  the  Borghese  palace,  the  panel  at 
Frankfort  from  the  heirlooms  of  the  late  King 
of  Holland.  A  third  female  portrait  by  Del 
Piombo  deserves  to  be  recorded  in  connection 
with  this  inquiry, — that  of  Lord  Radnor  at 
Longford  Castle,  in  which  a  lady  with  a  crim 
son  mantle  and  pearl  head-dress  stands  in  pro 
file,  resting  her  hands  on  the  back  of  a  chair. 
On  a  shawl  which  falls  from  the  chair  we  read, 
'Sunt  laquei  veneris  cave.'  The  shape  is  slender 
as  that  of  Vittoria  Colonna  in  the  Santangelo 
palace  at  Naples,  but  the  color  is  too  brown  in 
light  and  too  red  in  shadow  to  yield  a  pleasing 
effect,  and  were  it  proved  that  this  is  really 
Giulia  Gonzaga  the  picture  would  not  deserve 
Vasari's  eulogy."  —  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle : 
History  of  Painting  in  North  Italy.] 

Page  540. 

Why  did  the  Pope  and  his  ten  Cardinals 
Come  here  to  lay  this  heavy  task  upon  me  t 


APPENDIX 


675 


[The  Last  Judgment  was  begun  in  1534  when 
Paul  III.,  Alessandro  Farnese,  was  Pope.] 

Page  540. 

The  bones  of  Julius 
Shook  in  their  sepulchre. 

[Julius  II.,  who  became  Pope  in  1503.  The 
Julius  who  appears  in  this  poem  is  Julius  III.] 

Page  541.    SAN  SILVESTRO. 

[A  miniature  painter,  Francesco  d'  Ollanda, 
was  sent  to  Italy  between  1530  and  1540  by  the 
King  of  Portugal,  and  wrote  an  account  of  his 
experience.  In  this  account  he  describes  two 
Sundays  which  he  spent  with  Michael  Angelo 
and  Vittoria  Colpnna  at  San  Silvestro.  His 
narrative,  which  is  given  by  Grimm  in  his  Life 
of  Michael  Angelo,  II.  293-305,  furnished  Mr. 
Longf  ello  w  _  the  material  from  which  to  con 
struct  this  scene.] 

Page  552. 

The  Marquis  of  Pescara  is  my  husband, 
And  death  has  not  divorced  us, 

[Vittoria  Colonna  was  born  in  1490,  betrothed 
to  the  Marquis  de  Pescara  in  1495,  and  married  to 
him  in  1509.  Pescara.  was  killed  in  fighting 
against  the  French  under  the  walls  of  Ravenna 
in  1512.  It  is  not  known  when  or  where  Vit 
toria  Colonna  first  met  Michael  Angelo,  but 
all  authorities  agree  that  it  must  have  been 
about  the  year  1536,  when  he  was  over  sixty 
years  of  age.  She  did  not  escape  the  espionage 
of  the  Inquisition,  but  was  compelled  in  1541  to 
fly  to  the  convent  at  Viterbo.  Three  years 
later,  she  went  to  the  convent  of  Benedictines 
of  St.  Anne  in  Rome,  and  just  before  her  death, 
in  1547,  she  was  taken  to  the  house  of  Giuliano 
Cesarini,  the  husband  of  Giulia  Colonna,  her 
only  relative  in  Rome.  It  Avas  after  she  fled  to 
the  convent  that  she  began  to  write  sonnets  to 
and  receive  them  from  Michael  Angelo,  whose 
love  for  her  was  not  capable  of  being  concealed. 
Hartford,  in  his  Life  of  Michael  Angelo  Buona- 
rotti,  includes  a  life  also  of  Vittoria  Colonna.] 

Page  559. 

It  was  the  Constable  of  France,  the  Bourbon 

That  I  had  slain. 

•     [See  the  seventh  chapter  of  Memoirs  of  Ben- 
venuto  Cellini  for  his  narrative  of  this  incident.] 

Page  572. 

They  complain 
Of  insufficient  light  in  the  Three  Chapels. 

[Grimm,  II.  415,  relates  this  bout  between 
Michael  Angelo  and  the  cardinals.] 

Page  578.     And  ah  !  that  casting. 

[Cellini  gives  an  animated  account  of  this  in 
cident  in  the  forty-first  chapter  of  his  Memoirs.] 

Page  587.    COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 

This  poem  of  Manrique  is  a  great  favorite  in 
Spain.  No  less  than  four  poetic  Glosses,  or  run 
ning  commentaries,  upon  it  have  been  published, 
no  one  of  which,  however,  possesses  great  poetic 
merit.  That  of  the  Carthusian  monk,  Rodrigo 
de  Valdepenas,  is  the  best.  It  is  known  as  the 
Glosa  del  Cartujo.  There  is  also  a  prose  Com 
mentary  by  Luis  de  Aranda. 

The  following  stanzas  of  the  poem  were 
found  in  the  author's  pocket,  after  his  death  on 
the  field  of  battle. 


O  World !  so  few  the  years  we  live, 

Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 

Were  life  indeed ! 

Alas  !  thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 

Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 

The  soul  is  freed. 

Our  days  are  covered  o'er  with  grief, 

And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 

Veil  all  in  gloom  ; 

Left  desolate  of  real  good, 

Within  this  cheerless  solitude 

No  pleasures  bloom. 

Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 
And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 
Or  dark  despair ; 
Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 

Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groan, 

By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 

And  weary  hearts ; 

Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 

But  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow 

Its  form  departs. 

Page  600.  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S 
SUPPER. 

There  is  one  poem  in  this  volume  to  which  a 
few  introductory  remarks  may  be  useful.1  It  is 
The  Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper,  from  the 
Swedish  of  Bishop  Tegne'r,  a  poem  which  enjoys 
no  inconsiderable  reputation  in  the  North  of 
Europe,  and  for  its  beauty  and  simplicity  mer 
its  the  attention  of  English  readers.  It  is  an 
Idyl,  descriptive  of  scenes  in  a  Swedish  village, 
and  belongs  to  the  same  class  of  poems  as  the 
Luise  of  Voss  and  the  Hermann  und  Dorothea 
of  Goethe.  But  the  Swedish  poet  has  been 
guided  by  a  surer  taste  than  his  German  prede 
cessors.  His  tone  is  pure  and  elevated,  and  he 
rarely,  if  ever,  mistakes  what  is  trivial  for  what 
is  simple.  [From  this  point,  Mr.  Longfellow 

groceeded  with  a  description  of  rural  life  in 
weden  which  may  be  found  in  his  paper  Frith- 
iof's  Saga  in  vol.  I.  of  his  prose  works,  River 
side  Edition.] 

Page  601.     The  Feast  of  the  Leafy  Pavilions. 

In  Swedish,  Lofhyddohogtiden,  the  Leafhuts'- 
high-tide. 

Page  601.    Horberg. 

The  peasant-painter  of  Sweden.  He  is 
known  chiefly  by  his  altar-pieces  in  the  village 
churches. 

Page  601.     Wallin. 

A  distinguished  pulpit-orator  and  poet.  He 
is  particularly  remarkable  for  the  beauty  and 
sublimity  of  his  psalms. 

Page  607.  Nils  Juel  gave  heed  to  the  tempest's 
roar. 

Nils  Juel  was  a  celebrated  Danish  Admiral, 
and  Peder  Wessel  a  Vice  Admiral,  who  for 
his  great  prowess  received  the  popular  title  of 
Tordenskiold,  or  Thundershield.  In  childhood 
he  was  a  tailor's  apprentice,  and  rose  to  his  high 

1  It  will  be  observed  that  the  note  here  given  origi 
nally  stood  as  Introduction  to  the  poem  when  it  was 
first  published. 


676 


APPENDIX 


rank  before  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  when  he 
was  killed  in  a  duel. 

Page  623.     The  blind  girl  of  Castel- Cuille. 

Jasmin,  the  author  of  this  beautiful  poem,  is 
to  the  South  of  France  what  Burns  is  to  the 
South  of  Scotland,  —  the  representative  of  the 
heart  of  the  people,  —  one  of  those  happy  bards 
who  are  born  with  their  mouths  full  of  birds  (la 
bouco  plena  c/'  aouzelous).  He  has  written  his  own 
biography  in  a  poetic  form,  and  the  simple  nar 
rative  of  his  poverty,  his  struggles,  and  his  tri 
umphs  is  very  touching-.  He  still  lives  at  Agen, 
on  the  Garonne  ;  and  long  may  he  live  there  to 
delight  his  native  land  with  native  songs  ! 

[When  first  printing  this  note,  Mr.  Longfel 
low  added  a  long  description  of  Jasmin  and  his 
way  of  life  from  Louisa  Stuart  Costello's  Beam 
and  the  Pyrenees.  In  more  recent  days  Miss  H. 
W.  Preston  has  written  sympathetically  on  the 
same  subject.  See  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Janu 
ary,  February,  187(5.] 

PageOL^  A  Christmas  Carol. 

[A  description  of  Christmas  in  Burgundy 
from  M.  Fertiault's  Coup  d^Eil  sur  les  Noels 
en  Bourgogne,  to  the  Paris  edition  of  Les  Noels 
Bourguignons  de  Bernard  de  la  Mennoye  (Gui 
Barozai),  1842,  was  quoted  by  Mr.  Longfellow 
when  first  printing  this  poem.] 

IV.  A  CHRONOLOGICAL  LIST  OF  MR. 
LONGFELLOW'S  POEMS 

IN  the  following  list  the  poems  are  set  down 
tinder  date  of  the  years  in  which  they  were  com 
posed.  When  the  date  of  composition  is  unde 
termined,  the  poem,  marked  by  an  asterisk,  is 
placed  against  the  year  of  its  publication. 
Translations  are  distinguished  by  italics. 

1820.    The  Battle  of  Lovell's  Pond. 

1824.  To  lanthe. 
Thanksgiving. 
Antumnal  Nightfall. 
Italian  Scenery. 

An  April  Day. 
Autumn. 
Woods  in  Winter. 

1825.  The  Lunatic  Girl. 

The  Venetian  Gondolier. 

The  Angler's  Song. 

Sunrise  on  the  Hills. 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethle 
hem. 

Lover's  Rock. 

Dirge  over  a  Nameless  Grave. 

A  Song  of  Savoy. 

The  Indian  Hunter. 

Ode  written  for  the  Commemoration 
at  Fryeburg,  Maine,  of  LovewelTs 
Fight. 

Jeckoyva. 

The  Sea-Diver. 

Musings. 

The  Spirit  of  Poetry. 

Burial  of  the  Mimiisink. 

1826.  Song:  "  Where,  from  the  eye  of  day." 
Song  of  the  Birds. 


1830.  Song:  "  Hark,  hark!" 

Song:    "And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle 

sigh." 

The  Return  of  Spring. 
Rondel:  "Hence  away,  begone,  begone." 
Spring. 

The  Child  Asleep. 
Friar  Lubin. 

1831.  *  Let  me  go  warm. 

*  The  Disembodied  Spirit. 

*  Ideal  Beauty. 

*  The  Lover's  Complaint. 
The  Nativity  of  Christ. 

The  Assumption  of  the  Virgin. 

1832.  A  Florentine  Song. 

A  Neapolitan  Canzonet. 

Christmas  Carol. 

A  Soldier's  Song. 

Tel(  me,  tell  me,  thou  pretty  Bee. 

Sicilian  Canzonet. 

Coplas  de  Manrique. 

The  Good  Shepherd. 

To-Morrow. 

The  Native  Land. 

The  Image  of  God. 

The  Brook. 

*  Vida  de  San  Millan. 

*  San  Miguel,  The  Convent. 
Death  of  Archbishop  Turpin. 
Art  and  Nature. 

The  Two  Harvests. 

1833.  *  A  ncient  Spanish  Ballads. 

*  Clear  Honor  of  the  Liquid  Element. 

*  Praise  of  Little  Women. 

*  Milagros  de  Nuestra  Senora. 

1834.  *  Song  of  the  Rhine. 

1835.  King  Christian. 

*  Song:  ""She  is  a  maid  of  artless  grace." 

1836.  Song  of  the  Bell. 

The  Castle  by  the  Sea. 
Song  of  the  Silent  Land. 

1837.  Passages  from  Frithiofs  Saga. 
Flowers. 

1838.  A  Psalm  of  Life. 

The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers. 

The  Light  of  Stars. 

41  Neglected  record  of  a  mind  neglected." 

The  Grave. 


1839. 


The  Sours  Complaint  against  the  Body. 

Beowulf  s  Expedition  to  Heort. 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus. 

The  Village  Blacksmith. 

Prelude. 

Hymn  to  the  Night. 

Footsteps  of  Angels. 

The  Beleaguered  City. 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year. 

L'Envoi  to  Voices  of  the  Night. 

The  Celestial  Pilot. 

The  Terrestrial  Paradise. 

Beatrice. 

The  Happiest  Land. 

The  Wave. 

The  Dead. 

The  Bird  and  the  Skip. 

Whither. 

Beware. 


APPENDIX 


677 


*  The  Black  Knight. 

1840.  It  is  not  always  May. 
The  Spanish  Student. 
The  Skeleton  in  Armor. 

1841.  Endymion. 
The  Rainy  Day. 
God's  Acre. 

To  the  River  Charles. 

Blind  Bartimeus. 

The  Goblet  of  Life. 

Maidenhood. 

Excelsior. 

The  Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper. 

The  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

The  Two  Locks  of  Hair. 

*  The  Elected  Knight. 

1842.  To  William  E.  Channing. 
The  Slave's  Dream. 

The  Good  Part,  that  shall  not  be  taken 

away. 

The  Slave  in  the  Dismal  Swamp. 
The  Slave  singing  at  Midnight. 
The  Witnesses. 
The  Quadroon  Girl. 

*  The  Warning. 

The  Belfry  of  Bruges. 
Mezzo  Cammin. 

1843.  Translation  of  Dante,  begun. 

The  Statue  over  the  Cathedral  Door. 
The  Legend  of  the  Cross-Bill. 
The  Sea  hath  its  Pearls. 

1844.  A  Gleam  of  Sunshine. 
The  Arsenal  at  Springfield. 
Nuremberg. 

The  Norman  Baron. 
Rain  in  Summer. 
Sea  Weed.. 
The  Day  is  Done. 
The  Hemlock  Tree. 
Annie  of  Tharaw. 

*  Childhood. 

*  Elegy:  "Silent  in  the  veil  of  evening 

twilight." 

1845.  To  a  Child. 

The  Occultation  of  Orion. 

The  Bridge. 

To  the  Driving  Cloud. 

Carillon. 

Afternoon  in  February. 

To  an  Old  Danish  Song-Book. 

Walter  von  der  Vogelweid. 

Drinking  Song. 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs. 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song. 

The  Evening  Star. 

Autumn. 

*  Dante. 
Curfew. 

Birds  of  Passage. 

The  Haunted  Chamber. 

Evangeline,  begun. 

Poetic  Aphorisms. 

Silent  Love. 

Blessed  are  the  Dead. 
Vanderer's  Night  Songs. 

The  Nature  of  Love. 

Song:  "  Ifthou  art  sleeping,  maiden" 


1846. 


1847. 


1848. 


1849. 


1850. 


1852. 


1853. 
1854. 


1855. 


1856. 

1857. 


*  Rondel. 
The  Builders. 
Pegasus  in  Pound. 
Twilight. 
TegneVs  Drapa. 
Evangeline,  finished. 

"  0  faithful,  indefatigable  tides." 
"  Soft  through  the  silent  air." 
Hymn  for  my  Brother's  Ordination. 
The  Secret  of  the  Sea. 

*  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert. 
The  Fire  of  Drift- Wood. 
The  Castle-Builder. 
Resignation. 

Sand  of  the  Desert. 

The  Open  Window. 

King  Witlaf 's  Drinking-Horn. 

Dedication  :  The  Seaside  and  the  Fire 
side. 

The  Building  of  the  Ship. 

Chrysaor. 

The  Challenge  of  Thor  (Tales  of  a  Way 
side  Inn). 

The  Lighthouse. 


Sonnet  on  Mrs.  Kemble's  Readings  from 

Shakespeare. 
Children. 
The  Singers. 

The  Brook  and  the  Wave. 
Suspiria. 

The  Blind  Girl  of  Castel-Cuille. 
A  Christmas  Carol. 
The  Golden  Legend,  begun. 
Michael  Angelo  :  portion  of  III.,  iv. 
The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine. 
The  Phantom  Ship. 

1851.    In  the  Churchyard  at  Cambridge. 
The  Golden  Legend,  finished. 
The  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 
Haunted  Houses. 
The  Emperor's  Bird's-Nest. 
Daylight  and  Moonlight. 
The  Jewish  Cemetery  at  Newport. 
The  Two  Angels. 
The  Rope  Walk. 
The  Golden  Mile-Stone. 
Catawba  Wine. 
Prometheus. 
Epimetheus. 
JHia-wjaJjia,  begun. 
CHiawatha^finished. 

Victor  Galbraith. 

My  Lost  Youth. 

John  Endicott,  begun. 

So  from  the  Bosom  of  Darkness. 

John  Endicott,  finished. 

Santa  Filomena. 

The  Discoverer  of  the  North  Cape. 

Daybreak. 

The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz. 

Sandalphon. 

The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish,  be 
gun. 

The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish,  fin 
ished. 


1858. 


6;8 


APPENDIX 


1859.  The  Children's  Hour. 
Enceladus. 
Snow-Flakes. 

The  Bells  of  Lynn. 

*  My  Secret. 

1860.  Paul  Revere's  Ride  (Tales  of  a  Wayside 

Inn). 

The  Saga  of  King  Olaf,  excepting  The 
Challenge  of  Thor  (Tales  of  a  Way 
side  Inn). 

A  Day  of  Sunshine. 

1861.  Interlude  :  A  strain  of  music  closed  the 

tale  (Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn). 

1862.  Prelude:  The  Wayside  Inn. 

The  Legend  of  Rabbi  Ben  Levi  (Tales 
of  a  Wayside  Inn). 

King  Robert  of  Sicily  (Tales  of  a  Way 
side  Inn). 

Torquemada  (Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn). 

The  Cumberland. 

1863.  *Five  Interludes  to  First  Part  of  Tales 

of  a  Wayside  Inn. 
The  Falcon  of  Ser  Federigo  (Tales  of 

a  Wayside  Inn). 
The  Birds  of  Killingworth  (Tales  of  a 

Wayside  Inn). 

*  Finale  to  Part  First  of  Tales  of  a 
Wayside  Inn. 

*  Something  left  Undone. 

*  Weariness. 

1864.  Palingenesis. 

The  Bridge  of  Cloud. 

Hawthorne. 

Christmas  Bells. 

The  Wind  over  the  Chimney. 

Divina  Commedia  :  Sonnets,  I.,  II. 

Noel. 

Kambalu  (Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn). 

1865.  Divina  Commedia :  Sonnet  III. 
To  Italy. 

1866.  Flower-de-Luce. 
Killed  at  the  Ford. 
Giotto's  Tower. 
To-Morrow. 

Divina  Commedia  :  Sonnets  V.,  VI. 
Translation  of  Dante,  finished. 

1867.  Divina  Commedia  :  Sonnet  IV. 

1868.  Giles  Corey  of  the  Salem  Farms. 

1869.  The  Gleaner  of  Sapri. 

1870.  Prelude  to  Part  Second  of  Tales  of  a 

Wayside  Inn. 
The  Bell  of  Atri  (Tales  of  a  Wayside 

Inn). 

Fata  Morgana. 
The  Meeting. 
Vox  Populi. 

Prelude  to  Translations. 
The  Divine  Tragedy,  begun. 
Consolation. 

*  To  Cardinal  Richelieu. 
The  Angel  and  the  Child. 
Wanderer's  Night  Songs. 
The  Fugitive. 

*  The  Siege  of  Kazan. 
The  Soy  and  the  Brook. 

*  To  the  Stork. 

*  Santa  Teresa's  Book-Mark. 


Remorse. 

1871.  The  Cobbler  of  Hagenau  (Tales  of  a 

Wayside  Inn). 
The  Ballad  of  Carmilhan  (Tales  of  a 

Wayside  Inn). 
Lady  Wentworth  (Tales  of  a  Wayside 

Inn). 
The  Legend  Beautiful  (Tales  of  a  Way- 

The  Baron  of  St.  Castine  (Tales  of  a 

Wayside  Inn). 
Judas  Maccabaeus. 
The  Abbot  Joachim  :     First  Interlude 

to  Christus. 
Martin  Luther  :    Second  Interlude  to 

Christus. 

St.  John  :  Finale  to  Christus. 
The  Divine  Tragedy,  finished. 

1872.  *  Introitus  to  Christus. 

*  Interludes  and  Finale  to  Part  Second 
of  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn. 

Michael  Angelo,  first  draft. 

Azrael  (Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn). 

Charlemagne  (Tales  of  a  Wayside 
Inn). 

Emma  and  Eginhard  (Tales  of  a  Way 
side  Inn). 

1873.  *  Prelude,   Interludes  and    Finale    to 

Part  Third  of  Tales  of  a  Wayside 

Inn. 

Elizabeth  (Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn). 
The  Monk  of  Casal-Maggiore  (Tales  of 

a  Wayside  Inn). 

Scanderbeg  (Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn). 
The  Mother's  Ghost  (Tales  of  a  Wayside 

Inn). 
The  Rhyme  of  Sir  Christopher  (Tales 

of  a  Wayside  Inn). 
Michael  Angelo  :  Monologue,  The  Last 

Judgment ;  Monologue,  Part  Second. 

Palazzo  Cesarini ;  The  Oaks  of  Monte 

Luca. 

*  The  Challenge. 

*  Aftermath. 

The  Hanging  of  the  Crane. 

Chaucer. 

Shakespeare. 

Milton. 

Keats. 

*  From  the  Cancioneros. 

1874.  Charles  Sumner. 
Travels  by  the  Fireside. 
Cadenabbia. 
Autumn  Within. 
Monte  Cassino. 
Morituri  Salutamus. 
Three  Friends  of  Mine. 
The  Galaxy. 

The  Sound  of  the  Sea. 

A  Summer  Day  by  the  Sea. 

The  Tides. 

A  Nameless  Grave. 

The  Old  Bridge  at  Florence. 

II  Ponte  Vecchio  di  Firenze. 

Michael    Angelo  :     Vittoria   Colonna; 

Palazzo  Belvedere  ;  Bindo  Altoviti  ; 

In  the  Coliseum. 


APPENDIX 


679 


Seven  Sonnets  and  a  Canzone. 

1875.  Amain. 

The  Sermon  of  St.  Francis. 

Belisarius. 

Songo  River. 

The  Masque  of  Pandora. 

*  A  Shadow. 

Sleep. 

Parker  Cleaveland. 

1876.  The  Herons  of  Elmwood. 
To  the  Avon. 

A  Dutch  Picture. 

The  Revenge  of  Rain-in-the-Face. 

To  the  River  Yvette. 

A  Wraith  in  the  Mist. 

Nature. 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Tarrytown. 

Eliot's  Oak. 

The  Descent  of  the  Muses. 

Venice. 

The  Poets. 

The  Harvest  Moon. 

To  the  River  Rhone. 

The  Two  Rivers. 

Boston. 

St.  John's,  Cambridge. 

Moods. 

Woodstock  Park. 

The  Four  Princesses  at  Wilna. 

The  Broken  Oar. 

The  Four  Lakes  of  Madison. 

Victor  and  Vanquished. 

On  the  Terrace  of  the  Aigalades. 

To  my  Brooklet. 

Barrages. 

1877.  Ke*ramqs.- 
Ua§tles  in  Spain . 
Vittoria  Colonna. 

A  Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet. 

The  Leap  of  Roushan  Beg. 

Haroun  al  Raschid. 

King  Trisanku. 

The  Three  Kings. 

Song  :  "Stay,  stay  at  home,  my  heart, 

and  rest/' 

The  Three  Silences  of  Molinos. 
Holidays. 
Wapentake. 

*  The  Banks  of  the  Cher. 

*  To  the  Forest  of  Gastine. 

*  Fontenay. 

*  Pray  for  me. 

*  Vire. 

1878.  *  The  Emperor's  Glove. 


The  Poet's  Calendar :  March. 
The  White  Czar. 

*  Delia. 
Bayard  Taylor. 

The  Chamber  over  the  Gate. 
Moonlight. 

*  Forsaken. 

*  Virgil's  First  Eclogue. 

*  Ovid  in  Exile. 

1879.  The  Cross  of  Snow. 
From  my  Arm  Chair. 
Jugurtha. 

The  Iron  Pen. 

Robert  Burns. 

Helen  of  Tyre. 

The  Sifting  of  Peter. 

The  Tide  rises,  the  Tide  falls. 

My  Cathedral. 

The  Burial  of  the  Poet. 

Night. 

The  Children's  Crusade. 

Sundown. 

Chimes. 

A  Quiet  Life. 

1880.  Dedication  to  Ultima  Thule. 

*  Elegiac. 

Old  St.  David's  at  Radnor. 

Maiden  and  Weathercock. 

The  Windmill. 

L'Envoi  to  Ultima  Thule. 

The  Poet's  Calendar,  January,  February, 

April-December. 
Four  by  the  Clock. 

1881.  Michael  Angelo  :  Viterbo. 
Auf  Wiedersehen. 
Elegiac  Verse. 

The  City  and  the  Sea. 
Memories. 

Hermes  Trismegistus. 
President  Garfield. 
My  Books. 

*  Song  for  the  Masque  of  Pandora. 

1882.  *  Becalmed. 
Mad  River. 
Possibilities. 
Decoration  Day. 

*  A  Fragment. 

*  Loss  and  Gain.  > 
Inscription  on  the  Shanklin  Fountain. 
The  Bells  of  San  Bias. 

*  Will  ever  the  dear  days  come  back  again  ? 

*  At  La  Chaudeau. 

*  The  Wine  of  Jurancon. 
(Undetermined)  The  Stars. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


A  BLIND  man  is  a  poor  man,  and  poor  a  blind 

man  is,  616. 

A  fleet  with  flags  arrayed,  337. 
After  so  long  an  absence,  295. 
A  gentle  boy,  with  soft  and  silken  locks,  295. 
A  handful  of  red  sand,  from  the  hot  clime,  108. 
Ah,  how  short  are   the  days !     How   soon  the 

night  overtakes  us,  270. 
Ah,  Love,  43. 
Ah  me !  ah  me !  when  thinking  of  the  years, 

637. 

Ah !  thou  moon  that  shinest,  42. 
Ah  !  what  pleasant  visions  haunt  me,  104. 
A  little  bird  in  the  air,  230. 
Allah  gives  light  in  darkness,  618. 
All  are  architects  of  Fate,  108. 
All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart,  36,  37. 
All  day  has  the  battle  raged,  234. 
All  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and  died, 

188. 

AU  the  old  gods  are  dead,  226. 
Am  I  a  king,  that  I  should  call  my  own,  343.    . 
A  mill-stone  and  the  human  heart  are  driven 

ever  round,  616. 
A  mist  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel, 

188. 

Among  the  many  lives  that  I  have  known,  319. 
An  angel  with  a  radiant  face,  629. 
And  King  Olaf  heard  the  cry,  219. 
And  now,  behold  !  as  at  the  approach  of  morn 
ing,  633. 

And  thou,  O  River  of  To-morrow,  flowing,  321. 
And  when  the  kings  were  in  the  field,  —  their 

squadrons  in  array,  595. 
And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh,  621. 
Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  true  love  of  old,  614. 
An  old  man  in  a  lodge  within  a  park,  315. 
Arise,  0  righteous  Lord,  520. 
As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er,  318. 
As  a  pale  phantom  with  a  lamp,  352. 
A  soldier  of  the  Union  mustered  out,  317. 
As  one  who  long  hath  fled  with  panting  breath, 

351. 
As  one  who,  walking  in  the  twilight  gloom, 

99. 

As  the  birds  come  in  the  Spring,  348. 
As  the  dim  twilight  shrouds,  648. 
As  treasures  that  men  seek,  587. 
As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is,  135. 
At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay,  202. 
At  Atri,  in  Abruzzo,  a  small  town,  245. 
At  Drontheim,  Olaf  the  King,  227. 
At  La  Chaudeau,  —  't  is  long  since  then,  631. 
At  Stralsund,  by  the  Baltic  Sea,  252. 
At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  height,  623. 
A  vision  as  of  crowded  city  streets,  315. 


Awake  I  arise !  the  hour  is  late,  359. 

Awake,  O  north-wind,  368. 

A  wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea,  199. 

A  youth,  light-hearted  and  content,  613. 

Barabbas  is  my  name,  400. 
Baron  Castine  of  St.  Castine,  259. 
Beautiful  lily,  dwelling  by  still  rivers,  287. 
Beautiful    valley !     through    whose    verdant 

meads,  325. 

Becalmed  upon  the  sea  of  Thought,  349. 
Behold  !  a  giant  am  I,  347. 


Bell !  thou  soundest  merrily,  611. 

Beside  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay,  20. 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight,  201. 

Beware  !  the  Israelite  of  old,  who  tore,  23. 

Black  are  the  moors  before  Kazan,  639. 

Black  shadows  fall,  184. 

Blind  Bartimeu§  at  the  gates,  17,  391. 

Bright  Sun !  that,  flaming  through  the  mid-day 

sky,  652. 

Build  me  straight,  0  worthy  Master,  99. 
Burn,  O  evening  hearth,  and  waken,  288. 
But  yesterday  these  few  and  hoary  leaves,  652. 
By  his  evening  fire  the  artist,  110. 
By  the  shore  of  Gitche  Gumee,  162. 
By  yon  still  river,  where  the  wave,  648. 

Can  it  be  the  sun  descending,  139. 

Centuries  old  are  the  mountains,  304. 

Christ  to  the  young  man  said:  Yet  one  thing 

more,  113. 

Clear  fount  of  light !  my  native  land  on  high,  593. 
Clear  honor  of  the  liquid  element,  652. 
Cold,   cold  is  the  north  wind  and  rude  is  the 

blast,  645. 

Come  from  thy  caverns  dark  and  deep,  305. 
Come,  my  beloved,  367. 
Come,  0  Death,  so  silent  flying,  597. 
Come,  old  friend !  sit  down  and  listen,  67. 
Come  to  me,  O  ye  children,  200. 

Dark  is  the  morning  with  mist ;  in  the  narrow 

mouth  of  the  harbor,  345. 
Dead  he  lay  among  his  books,  342. 
Dear  child  !  how  radiant  on  thy  mother's  knee. 

60. 

Don  Nuno,  Count  of  Lara,  594. 
Dost  thou  see  on  the  rampart's  height,  341. 
Dowered  with  all  celestial  gifts,  298% 
Down  from  yon  distant  mountain  height.  639. 
Downward  through  the  evening  twilight,  119. 

Each  heart  has  its  haunted  chamber,  294. 
Even  as  the  Blessed,  at  the  final  summons,  634. 
Evermore  a  sound  shall  be,  303. 


682 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES 


Every  flutter  of  the  wing,  302. 
Eyes  so  tristful,  eyes  so  tristful,  597. 

Far  and  wide  among  the  nations,  155. 

Filled  is  Life's  goblet  to  the  brim,  17. 

Flooded  by  rain  and  snow,  304. 

Flow  on,  sweet  river  !  like  his  verse,  357. 

Forms  of  saints  and  kings  are  standing,  615. 

For  thee  was  a  house  built,  618. 

Forth  from  the  curtain  of  clouds,  from  the  tent 

of  purple  and  scarlet,  182. 
Forth    rolled    the    Rhine  -  stream  strong    and 

deep,  653. 

Forth  upon  the  Gitche  Gumee,  130. 
Four  by  the  clock  !  and  yet  not  day,  354. 
Four  limpid  lakes,  —  four  Naiades,  351. 
From  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  296. 
From  the  river's  plashy  bank,  648. 
From  this  high  portal,  where  upsprings,  630. 
Full  of  wrath  was  Hiawatha,  151. 

Gaddi  mi  fece  :  il  Ponte  Vecchio  sono,  318. 

Garlands  upon  his  grave,  324. 

Gentle  Spring  !  in  sunshine  clad,  621. 

Gently  swaying  to  and  fro,  302. 

Give  me  of  your  bark,  0  Birch-tree,  128. 

Gloomy  and  dark   art  thou,   0  chief  of  the 

mighty  Omahas,  64. 
Glove  of  black  in  white  hand  bare,  597. 
God  sent  his  messenger  the  rain,  462. 
God  sent  his  Singers  upon  earth,  112. 
Good  night !  good  night,  beloved,  42. 
Guarding  the  mountains  around,  305. 

Hadst  thou  stayed,  I  must  have  fled,  257. 

Half  of  my  life  is  gone,  and  I  have  let,  68. 

Hark,  hark,  621. 

Haste  and  hide  thee,  303. 

Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle,  611. 

Have  I  dreamed  ?  or  was  it  real,  186. 

Have  you  read  in  the  Talmud  of  old,  200. 

He  is  dead,  the  beautiful  youth,  291. 

He  is  gone  to  the  desert  land  !  638. 

Hence  away,  begone,  begone,  655. 

Here  in  a  little  rustic  hermitage,  322. 

Here  lies  the  gentle  humorist,  who  died,  318. 

Here  rest  the  weary  oar  !  —  soft  airs,  647. 

High  on  their  turreted  cliffs,  304. 

Honor  be  to  Mudjekeewis  1  116. 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain,  59. 

How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day,  289. 

How  cold  are  thy  baths,  Apoilp  !  344. 

How  I  started  up  in  the  night,  in  the  night,.  617. 

How  many  lives,  made  beautiful  and  sweet, 

291. 

How  much  of  my  young  heart,  0  Spain,  335. 
How  strange  it  seems  !      These    Hebrews  in 

their  graves,  191. 
How  strange  the  sculptures  that  adorn  these 

towers,  292. 

How  the  Titan,  the  defiant,  300. 
How  they  so  softly  rest,  610. 

I  am  poor  and  old  and  blind,  328. 

I  am  the  God  Thor,  218. 

I  enter,  and  I  see  thee  in  the  gloom,  292. 

If  I  am  fair  't  is  for  myself  alone,  657. 


If  perhaps  these  rhymes  of  mine  should  sound 

not  well  in  strangers'  ears,  616. 
If  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden,  52,  637. 
I,  Gonzalo  de  Berceo,  in  the  gentle  summer-tide, 

653. 

I  have  a  vague  remembrance,  296. 
I  have  read,  in  .some  old,  marvelous  tale,  6. 
I  hear  along  our  street,  628. 
I  heard  a  brooklet  gushing,  610. 
I  heard  a  voice,  that  cried,  111. 
I  heard  the  bells  on  Christmas  Day,  289. 
I  heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night,  2. 
I  know  a  maiden  fair  to  see,  611. 
I  lay  upon  the  headland-height,  and  listened, 

287. 

I  leave  you,  ye  cold  mountain  chains,  630. 
I  lift  mine  eyes,  and  all  the  windows  blaze,  293. 
I  like  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase,  which  calls, 

16. 

In  Attica  thy  birthplace  should  have  been,  314. 
In  broad  daylight,  and  at  noon,  191. 
In  dark  fens  of  the  Dismal  Swamp,  21. 
In  his  chamber,  weak  and  dying,  58. 
In  his  lodge  beside  a  river,  160. 
In  Mather's  Magnalia  Christi,  187. 
In  Ocean's  wide  domains,  22. 
In  St.  Luke's  Gospel  we  are  told,  346. 
Intelligence  and  courtesy  not  always  are  com 
bined,  616. 

In  that  building  long  and  low,  195. 
In  that  desolate  land  and  lone,  336. 
In  that  province  of  our  France,  655. 
In  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges,  54. 
In  the  convent  of  Drontheim,  235. 
In  the  hamlet  desolate,  656. 
In  the  heroic  days  when  Ferdinand,  236. 
In  the  long,  sleepless  watches  of  the  night,  323. 
In  the  market-place  of  Bruges  stands  the  belfry 

old  and  brown,  54. 

In  the  old  churchyard  of  his  native  town,  348. 
In  the  Old  Colony  days,  in  Plymouth  the  land 

of  the  Pilgrims,  165. 
In    the   valley    of  the  Pegnitz,   where   across 

broad  meadow-lands,  57. 
In  the  Valley  of  the  Vire,  192. 
In  the  village  churchyard  she  lies,  189. 
In  the  workshop  of  Hephaestus,  298. 
In  those  days  said  Hiawatha,  145. 
In  those  days  the  Evil  Spirits,  147. 
Into  the  city  of  Kambalu,  247. 
Into  the  darkness  and  the  hush  of  night,  348. 
Into  the  open  air  John  Alden,  perplexed  and 

bewildered,  171. 
Into  the  Silent  Land,  612. 
I  pace  the  sounding  sea-beach  and  behold,  315. 
I  said  unto  myself,  if  I  were  dead,  317. 
I  sat  by  my  window  one  night,  650. 
I  saw,  as  hi  a  dream  sublime,  62. 
I  saw  the  long  line  of  the  vacant  shore,  317. 
I  see  amid  the  fields  of  Ayr,  344. 
I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air,  68. 
Is  it  so  far  from  thee,  342. 
1  sleep,  but  my  heart  awaketh,  366. 
I  stand  again  on  the  familiar  shore,  314. 
I  stand  beneath  the  tree,  whose  branches  shade, 

321. 
I  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight,  63. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


683 


I  stood  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's  wide  arch, 

9. 
Italy !   Italy !   thou  who  'rt  doomed  to  wear, 

635. 

I  thought  this  Pen  would  arise,  344. 
It  is  autumn  ;  not  without,  351. 
It  is  good  to  rhyming  go,  656. 
It  is  the  Harvest  Moon !   On  gilded  vanes,  320. 
I  trust  that  somewhere  and  somehow,  249. 
It  was  Einar  Tamberskelver,  233. 
It  was  fifty  years  ago,  199. 
It  was  Sir  Christopher  Gardiner,  284. 
It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus,  13. 
It  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the  land, 

240. 
I  wish  to  make  my  sermon  brief,  —  to  shorten 

my  oration,  653. 

Janus  am  I ;  oldest  of  potentates,  349. 
Joy  and  Temperance  and  Repose,  616. 
Just  above  you  sandy  bar,  104. 
Just  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  the  mists  up 
rose  from  the  meadows,  174. 

King  Christian  stood  by  the  lofty  mast,  607. 
King  Ring  with  his  queen  to  the  banquet  did 

fare,  599. 
King  Solomon,  before  his  palace  gate,  264. 

Labor  with  what  zeal  we  will,  203. 

Lady,  how  can  it  chance  —  yet  this  we  see,  636. 

Lady  !  thine  upward  flight,  652. 

Laugh  of  the  mountain  !  —  lyre  of  bird  and  tree  ! 

593. 
Leafless  are  the  trees;  their  purple  branches, 

195. 

Let  him  who  will,  by  force  or  fraud  innate,  631. 
Let  me  go  warm  and  merry  still,  651. 
Let  nothing  disturb  thee,  597. 
Like  two  cathedral  towers  these  stately  pines, 

348. 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear,  207. 
Little  sweet  wine  of  Jurangon,  632. 
Live  I,  so  live  I,  616. 
Lo !  in  the  painted  oriel  of  the  West,  69. 
Longing  already  to  search  in  and  round,  634. 
Lord,  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing  care, 

593. 

Loud  he  sang  the  psalm  of  David,  22. 
Loud  sang  the  Spanish  cavalier,  48. 
Loud  the  angry  wind  was  wailing,  226. 
Loudly  the  sailors  cheered,  231. 
Love,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart  of 

mine  ?  632. 
Lull  me  to  sleep,  ye  winds,  whose  fitful  sound, 

317. 
Lutheran,  Popish,  Calvinistic,  all  these  creeds 

and  doctrines  three,  616. 

Maiden  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes,  18. 

Man-like  is  it  to  fall  into  sin,  616. 

Many  a  day  and  wasted  year,  649. 

Meanwhile  the  stalwart  Miles  Standish  was 
marching  steadily  northward,  178. 

Month  after  month  passed  away,  and  in  Au 
tumn  the  ships  of  the  merchants,  180. 

Most  beautiful,  most  gentle  !  yet  how  lost,  647. 


Mounted  on  Kyrat  strong  and  fleet,  338. 
Much  it  behoveth,  620. 
My  beloved  is  white  and  ruddy,  366. 
My  soul  its  secret  has,  my  life  too  has  its  mys 
tery,  632. 

My  undenled  is  but  one,  367, 
My  way  is  on  the  bright  blue  sea,  650. 

Neglected  record  of  a  mind  neglected,  360. 

Never  shall  souls  like  these,  307. 

Never  stoops  the  soaring  vulture,  156. 

Night  comes  stealing  from  the  East,  654. 

Night  rests  in  beauty  on  Mont  Alto,  646. 

Nine  sisters,  beautiful  in  form  and  face,  319. 

No  more  shall  I  see,  600. 

Northward  over  Drontheim,  230. 

No  sound  of  wheels  or  hoof -beat  breaks,  325. 

Not  fashioned  out  of  gold,  like  Hera's  throne, 
_297. 

Nothing  that  is  shall  perish  utterly,  537. 

Nothing  the  greatest  artist  can  conceive,  635. 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurry 
ing  pen  of  the  stripling,  166. 

Not  without  fire  can  any  workman  mould,  635. 

Now  from  all  King  Olaf's  farms,  221. 

Nowhere  such  a  devious  stream,  328. 

Now  the  zephyrs  diminish  the  cold,  and  the 
year  being  ended,  643. 

Now  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again,  621. 

0  amiable  solitude,  656. 

O  Caesar,  we  who  are  about  to  die,  310. 

O  curfew  of  the  setting  sun !  0  bells  of  Lynn ! 
290. 

O'er  all  the  hill-tops,  617. 

O  faithful,  indefatigable  tides,  360. 

Of  Edenhall,  the  youthful  Lord,  613. 

Of  Prometheus,  how  undaunted,  185. 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town,  194. 

Oft  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door,  292. 

Oft  I  remember  those  whom  I  have  known, 
356. 

O  gift  of  God  !  O  perfect  day,  202. 

O  gladsome  light,  418. 

0  hemlock  tree !  O  hemlock  tree  !  how  faith 
ful  are  thy  branches,  614. 

Oh,  give  me  back  the  days  when  loose  and  free, 
636. 

Oh,  how  blest  are  ye  whose  toils  are  ended,  616. 

Oh  let  the  soul  her  slumbers  break,  587. 

Oh  that  a  Song  would  sing  itself  to  me,  322. 

Oh,  the  long  and  dreary  Winter,  158. 

Olaf  the  King,  one  summer  morn,  223. 

Olger  the  Dane  and  Desiderio,  265. 

0  Light  serene !  present  in  him  who  breathes, 
652. 

0  little  feet !  that  such  long  years,  203. 

O  Lord!  who  seest,  from  yon  starry  height, 
593. 

0  lovely  river  of  Yyette,  337. 

Once  into  a  quiet  village,  110. 

Once  more,  once  more,  Inarime1,  336. 

Once  on  a  time,  some  centuries  ago,  275. 

Once  the  Emperor  Charles  of  Spain,  189. 

Once  upon  Iceland's  solitary  strand,  323. 

One  Autumn  night,  in  Sudbury  town,  204. 

One  day,  Haroun  Al  Raschid  read,  339. 


684 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 


One  hundred  years  ago,  and  something  more, 

255. 

One  morning,  all  alone,  415. 
One  morning,  on  the  sea  shore  as  I  strayed,  657. 
One  summer  morning,  when  the  sun  was  hot,  209. 
On  King  Olaf  's  bridal  night,  224. 
On  St.  Bavon's  tower,  commanding,  337. 
On  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell,  10. 
On  the  cross  the  dying  Saviour,  615. 
On  the  gray  sea-sands,  232. 
On  the  green  little  isle  of  Inchkenneth,  339. 
On  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie,  115. 
On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee,  132. 
On  the  top  of  a  mountain  I  stand,  48. 
O  precious  evenings  !  all  too  swiftly  sped,  112. 
O  River  of  Yesterday,  with  current  swift,  321. 
O  star  of  morning  and  of  liberty,  293. 
O  sweet  illusions  of  Song.  294. 
Othere,  the  old  sea-captain,  198. 
O  traveller,  stay  thy  weary  feet,  359. 
Our  God,  a  Tower  of  Strength  is  He,  463. 
Out  of  childhood  into  manhood,  121. 
Out  of  the  bosom  of  the  Air,  202. 
O  weathercock  on  the  village  spire,  347. 
O  ye  dead  Poets,  who  are  living  still,  319. 

Padre  Francisco,  29. 

Pentecost,   day  of  rejoicing,   had  come.     The 

church  of  the  village,  600. 
Peradventure  of  old,  some  bard  in  Ionian  Is 

lands,  354. 

Pleasant  it  was,  when  woods  were  green,  1. 
Poet  !  I  come  to  touch  thy  lance  with  mine,  323. 
Pure  Spirit  I  that  within  a  form  of  clay,  652. 

Quand  les  astres  de  Noel,  293. 

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty  sat  proud  and  aloft, 


Rabbi  Ben  Levi,  on  the  Sabbath,  read,  214. 

Rio  Verde,  Rio  Verde,  594. 

Rise  up,  my  love,  my  fair  one,  366. 

River  1  that  in  silence  windest,  16. 

River,  that  stealest  with  such  silent  pace,  315. 

Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Urbane,  215. 

Round  Autumn's  mouldering  urn,  646. 

Sadly  as  some  old  medieval  knight,  357. 
Safe  at  anchor  in  Drontheim  bay,  229. 
Saint  Augustine  !  well  hast  thou  said,  186. 
St.  Botolph's  Town  !  Hither  across  the  plains, 

San  Miguel  de  la  Tumba  is  a  convent  vast  and 

wide,  596. 

See,  the  fire  is  sinking  low,  290. 
She  dwells  by  Great  Kenhawa's  side,  21. 
She  is  a  maid  of  artless  grace,  596. 
Shepherd  !    who  with  thine    amorous,   sylvan 

song,  592. 

Short  of  stature,  large  of  limb,  225. 
Should  any  one  there  in  Rome  remember  Ovid 

the  exile,  641. 

Should  you  ask  me,  whence  these  stories,  113. 
Silent,  in  the  veil  of  evening  twilight,  654. 
Simon  Danz  has  come  home  again,  334. 
Sing,  0  Song  of  Hiawatha,  143. 
Sir  Oluf  he  rideth  over  the  plain,  608. 


Sleep,  comrades,  sleep  and  rest,  359. 

Slowly,  slowly  up  the  wall,  440. 

Slowly  the  hour-hand  of  the  clock  moves  round, 

320. 
So  from  the  bosom  of  darkness  our  days  come 

roaring  and  gleaming,  360. 
Soft  through  the  silent  air  descend  the  feathery 

snow-flakes,  360. 
Solemnly,  mournfully,  69. 
Some  day,  some  day,  597. 

Something  the  heart  must  have  to  cherish,  618. 
Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street,  07. 
So  the  strong  will  prevailed,  and  Alden  went  on 

his  errand,  168. 

Southward  with  fleet  of  ice,  105. 
Spake  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and  olden, 

O. 

Speak  !^  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest,  11. 

Spring  is  coming,  birds  are  twittering,  forests 

leaf,  and  smiles  the  sun,  599. 
Stars  of  the  summer  night,  26. 


Stay,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest,  340. 
Still  through  Egypt's  desert  places,  356. 
Stretched  in  thy  shadows  1  rehearse,  655. 


Strike  the  sails  !  King  Olaf  said,  233. 
Svend  Dyring  he  rideth  adown  the  glade,  282. 
Sweet  as  the  tender  fragrance  that  survives,  341. 
Sweet  babe  !  true  portrait  of  thy  father's  face, 

622.. 
Sweet  chimes !  that  in  the  loneliness  of  night, 

354. 
Sweet  faces,  that  from  pictured  casements  lean, 

322. 
Sweet  the  memory  is  to  me,  326. 

Tadcleo  Gadcli  built  me.    I  am  old,  318. 

Take  them,  0  Death  !  and  bear  away,  112. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers,  3. 

Tell  me,  tell  me,  thou  pretty  bee,  658. 

The  Ages  come  and  go,  522. 

The  Archbishop,  whom  God  loved  in  high  de 
gree,  622. 

The  battle  is  fought  and  won,  280. 

The  brooklet  came  from  the  mountain,  296. 

The  ceaseless  rain  is  falling  fast,  324. 

The  course  of  my  long  life  hath  reached  at  last, 
636. 

The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary,  16. 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness,  64. 

The  day  is  ending,  65. 

The  doors  are  all  wide  open  ;  at  the  gate,  315. 

The  guests  were  loud,  the  ale  was  strong,  222. 

The  holiest  of  all  holidays  are  those,  322. 

The  lights  are  out,  and  gone  are  all  the  guests, 
308. 

The  Lord  descended  from  above,  466. 

The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon,  4. 

The  nuns  in  the  cloister,  42. 

The  old  house  by  the  lindens,  109. 

The  pages  of  thy  book  I  read,  20. 

The  panting  City  cried  to  the  Sea,  356. 

The  peasant  leaves  his  plough  afield,  594. 

There  is  a  love  that  cannot  die,  648. 

There  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these  woods,  10. 

There  is  a  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death,  3. 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 
107. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


685 


There  sat  one  day  in  quiet,  609. 

The  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars,  15. 

The  rocky  ledge  runs  far  into  the  sea,  106. 

There  was  a  time  when  I  was  very  small,  608. 

The  rivers  rush  into  the  sea,  610. 

The  sea  awoke  at  midnight  from  its  sleep,  316. 

The  sea  hath  its  pearls,  615. 

These  are  the  Voices  Three,  305. 

These  words  the  poet  heard  in  Paradise,  357. 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast,  19. 

The  Slaver  in  the  broad  lagoon,  22. 

The  summer  sun  is  sinking  low,  353. 

The  sun  is  bright,  —  the  air  is  clear,  15. 

The  sun  is  set ;  and  in  his  latest  beams,  316. 

The  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls,  347. 

The  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy,  105. 

The  wind  is  rising  ;  it  seizes  and  shakes,  407. 

The  works  of  human  artifice  soon  tire,  652. 

The  world  is  full  of  care,  484. 

They  made  the  warrior's  grave  beside,  650. 

The  young  Endymion  sleeps  Endymion's  sleep, 

316. 
They  were  three  hundred,  they  were  young  and 

strong,  C>58. 

This  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling,  56. 
This  is  the  forest  primeval.    The  murmuring 

pines  and  the  hemlocks,  71. 
This  is  the  place.    Stand  still,  my  steed,  55. 
This  song  of  mine,  196. 
Thora  of  Rimol  I  hide  me !  hide  me,  220. 
Thorberg  Skaf  ting,  master-builder,  228. 
Thou  ancient  oak !    whose  myriad  leaves  are 

loud,  318. 

Thou  brooklet,  all  unknown  to  song,  630. 
Thou  comest,  Autumn,  heralded  by  the  rain,  69. 
Though  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly,  yet  they 

grind  exceeding  small,  616. 
Thou  mighty  Prince  of  Church  and  State,  629. 
Thou  Royal  River,  born  of  sun  and  shower,  320. 
Thou  that  from  the  heavens  art,  617. 
Three  Kings  came  riding  from  far  away,  339. 
Three  miles  extended  around  the  fields  of  the 

homestead,  on  three  sides,  598. 
Three  Silences  there  are :  the  first  of  speech,  320. 
Thus  for  a  while  he  stood,  and  mused  by  the 

shore  of  the  ocean,  177. 
Thus  sang  the  Potter  at  his  task,  329. 
Thus,  then,  much  care-worn,  618. 
'T  is  late  at  night,  and  in  the  realm  of  sleep,  291. 
Tityrus,  thou  in  the  shade  of  a  spreading  beech- 
tree  reclining,  640. 

To-day  from  the  Aurora's  bosom,  651. 
To  gallop  off  to  town  post-haste,  632. 
To  noble  heart  Love  doth  for  shelter  fly,  637. 
Torrent  of  light  and  river  of  the  air,  316. 
Turn,  turn,  my  wheel !  Turn  round  and  round, 

329. 
Tuscan,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms  of 

gloom,  69. 

'T  was  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness,  612. 
Two  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of  Death,  190. 
Two  good  friends  had  Hiawatha,  127. 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut-tree,  14. 
Under  Mount  Etna  he  lies,  201. 
Under  the  walls  of  Monterey,  193. 


Until  we  meet  again !    That  is  the  meaning,  354. 
Up  soared  the  lark  into  the  air,  327. 

Viswamitra  the  Magician,  339. 
Vogelweid  the  Minnesinger,  66. 

Warm  and  still  is  the  summer  night,  333. 
Welcome,  my  old  friend,  65. 
Welcome,  O  Stork  !  that  dost  wing,  639. 
We  sat  within  the  farm-house  old,  106. 
What  an  image  of  peace  and  rest,  346. 
What  is  this  I  read  in  history,  352. 
What  phantom  is  this  that  appears,  345. 
What  say  the  Bells  of  San  Bias,  359. 
What  shall  I  do,  sweet  Nici,  tell  me,  658. 
What  should  be  said  of  him  cannot  be  said,  637. 
What  the  Immortals,  302. 
When  Alcuin  taught  the  sons  of  Charlemagne, 

266. 
When  by  night  the  frogs  are  croaking,  kindle 

but  a  torch's  fire,  616. 
When  Christ  was  born  in  Bethlehem,  657. 
When  descends  on  the  Atlantic,  103. 
Whene'er  a  noble  deed  is  wrought,  197. 
When  first  in  ancient  time,  from  Jubal's  tongue, 

645. 

When  I  compare,  359. 
When  I  remember  them,  those  friends  of  mine, 

314. 

When  Mazdryan  the  Magician,  295. 
When  the  dying  flame  of  day,  9. 
When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered,  4. 
When  the  prime  mover  of  my  many  sighs,  636. 
When  the  summer  fields  are  mown,  297. 
When  the  summer  harvest  was  gathered  in,  649. 
When  the  warm  sun,  that  brings,  7. 
When  upon  the  ^  western  cloud,  645. 
When  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill,  8. 
Where  are  the  Poets,  unto  whom  belong,  358. 
Where  from  the  eye  of  day,  650. 
Whereunto  is  money  good,  616. 
Whilom  Love  was  like  a  fire,  and  warmth  and 

comfort  it  bespoke,  616. 

White  swan  of  cities,  slumbering  in  thy  nest,  319. 
Whither,  thou  turbid  wave,  609. 
Who  knocks, —  who  knocks  at  my  door,  657. 
Who  love  would  seek,  616. 
Why  dost  thou  wildly  rush  and  roar,  358. 
Will  ever  the  dear  days  come  back  again,  631. 
Will  then,  Duperrier,  thy  sorrow  be  eternal  ? 

628.  ^ 

With  favoring  winds,  o'er  sunlit  seas,  342. 
With  snow-white  veil  and  garments  as  of  flame, 

292. 

With  what  a  glory  comes  and  goes  the  year,  8. 
With  what  a  hollow  dirge,  its  voice  did  fill,  651. 
Witlaf ,  a  king  of  the  Saxons.  109. 
Worn  with  speed  is  my  good  steed,  52. 

Ye  sentinels  of  sleep,  305. 

Yes,  the  moment  shall  decide,  306. 

Yes,  the  Year  is  growing  old.  6. 

Yet  not  in  vain,  O  River  of  Yesterday,  321. 

Ye  voices,  that  arose,  11. 

You  shall  hear  how  Hiawatha,  124. 

You  shall  hear  how  Pau-Puk-Keewis,  137,  149. 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


The  titles  of  major  works  and  of  general  divisions  are  set  in  small  capitals. 


Abbot  Joachim,  The,  407. 

Aftermath,  297. 

Afternoon  in  February,  65. 

Allah,  618. 

Amain,  326. 

Ancient  Spanish  Ballads,  594. 

Angel  and  the  Child,  The,  629. 

Angler's  Song,  The,  648. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  614. 

April  Day,  An,  7. 

Arrow  and  the  Song,  The,  68. 

Arsenal  at  Springfield,  The,  56. 

Art  and  Nature,  652. 

Artist,  The,  635. 

Assumption  of  the  Virgin,  The,  652. 

At  La  Chaudeau,  631. 

Auf  Wiedersehen,  354. 

Autumn:    "Thou  comest,  Autumn,  heralded  by  the 

rain,"  69. 
Autumn :   "  With  what  a  glory  comes  and    goes  the 

year,  8. 

Autumnal  Nightfall,  646. 
Autumn  Within,  351. 
Avon,  To  the,  357. 
Azrael,  264. 

Ballad  of  Carmilhan,  The,  252. 

Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet,  A,  337. 

BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  11. 

Banks  of  the  Cher,  The,  655. 

Baron  of  St.  Castine,  The,  259. 

Barrages,  630. 

Battle  of  Lovell's  Pond,  The,  645. 

Bayard  Taylor,  342. 

Beatrice,  634. 

Becalmed,  349. 

Beleaguered  City,  The,  5. 

BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  THE,  53, 

Belfry  of  Bruges,  The,  54. 

Belisarius,  328. 

Bell  of  Atri,  The,  245. 

Bells  of  Lynn,  The,  290. 

Bells  of  San  Bias,  The,  359. 

Beowulf's  Expedition  to  Heort,  618. 

Beware,  611. 

Bird  and  the  Ship,  The,  610. 

Birds  of  Killingworth,  The,  240. 

BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE,  184. 

Birds  of  Passage,  184. 

Black  Knight,  The,  612. 

Blessed  are  the  Dead,  616. 

Blind  Bartimeus,  17. 

BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLE,  THE,  623. 

BOOK  OF  SONNETS,  A,  314. 

Boston,  321. 

Boy  and  the  Brook,  The,  639. 

Bridge,  The,  63. 

Bridge  of  Cloud,  The,  288. 

Broken  Oar,  The,  323. 

Brook,  The,  593. 

Brook  and  the  Wave,  The,  296. 

Brooklet,  To  my,  630. 

BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP,  THE,  99. 

Builders,  The,  108. 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink,  10. 

Burial  of  the  Poet,  The,  348. 


Cadenabbia,  325. 

Canzone,  637. 

Carillon,  54. 

Castle-Builder,  The,  295. 

Castle  by  the  Sea,  The,  611. 

Castles  in  Spain,  335. 

Catawba  Wine,  196. 

Celestial  Pilot,  The,  633. 

Challenge,  The,  29G. 

Chamber  over  the  Gate,  The,  342. 

Changed,  296. 

Channing,  To  William  E.,  20. 

Charlemagne,  265. 

Charles  Sumner,  324. 

Chaucer,  315. 

Chaudeau,  At  La,  631. 

Child  Asleep,  The,  622. 

Child,  To  a,  60. 

Childhood,  608. 

Children,  200. 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPEE,  THB,  600, 

Children's  Crusade,  The,  352. 

Children's  Hour,  The,  201. 

Chimes,  354. 

Christmas  Bells,  289. 

Christmas  Carol,  628. 

Christmas  Carol,  A,  657. 

CHRISTUS  :  A  MYSTERY,  361. 

Chrysaor,  104. 

City  and  the  Sea,  The,  356. 

Clear  Honor  of  the  Liquid  Element,  652. 

Cobbler  of  Hagenau,  The,  249. 

Come,  O  Death,  so  silent  flying,  597. 

Consolation,  628. 

COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE,  587. 

COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH,  THE,  164. 

Cross  of  Snow,  The,  323. 

Cumberland,  The,  202. 

Curfew,  69. 

Danish  Song-Book,  To  an  Old,  65. 

Dante  :  "  Tuscan,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms  of 

gloom,"  69. 

Dante:  "  What  should  be  said  of  him  cannot  be  aaid,"  637, 
Daybreak,  199. 
Day  is  Done,  The,  64. 
Daylight  and  Moonlight,  191. 
Day  of  Sunshine,  A,  202. 
Dead,  The,  610. 

Death  of  Archbishop  Turpin,  622. 
Decoration  Day,  359. 
Dedication  (Michael  Angelo),  537. 
Dedication  (The  Seaside  and  the  Fireside),  99. 
Delia,  341. 

Descent  of  the  Muses,  The,  319. 
Dirge  over  a  Nameless  Grave,  648. 
Discoverer  of  the  North  Cape,  The,  198. 
Disembodied  Spirit,  The,  652. 
Divina  Commedia,  292. 
DIVINE  TRAGEDY,  THE,  363. 
Drinking  Song,  67. 
Driving  Cloud,  To  the,  64. 
Dutch  Picture,  A,  334. 

EARLIER  POEMS,  7. 
Elected  Knight,  The,  608. 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


687 


Elegiac,  345. 

Elegiac  Verse,  354. 

Elegy,  654. 

Eliot's  Oak,  318. 

Elizabeth,  270. 

Emma  and  Eginhard,  266. 

Emperor's  Bird's-Nest,  The,  189. 

Emperor's  Glove,  The,  337. 

Enceladus,  201. 

Endymion,  15. 

Epimetheus,  or  the  Poet's  Afterthought,  186. 

EVANGELINE  :   A  TALE  OF  ACADIE,  70. 

Evening  Star,  The,  69. 

Excelsior,  19. 

Eyes  so  tristful,  eyes  so  tristful,  597. 

Falcon  of  Ser  Federigo,  The,  209. 

Fata  Morgana,  294. 

Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz,  199. 

Fire,  635. 

Fire  of  Driftwood,  The,  106. 

Florentine  Song,  A,  657. 

FLOWER-DE-LUCE,  287. 

Flower-de-Luce,  287. 

Flowers,  5. 

Fontenay,  656. 

Footsteps  of  Angels,  4. 

Forest  of  Gastine,  To  the,  655. 

Forsaken,  618. 

Four  by  the  Clock,  354. 

Four  Lakes  of  Madison,  The,  351. 

Four  Princesses  at  Wilna,  The,  322. 

Fragment,  A,  359. 

FRAGMENTS,  360. 

Friar  Lubiu,  632. 

Frithiof's  Farewell,  600. 

Frithiof's  Homestead,  598. 

Frithiof's  Temptation,  599. 

From  my  Arm-Chair,  343. 

From  the  Cancioneros,  597. 

Fugitive,  The,  668. 

Galaxy,  The,  316. 

Gaspar  Becerra,  110. 

Giles  Corey  of  the  Salem  Farms,  495. 

Giotto's  Tower,  291. 

Gleam  of  Sunshine,  A,  55. 

Gleaner  of  Sapri,  The,  658. 

Glove  of  Black  in  White  Hand  Bare,  597, 

Goblet  of  Life,  The,  17. 

God's- Acre,  16. 

GOLDEN  LEGEND,  THE,  408. 

Golden  Milestone,  The,  195. 

Good  Part  that  shall  not  be  taken  away,  The,  21. 

Good  Shepherd,  The,  592. 

Grave,  The,  618. 

HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE,  THE,  308. 

Happiest  Land,  The,  (509. 

Haroun  Al  Raschid,  339. 

Harvest  Moon,  The,  320. 

Haunted  Chamber,  The,  294. 

Haunted  HOUSPS,  188. 

Hawthorne,  289. 

Helen  of  Tyre,  345. 

Hemlock  Tree,  614. 

Hermes  Trismegistus,  356. 

Herons  of  Elmwood,  The,  333. 

Holidays,  322. 

Hymn  for  my  Brother's  Ordination,  112. 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem,  9. 

Hymn  to  the  Night,  2. 

lanthe,  To,  645. 
Ideal  Beauty,  652. 
Image  of  God,  The,  593. 
Indian  Hunter,  The,  649. 


Inscription  on  the  Shanklin  Fountain,  359. 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Cambridge,  189. 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Tarrytown,  318. 

IN  THE  HARBOR,  349. 

Iron  Pen,  The,  344. 

Italian  Scenery,  646. 

Italy,  To,  635. 

It  is  not  always  May,  15. 

Jeckoyva,  650. 

Jewish  Cemetery  at  Newport,  The,  191. 

John  Endicott,  465. 

JUDAS  MACCABEUS,  523. 

Jugurtha,  344. 

JUVENILE  POEMS,  645. 

Kambalu,  247. 

Keats,  316. 

KERAMOS,  329. 

Killed  at  the  Ford,  291. 

King  Christian,  607. 

King  Robert  of  Sicily,  215. 

King  Trisanku,  339. 

King  Witlaf 's  Driuking-Horn,  109. 

Ladder  of  St.  Augustine,  The,  186. 
Lady  Wentworth,  255. 
Leap  of  Roushan  Beg,  The,  338. 
Legend  Beautiful,  The,  257. 
Legend  of  the  Cross-Bill,  The,  615. 
Legend  of  Rabbi  Ben  Levi,  The,  214. 
L'Envoi  (Ultima  Thule),  348. 
L'Envoi  (Voices  of  the  Night),  11. 
Let  me  go  Warm,  651. 
Lighthouse,  The,  106. 
Light  of  Stars,  The,  4. 
Loss  and  Gain,  359. 
Lover's  Complaint,  The,  652. 
Lover's  Rock,  648. 
Luck  of  Edenhall,  The,  613. 
Lunatic  Girl,  647. 

Mad  River,  358. 

Maiden  and  Weathercock,  347. 

Maidenhood,  18. 

Martin  Luther,  463. 

MASQUE  OF  PANDORA,  THE,  297. 

Meeting,  The,  295. 

Memories,  356. 

Mezzo  Cammin,  68. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  :  A  FRAGMENT,  537. 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year,  6. 

Milagros  de  Nuestra  Senora,  653. 

Milton,  315. 

Monk  of  Casal-Maggiore,  The,  275. 

Monte  Cassiuo,  325. 

Moods,  322. 

Moonlight,  352. 

Morituri  Salutamus,  310. 

Mother's  Ghost,  The,  282. 

Musings,  650. 

My  Books,  357. 

My  Cathedral,  348. 

My  Lost  Youth,  193. 

My  Secret,  632. 

Nameless  Grave,  A,  317. 

Native  Land,  The,  593. 

Nativity  of  Christ,  The,  651. 

Nature,  318. 

Nature  of  Love,  The,  637. 

Neapolitan  Canzonet,  A,  657. 

Neglected  Record  of  a  Mind  Neglected-  36 

NEW  ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES,  THE,  465. 

Night,  348. 

Noel,  293. 

Norman  Baron,  The,  58. 


688 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


Nuremberg,  67. 

Occupation  of  Orion,  The,  62. 

Ode  written  for  the  Commemoration  at  Fryeburg,  Maine, 

of  Lovewell's  Fight,  649. 
O  Faithful,  Indefatigable  Tides,  360. 
Old  Age,  G36. 

Old  Bridge  at  Florence,  The,  318. 
Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs,  The,  67. 
Old  St.  David's  at  Radnor,  346. 
Oliver  Basselin,  192. 
Open  Window,  The,  109. 
Ovid  in  Exile,  641. 

Palingenesis,  287. 

Parker  Cleaveland,  319. 

PASSAGES  FROM  FRITHIOP'S  SAGA,  598. 

Paul  Revere's  Ride,  207. 

Pegasus  in  Pound,  110. 

Phantom  Ship,  The,  187. 

POEMS  ON  SLAVERY,  20. 

Poet  and  his  Songs,  The,  348. 

Poetic  Aphorisms,  616. 

Poets,  The,  319. 

Poet's  Calendar,  The,  349. 

Ponte  Vecchio  di  Firenze,  II,  318. 

Possibilities,  358. 

Praise  of  Little  Women,  653. 

Pray  for  me,  656. 

Prelude  (Voices  of  the  Night),  1. 

President  Garfield,  357. 

Prometheus,  or  the  Poet's  Forethought,  185. 

Psalm  of  Life,  A,  2. 

Quadroon  Girl,  The,  22. 
Quiet  Life,  A,  631. 

Rain  in  Summer,  59. 

Rainy  Day,  The,  16. 

Reaper  and  the  Flowers,  The,  3. 

Remorse,  617. 

Resignation,  107. 

Return  of  Spring,  The,  621. 

Revenge  of  Rain-in-the-Face,  The,  336 

Rhyme  of  Sir  Christopher,  The,  284. 

River  Charles,  To  the,  16. 

River  Rhone,  To  the,  320. 

River  Yvette,  To  the,  337. 

Robert  Burns,  344. 

Rondel :  "  Hence  away,  begone,  begone,"  655. 

Rondel  :  "  Love,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart  of 

mine  ?  "  632. 
Ropewalk,  The,  195. 

SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF,  THE,  218. 

St.  John,  522. 

St.  John's,  Cambridge,  321. 

Saudalphon,  200. 

Sand  of  the  Desert  in  an  Hour-Glass,  108. 

San  Miguel,  the  Convent,  596. 

Santa  Filomeua,  197. 

Santa  Teresa's  Book-Mark,  597. 

Scanderbeg,  280. 

Sea-Diver,  The,  650. 

Sea  hath  its  Pearls,  The,  615. 

SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE,  THE,  98. 

Seaweed,  103. 

Secret  of  the  Sea,  The,  104. 

Sermon  of  St.  Francis,  The,  327. 

Seven  Sonnets  and  a  Canzone,  635. 

Shadow,  A,  317. 

Shakespeare,  315. 

Sicilian  Canzonet,  658. 

Siege  of  Kazan,  The,  639. 

Sifting  of  Peter,  The,  346. 

Silent  Love,  616. 

Singers,  The,  112. 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  105. 


Song  : 
Song  : 
Song  : 


Skeleton  in  Armor,  The,  11. 
Slave  in  the  Dismal  Swamp,  The,  21. 
Slave's  Dream,  The,  20. 
Slave  Singing  at  Midnight,  The,  22. 
Sledge-Ride  on  the  Ice,  A,  599. 
Sleep,  317. 
Snow-Flakes,  202. 

So  from  the  Bosom  of  Darkness,  360. 
Soft  through  the  Silent  Air,  360. 
Soldier's  Song,  A,  G5f  . 
Some  Day,  Some  Day,  597. 
Something  left  Undone,  203. 
Song  :  And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh,  621. 
Song  :  Hark,  hark  !  621. 
Song  :  If  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden,  637. 
She  is  a  maid  of  artless  grace,  596. 
Stay,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  340. 
Where,  from  the  eye  of  day,  650. 
SONG  OF  HIAWATHA,  THE,  113. 
Sor.g  of  Savoy,  A,  648. 
Song  of  the  Bell,  611. 
Song  of  the  Birds,  651. 
Song  of  the  Rhine,  653. 
Song  of  the  Silent  Land,  612. 
Songo  River,  320. 
SONNETS. 

Art  and  Nature,  652.—— 

Artist,  The,  635.—- 
-Autumn,  69. 
-Boston,  321. 

Broken  Oar,  The,  323. 

Brook,  The,  593r— 

Burial  of  the  Poet,  The,  348. 

Chaucer,  315. 

Chimes,  354. 

Clear  Honor  of  the  Liquid  Element,  652.  -- 

Cross  of  Snow,  The,  323. 

Dante,  69. 

Dante,  637.— 

-Dedication  to  Michael  Angelo,  537. 
-^Descent  of  the  Muses,  The,  319. 

Disembodied  Spirit,  The,  652.  — 
—  Divina  Commedia,  292. 
-Eliot's  Oak,  318. 
—Evening  Star,  The,  69. 

Fire,  635.—  " 

—Four  Princesses  at  Wilna,  The,  322. 
-fialaxy,  The,  316. 
-€Uotto's  Tower,  291. 

Good  Shepherd,  The,  592.— 
—Harvest  Moon,  The,  320. 
—Holidays,  322. 

How  strange  the  sculptures  that  adorn  these  towers, 
292. 

Ideal  Beauty,  652.-*" 
'•J  enter,  and  I  see  thee  in  the  gloom,  292. 

I  lift  mine  eyes,  and  all  the  windows  blaze,  293. 

Image  of  God,  The,  593.— 
«-*n  the  Churchyard  at  Tarrytown,  318. 

Italy,  To,  635.— 
—Keats,  316. 

Lover's  Complaint,  The,  652.— 
^Memories,  356. 
•«*Mezzo  Cammin,  68. 
-Milton,  315. 
—Moods,  322. 

—4frs.  Kemble's  Readings  from  Shakespeare,  On,  112. 
—My  Books,  357. 
-My  Cathedral,  348. 

My  Secret,  632.  - 
—Nameless  Grave,  A,  317. 

Native  Land,  The,  593.~~" 
•"•BTature,  318. 
^JJight,  348. 
•-Oft  have  I  aeen  at  some  Cathedral  Door,  292. 

Old  Age,  636."— 

—Old  Bridge  at  Florence,  The,  318. 
—  "O  Star  of  Morning  and  of  Liberty  !  293. 


1 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


689 


—Parker  Cleaveland,  319. 
— Poets,  The,  319. 
_J>onte  Vecchio  di  Firenza,  II,  318. 
—Possibilities,  358. 
-President  Garfield,  357. 

Quiet  Life,  A,  631. 

Return  of  Spring,  The,  621, 

•"River  Rhone,  To  the,  320. 
--fit.  John's,  Cambridge,  321. 
-—Shadow,  A,  317. 

•Shakespeare,  315. 
—Sleep,  317. 

-—Sound  of  the  Sea,  The,  316. 
-Summer  Day  by  the  Sea,  A,  316. 
—Three  Friends  of  Mine,  314.  — 
— fFhree  Silences  of  Molinos,  The,  320, 
-    ffides,  The,  317. 
• — -To-Morrow,  291. 

To-Morrow,  593.—— 

Two  Harvests,  The,  652.—— 

— 3Vo  Rivers,  The,  320.   iJ  5  CTW-V*^*-« 

— Venice,  319. 

—Victor  and  Vanquished,  351. 

Vittoria  Colonna,  To,  636. — • 

Vittoria  Colonna,  To,  636.  — — 
— Wapentake,  323. 

Will  ever  the  dear  Days  come  back  again,  631.  "    — 
^JJTith  Snow-white  Veil  and  Garments  as  of  Flame,  292. 
— .Woodstock  Park,  322. 

Youth  and  Age,  635.  — 
Soul's  Complaint  against  the  Body,  The,  620. 
Sound  of  the  Sea,  The,  316, 
SPANISH  STUDENT,  The,  23. 
Spirit  of  Poetry,  The,  10. 
Spring,  621. 
Stars,  The,  654. 

Statue  over  the  Cathedral  Door,  The,  615. 
Stork,  To  the,  639. 
Summer  Day  by  the  Sea,  A,  316. 
Sundown,  353. 
Sunrise  on  the  Hills,  9. 
Suspiria,  112. 
Symbolum  Apostolorum,  406. 

TALES  OP  A  WAYSIDE  INN,  204. 

TegneVs  Drapa,  111. 

Tell  me,  tell  me,  thou  pretty  Bee,  658. 

Terrace  of  the  Aigalades,  On  the,  630. 

Terrestrial  Paradise,  The,  634. 

Thanksgiving,  645. 

Three  Vriends  of  Mine,  314. 

Three  Kings,  The,  339. 

Three  Silences  of  Molinos,  The,  320. 

Tide  Rises,  the  Tide  Falls,  The,  347. 

Tides,  The,  317. 

To  a  Child,  60. 

To  an  Old  Danish  Song-Book,  65. 

To  Cardinal  Richelieu,  629. 

Tolanthe,645. 


To  Italy,  634. 

To-Morrow,  291. 

To-Morrow  (Manana),  593. 

To  my  Brooklet,  630. 

Torquemada,  236. 

To  the  Avon,  357. 

To  the  Driving  Cloud,  64. 

To  the  Forest  of  Gastine,  655. 

To  the  River  Charles,  16. 

To  the  River  Raone,  320. 

To  the  River  Yvette,  337. 

To  the  Stork,  639. 

To  William  E.  C  banning,  20. 

To  Vittoria  Colonna,  636. 

To  Vittoria  Colonna,  636. 

TRANSLATIONS,  586. 

Travels  by  the  Fireside,  324. 

Twilight,  105. 

Two  Angels,  The,  190. 

Two  Harvests,  The,  652. 

Two  Locks  of  Hair,  The,  613. 

Two  Rivers,  The,  320. 

ULTIMA  THULE,  341. 

Venetian  Gondolier,  The,  647. 
Venice,  319. 

Victor  and  Vanquished,  351. 
Victor  Galbraith,  193. 
Vida  de  San  Millan,  595. 
Village  Blacksmith,  The,  14. 
Vire,  656. 

Virgil's  First  Eclogue,  640. 
Vittoria  Colonna,  336. 
Vittoria  Colonna,  To,  636. 
Vittoria  Colonna,  To,  636. 
VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT,  1. 
Vox  Populi,  295. 

Walter  von  der  Vogelweid,  66. 

Wanderer's  Night-Songs,  617. 

Wapentake,  323. 

Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports,  The,  188. 

Warning,  The,  23. 

Wave,  The,  C09. 

Weariness,  203. 

White  Czar,  The,  341. 

Whither,  lilO. 

Will  ever  the  dear  Days  come  back  again,  631. 

Windmill,  The,  347. 

Wind  over  the  Chimney,  The,  290. 

Wine  of  Juranc,on,  The,  632. 

Witnesses,  The,  22. 

Woods  in  Winter,  8. 

Woodstock  Park,  322. 

Wraith  in  the  Mist,  A,  339. 

Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  The,  13, 

Youth  and  Age,  636. 


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